between cloak & crown

dark amethyst orbs flickered toward the steady stream of smoke that exhaled from the lips of her oldest brother, the gnawing edge that seemed to eat at her from the very back of her throat threatening from her own lips in the form of an irritable sigh. "congratulations?" she spoke, her tone dripping in sarcasm when he said he was here. he had come. she desperately craved a smoke of her own in this moment, if anything even to just briefly cut the increasing pressure from the front of her temple - but she could not do that.

not since baashir had briefly caught her upon his early return to starfall, insistently he had seen what he had seen due to the small glow that had come from her balcony; it were not that she was afraid of baashir.

rather, he was not always there as he had the ability to go wherever he wished; and in the end it was her who needed to deal with her mother's suffocating hand on a day to day basis. the last thing she needed, or wanted to hear, was her mother's incessant clucking like some idiotic hen. her eyes then shifted away from the smoke, using a bangled hand to wave the smoke away and stare at him with a face that expressed clear disgust and irritation, as though the smoke being blown in her direction was somehow at risk of ruining her face.

"must you do that in here?" she whinged, not from a place of moral standards, but more from the worry that the smoke would end up tangled in her hair and make it smell. nothing could ever ruin her face, especially before the wedding. as much as ravi martell appeared understandable and a suitable partner, he was a man at the end of the day - and men only wanted to be seen with women who were attractive. "well, you can see her, can't you?" ruqaiyah indicated her hand, somewhat dismissively and rudely, to the direction of their mother on the otherside of the lengthy sept. from here, she seemed so very far away, as this whole thing seemed so very far away.

"she always gets like this. she needs a maester to put her to sleep." how long would she need to live like this, at her mother's beck and call? they didn't see her the way she did. it was tiring. perhaps the maester's condoction would put her to sleep forever, so ruqaiyah could do whatever she wished without hearing the incessent babbling of a woman who refused to let go of the past. "she's been talking about how she wants to bring in that astrologer in sunspear to try and find the best time to reach out to father's spirit." in truth, it was that which had truly set ruqaiyah off: the last thing she needed was zahra sand waltzing around in starfall. she did not want zahra sand anywhere near her, not after that strange letter she had gotten.

"i told her they are all frauds, and she started going on about how she needed answers." what was there to answer? the lord of starfall had been battered to death by a guard who had gone mad, following being dismissed from his role and station. ruqaiyah had insisted he had stolen from her. he was newly married, and he was the one who had walked her to her chambers that night. newly married men wanted to spoil their wives with gifts they could not afford - where better than ruqaiyah's jewellery box?

Bash just watched and listened. She needed to speak and let out her many woes and it would be rude of him to stop her when she was on a roll and making good choices. Their father's spirit would be nowhere to be found as such arts were games for coin and to siphon the purses of the wealthy but stupid. "Good on that. She's always needing answers when the dates coming up. There are no more answers than what the maesters told her before." He put the smoke out on his boot and put the butt down on the pew as his sister suddenly had her own questions.

"Yes. He was tried, found guilty, and hanged, drawn and quartered as is the law for taking the life of your Dayne lord." Bash didn't speak as flatly as he normally did, his words were meant to have reassurance but he couldn't tell is his words would do them any good. "Mother cannot handle the truth. Father was killed by a lesser man. Not because he was weak but because, as the maesters said, he was bent in prayer."

The yearly lies that would haunt him as he said what was practiced. There would be no need to explain to his sister that their father was a cruel, monster. Their mother mourned him because it was what she was suppose to do but not because she wished for him to return and darken their halls. It was easier to miss a man you knew would never return than to wait everyday for your grief to turn to nightmares.

"We can not feed into these delusions of hers. She will fixate on this until the time passes and then after that she will look at us and say she feels better until next time." Bash had stacks of letters that she would write him in the months and weeks leading up to anniversary of his their father's death. She would pour he grief into them and then she would tell him all the stories of a man he himself could not remember. There was shades of memories of times when they would play on the beach but even those were darkened by shouting and grabbing and shoving. It was the curse of being the eldest. Cursed to remember every word and every look until they were seared into you memory.

And then came the pain.

The pain his hands, the feeling of his knuckles being bruised and having to pretend his hands weren't battered. Having to go out and train and punch at a training dummy after their found his father, it was the only way to hide it. To pretend that grief wrecked him so thoroughly the sword of the morning would risk his hands to express that pain. And it was the lie he felt worse about.

Baashir Dayne would say with confidence that Ru would be the only one to hate him and he could not live with her hating him. She was his sister, his responsibility and he just had to see her to her next stage in life and then things would be okay. Things would settle. And slowly they would all forget their father.

the starks of this age are not a single wolf, but a pack of many tempers. king owen is all noise and flame, a storm given flesh, where his brother adam is quieter, steel kept sheathed until needed. lady dacey moves with a gentleness that belies the strength it takes to remain so in a world that seldom rewards it.

the late jon lingers most in absence, a silence that shapes the rest in ways unspoken. the twins, astrid and rickon, marked by their red hair, are fire in different forms - he restless and sharp, she wit and will entwined, quick to laugh and quicker to bite. cassana, the archer, is precision itself, her nature as true as her aim.

together, they are not alike, nor meant to be. yet in their differences, the strength of house stark endures.

from the private writings of maester hollis, winterfell

—

his words about windows drew a quieter look from her, something perceptive flickering behind the lightness she tended to wear so easily. “people do love to rearrange what they’ve only glimpsed,” she murmured. “they mistake proximity for permission.” her gaze held his then, steady and unreadable for a beat too long to be accidental. “but i have always preferred to keep certain rooms locked. it makes the ones i open feel… intentional.” the corner of her mouth curved, not coy, really, but aware of her own meaning.

when he offered his arm, she glanced at it as though considering a wager rather than a courtesy, before accepting it. the space he left between them did not go unnoticed; she respected it, perhaps more than she would have boldness. she was far more used to the latter. “you speak as though the center of every maze holds a prize,” she said lightly, slipping her hand along his arm at last. “sometimes it only holds a mirror.”

"There is a prize in every maze, if only one knows where to look. Little alcoves, places to listen to the songs of birds and enjoy the smell of the flowers. Lucky for you, I know just where to look to find the prize." Tirius smiled again as he walked through paths he was not unfamiliar with, he learned many of these paths because when his boys were young he worried about them getting lost in the mazes and him never being able to find them.

For a Reachman, Tirius didn't necessarily like these games of talking in riddles and could only indulge in it for so long. At some point you were just talking around and he would lost in his words and then he would say something that he shouldn't have said out loud. Either from the boredom or the desire to see what would happen.

he had always thought there was much honour in one knowing their place in the world; knowing what part they played on the great wheel and knowing that, despite however much it spun, there was always strength in remaining steady in the role they had been born into. or at least, that was what he had always thought; in the early days of independence following the end of the hour of the wolf, tyland lannister had quietly wrestled with the fact that his position would shift. shift in the most drastic and majestic of ways, ways that should not truly have existed in a society such as their own; the most powerful lord in a realm was still not a king, and it were always imperative for one to know that to excel in being that there could not be a blurring of lines.

he noted the slight facial expression change at the mention of a spy - it was enough for the man's mouth to turn slightly upward; he always did find it amusing how arron believed himself to be above the use of spies. how else were individuals meant to be obtain their information? did he believe his blade would wield him answers for everything? there was always a time and a place for such ruthlessness - yet one needed the information to strike first.

it had been the source of many a sleepless night, the true essence of what a king felt a bundle of anxiety and nerves about in the pit of his stomach; what was his place? arron, had never quite been one to know his place: not always from a place of pure arrogance, though for most of the times he could count on his hand it would be from a place of believing himself a god - but also, a feeling of being lost. "you remember much." he commented; for it were the truth. it was always arron who reminded him of past conversations and past situations, who relished in speaking openly and honestly of it - as though it provided him some comfort and reminder of times that had long passed. "as you tell me each time i see you."

tyland wondered whether his brother ever thought of the fact it was never him who brought up memories, or who tried to reminisce with his kin. he wondered whether that had wounded him, had been one of the many reasons why he had ended up an animal which would reach out and strike.

he had always been the lost little lion cub, the one who had needed extra coaxing and tempering by their mother and then the one who was to be sent away to fair isle - it was done as much for his benefit as it was the concept of honouring their lineage. he remembered the mighty lion stressing the importance of the youngest son of lannister needing strict routine; as much as he could look for excitement, it was routine he needed to come home to. he were the type to be lost without it. and what routine could tyland offer him during times of peace at the sea, when he so desperately craved and needed a return to the billowing sails and the thunder of war. would he make war, for the sake of keeping a loved one happy?

"and do you honestly think all of our fighting men could withstand such intense training?" he asked, almost as though he knew the answer - ever the pragmatist and the viewer of the bigger picture, tyland lannister understood it took years for a mainland knight to become of the level of the warriors of fair isle. what did that mean for their legions? would they need to be training for longer amounts of years, resulting in their numbers of present men in arms decreasing? "do you not think they provide more value as a specialist elite that can be equipped when and as needed?" whilst his voice sounded inherently piercing with judgement and authority, in this the man genuinely asked - for tyland lannister knew his place. it was not him that was the warrior in their pride; it had never been him.

"how are we meant to handle the majority of our land and sea army having to train for many years long term?"

Even if the white cloak had been tainted when the realms were united under one banner, they were starting anew. "Right. We don't want to do that. We don't want people to look upon us and see all of this training and begin to plan attacks. We are too close to others."

Arron looked up at him briefly, squinting as he looked down and ran his tongue over lips. "No there wouldn't much difference, well there would be but not where it matters. I get ahead of myself I suppose." He dragged his fingers over his hair again and looked back up at him. "I will do it and I will make sure to keep it contained. I will pick the best men and I will oversee their training and then or maybe at the same time I can work on the oath they will swear to our house, to you and your sons."

They would be holy warriors, the strength of the pride. They would act and everyone would have to fall into line. Arron liked this idea. He was always good with shield and spear, but he didn't want to go into that because he knew that Tyland didn't want to hear it. This wasn't the time for that conversation. "You know," and he trailed off briefly as he considered with working with Roman Prester would entail. Would it be torture or would it be collecting those to be questioned and tortured? And would it do to train a group of men with even more special skills? Men that require even more discretion in their training?

"Perhaps, when we have one, we can work with the High Commander as well. He doesn't have to know who the men are but he can be made aware that their is a group of men who answer the calling of their King without having to raise the banners. Or do you think that would be too many people?"

They were both grown men with the experience of life, marriage, and now sons but Arron still sought out his brothers knowledge. Some times his brother made him angry. Arron thought he didn't take enough action like the Reach but this was clearly the new plan. They would become stronger than they already were and then, once he proved himself, he would be able to convince his brother to let him be unleashed. And in the meantime they would train on those highwaymen and clear the woods of bandits.

somewhere within the thumping of his heart and the sound of his own blood coursing through his ears, the lord of karhold realised that he had remained silent amongst the sound of thunderous cheers and owen stark's roar of laughter that only he knew sounded more like a howl than that of any truth. he felt his knuckles were raw from the deep, primal urge to wish he could defend himself: it was a part of him he was ashamed of, at least for wishing to rear its head toward him of all people - but could he blame himself? could he blame anyone else? a part of him wished to allow his head to sink in his hands, before all the men - and yet he knew if he were to do such a thing there was no way he would, or could be called a man in the north.

the utter feeling of nothing, and nobody; was enough to send any man to spiral - to have nobody within those hallowed halls and nobody to exchange discussion and talk with that was not the attending servants. as much as he loved his home, there was no denying the karhold had become an icy prison he had made for himself: it entrapped him on a frozen mold, as though it were awaiting him to descend into madness and trace the silhouette of a ghost on his walls. a ghost with vivid green eyes, and a strange laugh; he knew she was no longer there, and yet it took until this moment for him to truly realise that somewhere along the line, he had gone with her. perhaps he wanted to go with her. 

karhold was his home, but no longer were it the place where he was happiest: but rather it was where he had banished himself.

and so it was for his own consideration and thoughts that he thought of what he needed - what did any man need in this situation? they were raised to defend - himself, and his own. his keep. his family. his sister. his wife. brandon karstark had failed to defend them at all; and there was no denying the fact that it all seemed to follow an unnatural current back to winterfell. he had barely realised that owen was no longer entertaining the masses with roaring laughter as he remained where he stood - all it would take was for one to look upon the face of brandon karstark to realise that this was no mistake. no northern wrestling match. it had been something deeper than that, something he did not think they would have resorted to - but violence was a part of their custom. a part of their way. it should not have engulfed him the way it did, and yet he continued to hear the sound of his own heart thuming as though it were desperate to stop. to explode.

to be scattered across the floor; what was a man meant to do if he could not honour those who had crossed him? those who had cost him everything? was he to go mad with anger and regret? with fury?

he did not know, and yet, at some point he found himself feeling the outside cold air on his face - when had he even started walking? he could not recall pushing his way through the crowds, not even attempting to make some form of conversation with those who roared beside him and clambered him on his towering back - only continued to follow that which he would hunt, like a mad man.  for a man who could not avenge his wife would doomed to become a madman. a man who could not settle his cores was doomed; so rare was it a thing for them, for where they belonged. brandon karstark never once considered himself a man that would not be able to do what he needed - and yet, in this moment, he found himself willing to beg. there was a dark silhouette in the background, and he knew whose it was merely by his stature and the width of his shoulders. 

he stopped a few strides short of him, boots planted wide in the churned earth as if the ground itself might give way. the cold bit through wool and leather, sharp enough to clear his head, but not enough to still the shake in his chest. brandon kept his hands low, fists clenched, jaw tight. when he spoke, it was rough and steady, dragged up from somewhere deep. “this has gone far enough,” he said. “i’m done with it. you're - done with it.” he drew a breath through his nose, slow, measured, like he was forcing a blade back into its sheath. “i’ve stood quiet. i’ve taken the looks, the whispers. i’ve bent where i could.” his voice hardened; though it were obvious he were a man at his lowest. it was not in the grief, or the heartbreak - but rather, the desperation.

he stepped closer, enough that his shadow brushed owen’s. “jin renshu killed my wife,” he said plainly, no heat, no tremor. there was nothing more to it than that, and that alone. “meera’s dead because of him. and he still draws breath.” his throat worked, but he did not falter. “that’s a wrong i can’t live with. not in the north. not as a man.” his shoulders squared, broad and unyielding. “i’m not askin’ for favour. i’m not askin’ you to love me for it,” brandon went on. “i’m askin’ you to let me do what should’ve been done. give him to me. let me carry it out myself.” his eyes burned, not with tears, but with something harder. how had it come to this? how had he neede to beg? “i’ll see it finished, clean and final. no more blood after. no more noise.”

Only then did he look up at him. There was no court here to play to, no hall to command, no laughter to hide behind. What remained of Owen Stark in the garden dark looked less like a king, he looked younger. Worse for it. “I know what he took from you,” Owen said, though the words came with a strain to them, as if he knew even as he spoke them that they were not enough. “Gods help me, Brandon, I know what it is to wake and find the shape of your life gone.” Losing a brother or a father wasn't the same as losing a wife; and he knew he did not mourn his wife the same way Brandon did and it would be an insult to imply otherwise. His jaw tightened.

“You ask me for a clean thing.” Owen gave a short, humorless laugh. “There’s no clean thing left in any of this. Not with him. Not with Meera. Not with us.” He swallowed hard, and the next words seemed dragged from him against his own pride. “I made the choice I made because I thought it would hold. Because I thought if I gave way to blood for blood … " His voice dropped further. “I thought I was doing right.” That seemed to wound him more than the rest. Owen’s gaze shifted, just for a moment, “I do not know, now, if right has any place in it.” His throat ached. “I do not know if I spared the realm a war only to inspire a quiet one, or asked you to carry one inside your own ribs in its stead.”

Silence pressed in again, but this time he did not hide in it.

“When you stood there and asked me what I wanted, I had no answer for you.” Owen’s mouth twisted, bitter at himself. “Truth is, I have had fewer answers than men think. They look at me like the crown put wisdom in my skull. It did not. It only made every failing louder.” He looked back at Brandon fully then, and there was the old thing in it at last; not king to bannerman, but one broken piece of the North to another. “And I have failed you.”

For the second time, Owen’s voice threatened to break, and he hated it. It made him angrier at himself than Brandon ever could. Still, he did not look away. “I want to fix it,” he said, plain as that. “Gods, I want to set my hands to it and put every broken piece back where it was before, but I cannot. I cannot give you her back. I cannot make what he did smaller. I cannot make you forgive me.” A pause. “And I do not know if giving him over would mend any of it, or only damn us both different.”

But there were laws, there were rules that mean were allowed to follow. Those who followed the seven had their trial by combat and it was once a request held up by the King's justice. Did he allow vengeance to be wrought upon those Skagos and the little Umbers supporters? Why was it different? Did his rule really feel so weak?

the curtains were heavier than the last time she had pulled them open, that she was sure of; and as she pulled them aside with all the strength she could muster, she saw the dust from a year of being sat in a single position in the hued reflected light of the stained glass before them. it were the first time the sept had seen the sun in a full year; in all twelve of the lunar cycles and three hundred and sixty five sunsets, there was finally time to beam across the statues of the gods. they too had dust upon them, she could tell considering the mother had appeared to develop a moustache upon her upper lip; she clapped her hands of the sight as she turned, moving to pull open another set of curtains.

one by one she finally allowed for the sept to be illuminated, as though to wake these mere idols from their year long slumber of uselnessness - it were time for the day where they would serve a single purpose for a mourning family, before they would be put away again for the next year. her mother swore the sept was haunted with the sounds of his voice, or something even worse considering the blood that had been shed within the hallowed halls; it were no welcoming place, but then again, no sept ever was. she allowed her heels to click against the marble stone as she stood in the middle of the circle, staring up at the idols with a sort of defiance that almost made her wish to throw something and crack one - how was it this had been the sight of the day that had changed their lives?

it were right in the middle, beneath the pulpit, that her father had bled out and the supposed gods had merely watched.

never even considered, or wondered, whether they may send an inkling to the many souls living beneath the same roof to go and check on the lord's private prayer session. instead, the mighty lord of starfall, bled out on the floor like an animal that were to be cut down. it were no befitting death for a lord, let alone the man she had been blessed to call father; but here they were, in this damned place once again. she had her smokes within the pocket of her skirts that she had forced her maids to stitch, and knew that she would need one by the time this day of preparation was done. the sounds of her mother's incessant rambling in the background regarding the litres of milk needed for the offering, and how the coconut was not at the correct ripeness, and that the bell was not loud enough to help their father's soul continue to rest and cross over if he had not yet reincarnated.

it were delusion, at it's finest; a method of madness for a woman to cling, and to try and process all at the very same time. "gods sake woman! the windows will not open, i told you. get someone to see to it." she snapped, unable to withstand her patience nor her irritability any further in the direction of her mother, who had the most irritating of habits of telling her to do something she had already done, or seen to, as though she were still nothing but a childish girl. "try to push it open and you will break it." she had flounced off now, jet black straight locks trailing to the bottom of her waist as she walked, intent on slipping out of the sept before she bumped into any other of her family members. the door of the sept slammed behind her as she had not watched how carefully she needed to close it, and she heard something shatter on the other side - the place. was falling apart, because it was neglected. unused.

except for one twisted day a year, where all of starfall was invited to join in on a prayer that lasted hours, to help shepard a soul that had long since left them.

she agreed with the notion of remembering her father. remembering him for the man he was; a loving, doting father who protected his own and ensured his family were left a secure legacy. he did not waver in the face of despair, nor did he ever let himself slip to stain their family name. it were he, who was and always would be the true lord of house dayne - as opposed to the two they had been left with. one too busy playing hero for all of dorne whilst not realising what he had done to his own house, and the other sulking in high hermitage expecting to be contacted, all whilst intending on rejecting all forms of contact. she was ready to leave from the other side of the door when baashir turned the corner, alone thankfully - at least this meant she did not need to go and find him, which could mean she would need to venture all around the keep. he did not like remaining inside, she had noticed.

He didn't want to be there and he'd been lucky enough to miss many of these gatherings because of his duties and then he grew frustrated when he had to be there and he had to stand up there and listen. He had to deal with his mothers devastation and the heartbreak of his sister and it just weighed him down. There was guilt. And he would never not feel guilty, he didn't miss the man. He just wished that it happened different. That it happened somewhere else. Perhaps disappeared in the Boneway, The Red Mountains or maybe he drowned at sea. But instead it happened in a way that would haunt them forever. That every time they walked in here and looked at the floor they would remember what they found.

He had delayed as long as he could, taking the longer way through the keep as though that might somehow change where his feet were meant to carry him. It had not. Starfall had a way of delivering a man to the places he least wished to stand. By the time he rounded the corridor that led toward the old sept, he could already feel that familiar tightness in his chest, the faint dryness at the back of his throat that always came before he stepped through those doors. Even the air was different there, heavier.

Then the doors flew open and his sister emerged from within it like she had been spat out by the place itself. Her voice struck him before anything else did. And he knew immediately it had been a long day for her. And yet, he felt that she brought it on herself. She should have let their mother do it, she would be able to cry and wail as she always did and get things done.

Ruqaiyah was angry, which was to say she was wounded, and he had long since learned that with her the two things often wore each other's face. "I came, didn't I?" he answered, more tired than sharp, though there was still enough edge to it to show he had no stomach for being scolded before he'd even crossed the threshold.

"Yes, I will have someone look over the windows. Perhaps I will have some come down and look over it with me. Some times the windows stick when you don't open them for a while." It was always an issue when they date came up, once he suggested opening the windows sooner and his mother looked at him with such wide, sad eyes that he considered jumping out of the window all together and being done with the entire day.

He ran his fingers over his hair and walked around the room as he inspected seats and the floor, the walls. Perhaps they needed to keep this place open. They needed to maintain it and not let it fall into disrepair. Maybe it would make his mother happier. Make it easier on his sister for this place to stop being a tomb. Or the scene of a murder. "Whatever broke sounded expensive. We should have started earlier, there's a lot to be fixed." And soon as he said it he knew that he shouldn't have because he should have just done it.

It needed to be him. He was the ruling lord. His bloodline would carry on the line of the Starfall Daynes and perhaps he cursed them by letting the house of the Gods look this way. Or maybe he damned him because of the blood that stained his hands for the last eight years. With ever step he took, with every creak he could hear the sound of a bone's fragmenting and breaking. He closed his eyes and sat down putting a smoke between his lips. He dragged the fire stick and in lit the end, inhaling deeply.

ronan bracken leaned back, the familiar weight of leather and wood pressing against him, and let his gaze linger on jalabhar mooton, measuring him as one might a blade before a fight. it was not often that he admitted a need—no, he seldom admitted any weakness at all—but the words churned in his chest, ragged and heavy. gods, to ask this man, the master of spies, the keeper of whispers and secrets, for help felt like prying open a wound with a blunt dagger. yet the matter had crossed a line that separated duty from kin, work from home, and the thought of leaving it untended made his stomach turn sour. he kept his voice even, collected, careful, though the tension coiled in his chest like a steel spring.

“i’ll not skirt around it,” he said finally, low, deliberate. “the woman brianna defended from peake… she’s close to us, part of the circle, and i trust she’ll hold her tongue. but i need eyes, jalabhar. silent eyes. if it comes to it, the dornish girl would be the easiest to pin blame on, though she’s not the guilty one.” the dornish woman would be the easiest scapegoat, not because she deserved it, but because the world was cruelly predisposed to distrust the dornish, and men like peake relied on that prejudice to shield themselves. ronan’s jaw tightened as jalabhar spoke of the targaryen king taking things personally. ire simmered beneath his composure, a slow-burning fire - considering all he had done for jaehaerys, the fact he even needed to sit here and find a way around this rather than speak to the man directly said it all. said enough.

said more than ronan could ever say.

he had served jaehaerys loyally, pledged his sword and his house in earnest, and for it, his family had become pariahs, outcasts, whispered about in corridors where men ought to have remembered their honour. and in the end, they needed to dance around his worry of feeling slighted; “i know he’ll take it to heart, and gods, i do not blame him for his temper,” ronan said, voice taut, “but i’ve served him, trusted him, and i reckon if it came to it, i could speak with him.” the words came grudgingly, the faintest waver betraying how much he believed it, even as he measured each syllable. ronan bracken was not an antisocial man; he had made his connections across the realm as men in their positions were expected to do.

"its useful that the high commander of new valyria, garrick cargyll, is a close family friend too - if we were counting our luck." and then he thought briefly of the fact that the peakes had also fought green; with tion even knowing daeron if memory served him correct. he were not wrong. they truly were in the same boat then - as tion too could ask jaehaerys to see his perspective.

his thoughts flicked to niamh tully, riverlander like them, married to the dragon king, and the precarious web of alliances and loyalties that spun around her. it was a valid point. but the last he remembered of niamh tully, she was hardly the type to enjoy the position of being queen. he had not known her well, but he knew hugo vance had, and if circumstances were different, if time and position allowed, he might have asked hugo to probe quietly, to see if whispers had reached her ears. “you've a valid point if only things were simpler,” he muttered, almost to himself, “i’d have asked hugo, let him speak to niamh… but we cannot risk it. not with the amount of people who could become involved, and not with the girls’ reputations at stake.”

ronan’s hands rested flat on the table, the rough wood grounding him as he leaned forward slightly, voice low, steady, measured. “i do not want this going further than us,” he said, looking directly at jalabhar. “no one else. if i must find some reason to travel to king’s landing to help, then i will, but no other soul will be involved. it is too perilous, too… personal.” he paused, the tension in his shoulders tightening, and then added, “the egens, the tolands—they are of little concern. it is the girl with brianna, and brianna herself, that i must guard.” it were a harsh point of view that ronan would not have said, if not his own sister implicated. do what you need to do with them, paint whatever picture you must.

His gaze remained fixed on Ronan, weighing not the fear in him but the resolve beneath it. That, at least, Ja could work with. “No one else, then,” he said at last, his voice even, low enough that it never risked carrying beyond the walls. There was no mockery in it, only the blunt shape of fact. “If this remains contained, it remains survivable.”

He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting against his knees, the firelight catching along the sharp line of his expression. “The necklace is the first matter. Not the dead man. Not the girls. The necklace.” His tone hardened there, in the way of a man who had long since learned that grief and panic had their place, but never before strategy. “A body can be explained. Fear can be dressed and coached and made palatable. But a piece of evidence in the wrong hands becomes truth before any of us are allowed to speak against it. The necklace might not stand out to the normal eye but it takes one eye to see it and remember the neck that once called it home.”

He studied Ronan for a beat longer, then continued. “There are some questions your sister will need to answer for me, some she may have already answered but I need all of the details about the necklace. If she recalls Peake grabbing at it and pulling it off her neck, or if anyone would have recognized it. When she last felt the necklace and she remembered no longer feeling it there."

He rose again, though slower now, pacing only a few steps before the hearth as his thoughts arranged themselves into order. “As for the Dornish girl,” he said, “she may be the easiest scapegoat, but easy rarely means safe. If blame is thrown too quickly toward her, it will look manufactured to anyone with half a brain and a taste for malice. Desperation leaves its own scent.” His eyes flicked back to Ronan. One hand braced lightly on the mantle. “What I can do is better. Confusion. Contradiction. A fog thick enough that no one knows where to plant certainty. If the account splinters early, if memory grows soft at the edges, if the room was too dark, if voices were raised, if one lady swears one thing and another cannot be sure, then suspicion spreads rather than lands.” His expression remained unreadable. “Men are far less dangerous when they are uncertain.”

At the mention of the king, Jalabhar’s face sharpened, some colder thought passing through him. “And Jaehaerys will take it personally,” he said. “Not because of justice. Because coronations are theatre, and blood spilled during one is insult as much as crime.” He let that sit a moment. “You may be able to speak to him if forced. I do not doubt he would hear you. Hearing, however, is not the same as forgiving. So we build this as though it will never reach him at all.”

Then, after a beat, he added, “Your sister’s companion matters. If she is loyal, good. If she is frightened, better. Fear can be directed. Devotion can be relied upon. I need to know which she is.” He tilted his head slightly. “And Brianna herself; can she hold under pressure? Can she weep when needed? Can she look ashamed without looking guilty? There is a difference, and it may save her.”

The room felt smaller then, narrowed to the two of them and the ugly shape of the choice already made. Jalabhar returned to his seat, settling into it with controlled ease, though there was nothing easy in the look he gave Ronan.

there were no mighty fireworks that came in this confrontation; no strained voices that came with attempting to keep their voice low so no attendants would overhear their lord and lady in their most vulnerable of moments. no sounds of chairs scraping or heavy footsteps, or the sound of a door slamming behind her; for whilst she was all too conscious of the fact that he had not answered her question about his whereabouts, her mouth felt dry and the words seemed to trail from her.

in the moment, she needed to make a choice about what the priority in this conversation needed to be: tread carefully lest this conversation ended up being one in overemotional tears and slamming doors. every irrational and rational part of her mind implored her to stand before him and demand again to know where he went when he was out until late in the night, to demand who he was with: but to look upon him in his current state, she decided not to. not for the sake of taking pity, or putting his feelings before her own, or deciding to put her own whims aside - no, it were because she looked upon him sat in his chair as though it were his prison night after night and knew she trusted him enough to know that was something she needed not worry about. there was no straying here, she reassured herself; and it worked, at least in that regard.

she swallowed, standing there for a moment after he finished speaking; she twisted and played with the jewelry on her hands as he spoke, as though she waited for some other shoe to fall. there was not one. only when she was sure he had finished speaking, what he managed to muster in trying to get his words together, she quietly stepped to stand to his side and wrap one arm around his side, her hand wrapping around the back of his neck and quietly tracing the bottom of his neck with her thumb in comfort as her own lips rested to the top of his hair.

"okay." she spoke, her voice quiet but with a firmness, a rock, an anchor. "it is okay...to be scared, omer. or to feel overwhelmed, or to worry about too much all at once." she would not pretend she knew best how to deal with melancholy - it were not something she believed she suffered from, not in the same way that made it more crippling to some than others. still, she knew company and support would be needed. that was all any human could want when they were truly feeling at their lowest. too sensitive, both of them would be called; for their own good.

"that does not mean anything is wrong with you. it happens some days, doesn't it?"

he had never liked limits; not truly, not ever. despite his knightly chivalry, despite his belief there were some lines that should never be crossed, she knew him to push rules. test boundaries. he had a tendency to find dependence on things; if not drink, then smoking. if not smoking, then thrill seeking which took forms both personally, and even in his duties. perhaps he knew how to wrap it up so it didn't appear as much, and yet it was. his lack of patience with most matters, was thrill seeking. and the crash, the crash was always going to happen. for a man who at the end of the day had to kill his own father, any way of dealing with it was a way of dealing with it.

"and it's all going to be okay. this fear will pass, and when it comes back, you'll tell me. you come find me, and even if you want to be alone, you'll know someone knows how you are feeling...because everything is always so much worse when you are in your own mind, alone."

her skirts formed into a circle on the wooden floorboards as she dipped to her knees, crouching as she reached for his hand, trying her best to remain balanced and not end up falling backwards onto her back. she would only be able to help, if he spoke to her. he needed to speak to her; no more hiding in shadows. "is it something specific or..." she trailed off, not wanting to assume; was something the trigger for the spiral? was she? her mind thought about braavos, how some days ago he had told her to think of her own sons first. was it that?

His hand turned in hers slowly, fingers rough and warm where they folded around her own, and for a long moment Omer only looked at her. Truly looked at her. At the care in her face, the resolve beneath it, the soft line of her mouth that made plain she would not be put off with silence this time. There had been a day, not so very long ago, when he might have tried. A day when he would have kissed her brow, told her he was tired, told her it was nothing, and then gone off to rot quietly in some corner of the keep where a bottle and his own mind might keep each other company until dawn.

“When I leave at night, when I disappear, I am not with another woman. I should have said that first. I should have spared you that much, at least. I go because I cannot stand to lie still with my own thoughts, and because when the dark comes and everything is quiet, I begin to hear too much.” Omer was careful with his words, trying to not bombard her with thoughts.

His gaze faltered then, dropping to where their hands met, and his shoulders tightened. Speaking of battle was one thing. Men spoke of battle all the time; they embroidered it, made songs from it, wrapped glory around its throat until it no longer resembled the thing itself. But what followed a man home from battle, what lived in them afterward, that was uglier. Harder to name. Harder still to confess when one had spent a lifetime being taught that a man’s suffering was best endured in silence. “I dream,” he said. “I dream of him.”

“Not always as he was. Sometimes as he looked at the end, and sometimes worse. Sometimes I see his face as it was before any of it happened and I'm a boy. And sometimes in the dream he says nothing at all. He only looks at me.” Omer’s throat felt dry. “And I wake with the feeling that I have already been judged.”

His fingers tightened around hers, not enough to hurt, only enough to cling to her and ensure she would not disappear. “I killed my father. I did it with purpose. With choice. And there are nights I wake convinced the Seven have marked me for it, that no prayer said after can cleanse the stain of it from my soul.” His eyes shut briefly, and as they opened again there was something naked in them. “I see the Seven Hells in my sleep, Lucrezia.”

She wanted a promise from him. His wife needed him and what was he going to do? What was he going to say to her? Omer could make the promise then when it was time to travel around the Reach, to rewrite the plans, and to go to war he would find a night when he was in his solar and drinking from the brown bottles etched with the fox sigil of his and now their great house. And Omer wanted to give her everything a wife as wonderful as her needed to have. For everything they went through, he just wanted it to be easier for them.

mir continued to stand on the other side of the sprawl of painted pottery as the other continued to ramble, nervously shifting from one foot to the other which he hoped the other would not be able to tell, considering he knew he could not appear too relaxed whilst working lest he end up being scolded for chatting for socialising rather than to try and sell more product. "yeah, i get that. normal." he seemed to speak for the sake of speaking, so the other knew he was listening - it was a normal thing in conversations, but he did it hoping he had not said it to the wrong thing. his accent was clear and concise, however mir was suddenly all too aware of his own accent sounding incredibly different.

he did not quite understand what the other truly meant about his father, and about lineage in the westerlands and about the old way - all prospects and concepts he did not know, and he was not quite sure whether he was supposed to know. "she seems special, considering you're wanting to buy her a gift." was there two special women in the story? was the man in front of him a love rat? that would definitely make a turn of events, that would be most entertaining. then he clarified it was his mother. the special lady was his mother? no, they were two women.

was a man in his position supposed to know about all of these things? he. simply nodded, opening his mouth to speak and say something however the other would continue speaking about what it was he was speaking about - the topic of conversation seemed to twist and turn at a rate he could not keep up with. so he nodded, and let out an amicable laugh every now and then, as though he would agree that women were hard to buy gifts for. he had never bought a woman a gift in his life.

"i don't really know what best to get a woman, i think it depends on what colour and style they like most. do you know her favourite colour, maybe?" he kept his hands behind his back as he looked down upon the spread, wondering whether to try and push him in the direction of the most expensive so he could possibly earn some money - but the thought seemed to seep from his mind when he looked upon the man.

because whilst he was dressed well, something about him did not seem as though he could afford to spend large amounts of intricate pottery from across the narrow sea because some volantene talked him into it. he cleared his throat, ready to open his mouth and talk however it was again interrupted. he did not know what the man entirely wanted him to do, he was used for physical labour and packing more than selling, however his coworker had been late returning from his break and now here he was, an apparent salesman. he ducked down briefly beneath to pull out more options; vases, sets, plates, bowls, goblets. wine glasses. "take your pick." mir indicated with his hand, wondering why a tea pot would be pouring out water.

But, since his returned he couldn't help but wonder how he was meant to look a serious knight but also the sort of man that women and children could point to and say 'there he is, he's here to help us' then the wind would catch his cloak and he stand before them all, sword in hand to stop whatever villain haunted him. Though, he was often the villain. It was easier to pretend you were right when you stayed in one place but the more of life he saw, the more he … Cato freed himself from his rambling thoughts to stare at the romantic set and laughed with the other.

"I fear that may cause me a bit more trouble than I can afford. So how about we do this simple one as well? Nice pot for my mother and a nice kettle for my friend to show off at her lady tea parties." Cato smiled as he reached for the coins hidden away within the layers and waited for the other to let him know how much he owed. While he wasn't a man of great means, he did well enough for himself in the East and a lucky streak in a few card games would mean he could do something nice.

There was one more gift that he needed to buy but the gift he was going to get for her would be from somewhere else and would be something else. Something closer to what she would like and needed to use. And from what he saw, he didn't see anything that would do well for jook joint in Maidenpool.

"Ya know friend, some of guys go down to the yellow checker tent for some ale and games, good meats and hard bread. Bread tastes better when you get some gravy on it." Cato began to count out coin. "Anyway, you should come on down if you're able to come. Mostly folks like us, bastards and unknowns." The cupboard knight was always in the business of making friends. Enemies were easy enough but friends were hard and he never shied away from a challenge.

she turned from the window then, not fully, but enough that the light no longer caught her face so plainly. roman’s mention of his office earned a slight inclination of her head, an acknowledgment rather than surprise. “i am aware of your role, lord prester,” she replied softly. “one does not sit beside the king without learning who truly listens.” there was no warmth withdrawn from her tone, only a careful narrowing, the instinct of a woman long practiced in knowing when an offer carried weight, and when it carried strings. though her duties as queen did not place her amid the court’s murmured exchanges, tyland ensured she was never kept ignorant. a queen, after all, was of little use if she was not privy to the currents beneath the surface.

at his proposal, she paused, allowing the silence to stretch again, the library settling around them like a held breath. “you are kind to think of my comfort,” she said after a moment, her voice even. “though i have lived alongside tempers before, and learned when to endure them and when to step aside.” she did not dismiss him, nor did she accept what was offered, yet. instead, she held it where it could be examined from all sides, no matter how tempting it was at first glance. “answers are valuable things,” she added quietly. “but they must be sought with care. some knowledge, once held, cannot be set down again.”

her gaze returned to him fully now, steady and assessing, though still gentle. katherine could not yet tell whether this was a test of her footing, or a genuine extension of loyalty; in a court such as this, the two so often wore the same face. even a queen was not immune to the quiet, self-serving machinery that turned beneath the surface of civility. “your offer requires a great deal of trust, lord prester,” she said at last, her voice calm, unhurried. “tell me, what is the price of such a thing?” there was no accusation in it, only clarity. she had learned that power was rarely offered freely, and never without expectation.

"Price?" The spy master shook his head, a passing smile coming and going as he shook his head. "This is not a request of coin or special favor. You are the queen. I have my duties. And we should all use the tools in front of us when we need them." He could ask for something, bank the favors until the price was too high not to pay but men who played dangerous games were oft met with painful fates.

Roman looked thoughtful for a moment. What was too much? What would be a step too far and lead people to question him? The eyes he kept on her ladies? The spies in various apartments and regions sending back word to those who knew he would pay them. He smoothed his hair down and crossed his wrist behind his back.

The mark left on him by Alayim was something Cato would never be able to put into words. He recalled the feeling of the first night a septon spoke over them, they'd lost so many and were going to lose more but the words and the tone and patience in that septon's voice struck him. To be a man who gave up everything to serve gods he would never see, how could Cato not fight for their right to keep what was rightfully theirs? And of course the mark made him question everything, made him wonder where they stood in the eyes of the father or if the King had it true. A King chosen by the Gods or a High Septon chosen by men who dedicated their live to the Gods? He did not know. Cato could not hide the surprise at the mention of a gift his eyes going to the box as he took it and started to thank him as it died on his lips from shock. To leave in shame and return gifted with someone that had the mark of their great sigil on it. "Thank you, uncle." He started, taking out the ring and then looked up at the scoff, confusion followed by shame came on to his face before he worked to have a face of stone but he faltered, his guard was down.

"No, Uncle, I swear to you." Cato stopped himself from flinching, he would not show fear, he couldn't. The bastard couldn't explain he was spending time with his mother, visiting her and helping with the meals for the smallfolk or cleaning. Yes, he went to a sept and perhaps went to far in his adventures but he'd learned his lesson. If a man were to soil his soul it shouldn't be in a sept. "People talk in septs, lords and ladies. Knights and smallfolk. They kneel before the candles and say their secrets. Not all say prayer. It's how we were able to find so many who were planning on not signing their names. We produced numbers for the King and can again." He only hoped his uncle believed him. There was more than fucking septa's in the world of Cato Hill, yes his reputation existed for reason but it kept people from asking further questions. Kept people from wondering what else he did with his time if they thought he spent it all following orders and doing as bastards do. "I have debased myself and besmirched your great house, uncle. But this, I swear, this is different."

elys' gaze did not waver from cato's face, scruntising every flicker in his expression. for a moment, he thought he could see doubt there, and that worried him more than he would outwardly admit. alayim had been supposed to scare him into obedience, but had it all been a rare mistake for him, moving cato beyond his influence and out of his control? but no - the expression soon shifted, to one of unmistakeable shame, and the set of elys' jaw relaxed in the knowledge that he did still have influence over his nephew after all.

"the ring," his voice was low when he spoke. "is a gift, yes, but it is not an honour. it is a burden. you do not carry the brax name," and never would, never could. "but i have taken responsibility for you all the same. you belong to me by blood." always ownership, never true belonging. "i am trusting that since you proved worthy of ties to our house in alayim, you will continue to do so now you have returned. do not disappoint me."

when cato launched into explanation, elys did a rare thing - he listened, fingers tapping lightly on the table he sat at in thought. cato had done something surprising, offered a rational thought that, despite his better judgement, pleased elys. it was not the pride he felt at nathaniel, the nephew he had always favoured over the bastard before him, but it was something. he stood then, rising slowly to his feet, walking around the edge of the table to approach cato. "you might be right," he admitted, hand coming up to rest on cato's shoulder. "well done."

Cato knew what it meant. He had to take this chance and prove himself even more. And perhaps that was what the time in Alayim had been. It wasn't just a time for him to be punished but a time for him to be saved, to be rescued from himself. A bastard was enough of a stain on a house as great as Brax, he would have to work even harder to be better. Cato would be a true knight, he would have to be a true knight in the eyes of the Gods and the smallfolk, lords and ladies. And his Uncle.

The need for approval strangled him. He wanted his mother to love him as much as he loved her. He wanted his uncle to see more than a bastard. Cato wanted the West to see him ride into tourney and say, 'there he is, the knight of Brax. The Holy Bastard.' But who would call a bastard holy? Perhaps a Septa? Maybe not even them would be able to offer some solace. But he could do this. Cato could prove himself.

“I am not foolish, I know if he meant to accept me as queen, he would have done it long ago,” she added, voicing out what seemed so obvious. By withholding his public acknowledgement and official deference to her, he was harming her. He harmed the Riverlands. Iona hated that he could hold such power without even being the person ruling the realm. “He keeps his cards close to his chest”. Even after losing the crown to her in his absence, Aidan continued to keep his options open, he left room for another turn of fate. She met Jalabhar's gaze then, and for a heartbeat, there was something unguarded in her expression. There was some weariness from carrying the realm, but the Tully queen was quick to recompose herself. “I have heard what is said about me. But what is said about my brother?” she asked, her full attention on the Master of Whispers. It was crucial to know what the perception was inside and outside the Riverlands. Was he seen as the better alternative? She thought about the suggestion her spymaster made, mulling it over for a moment. “To bind him would steady things,” she admitted, “and yet, if I force his hand, there's a risk of turning him into the very thing I’m trying to prevent”. An undisputable opponent.

With his next words, he tried to pick them carefully, "they think your brother will easy to use and prop up for their desires. I don't know what they think in the West or the Reach yet but I know what is said around us. I have heard whispers from traders who come into my ports from the Crownlands. They make jests about weather it will be a dance of fish over dragons. Though, none have voiced true support for him." And he believed it was because of her efforts with the rebuilding, she did not turn away from the damage cause by the Lyseni. It wasn't just Mooton men and smallfolk rebuilding, the presence of the crown and the order of sentinels that protected his folk from the dangers increased that loyalty. As far as he was concerned, Maidenpool folk were loyal and supported one Tully on the throne.

"I will always be honest, your grace. My duty is to dig in the depts of men's souls and the hearts of women and see if there is treachery or honesty. If there is loyalty or something dark within them. And if I cannot share this with you honestly then I am not fit for my place on your council." He took his job seriously, took himself seriously, and the day he thought he couldn't be honest with his monarch would be the day he stopped coming to court to serve. "You owe me no thanks. But I will accept it graciously." Ja offered the nod of his head, a smile as he scanned the room once more.

The topic Jae brought up so suddenly caught him off guard. “Is that what has been weighing on you, then? My marital status?” Garrick asked, one corner of his mouth tugging up into a crooked half-smile. “I thought you’d at least ask about my day before telling me to find a wife”. The words came with a light scoff, a shield of humor to mask his surprise. Of all the things that might have occupied the king's mind, he hadn't thought that he, and the fact that he remained unmarried, would rank among them.

The king laughed and looked at him. "Tell me of your day then. And then I will tell you of my worries. We're becoming old men, Garrick." His voice was light but he concerns were true. In moments of clarity Jae knew that it was important to build the Crownlands up from his court and then spread out to the Stormlands and then work on fixing more of his city. He had dreams of a nice city, of seeing places like Flea Bottom being pushed further and further out of the city. Let the street rats and whores live beyond the walls.

She had never traveled so far south before. The Reach was so entirely foreign to the sálþyrja in a way that intrigued and unsettled her in equal measure. The warmer air clung to her skin, and she found herself missing the crisp and wild environment of her homeland more than she thought she would. Vilde had set aside her heavy cloak and fur-lined boots days ago, albeit somewhat reluctantly. She donned lighter garments appropriate for the Reach weather, though she still refused to wear the dainty dresses of the Southron women. Proudly, she still wanted the world to see her for who she was without mistake: a Northerner of the mountains, of the clans, shaped by the cold and the forests.

Not a week had passed since the Northerners descended on the rose gardens and sculpted hallways of Highgarden, when the Harclay woman proposed a hunt. There was a need to lose herself in nature, to touch something cold and real, to grasp at some familiarity. Some agreed to the hunt, perhaps with genuine interest or only half-heartedly. What was a hunt compared to the splendors of the Concord, some thought, surely. Still, the next day at dawn, Vilde grabbed her bow and quiver, strapped a pair of knives to her belt, and set out to the forest beyond the Reach's capital.

Owen Stark showed up. And he came alone. Vilde stood beside her horse, a hand lightly resting against the beast's neck as she watched him approach. Morning was just rising from the horizon, sunrays shining from behind him, bathing him with warm light. He appeared almost a symbol more than a man. Yet Vilde never forgot that the king, like anyone else, was also just flesh and bones. “You left your crown behind, Owen Stark,” she said once he was but mere steps away. It was true he did not wear the circlet, but neither did he wear the inherent distance or superiority of kingship. He'd come on his own. No guards. No courtiers. Once more, he presented himself before her like a man and not as a king.

Owen smiled at her, chuckling at her comments. "The others spent a long night drinking, it's the only thing to do here. Drink and sing and dance. It is a bit too early for them. And I didn't feel the need to rouse the kingsguard and have them follow me out. They will find my words and know I am safe but not to be followed." Even if they decided that they would track him later and be waiting off somewhere in the distance but he didn't like hunting the way kings hunted.

He recalled seeing the last King of the seven kingdoms hunting in such a way. His knights would throw ropes around the necks of boars and stags and then he would take his shot and Owen remembered the feeling. The way disgust crept up his neck when he realized the Targaryens were mortal and weak. They were never Gods, nor their dragons, but he always thought they were more.

she let out a mock-gasp, flicking a crumb that remained on the table at him. "rude," she declared, though her grin betrayed the fact his teasing amused her. "shows what you know, though. if they wanted women to be comfortable they'd have sorted all that by now." she spoke with the same humour she had with the rest of the conversation. "it's just lucky for the men who like to look at us that we're not delicate enough to make a fuss about it."

she lifted the jug to pour more wine into her cup, though there was not quite enough to fill it. still, she held it upside-down for a moment, letting every drop drain. she wasn't looking at him anymore, thinking about mothers and daughters, and mothers and sons. cato loved his mother in a very different way to how she had loved hers, she thought. she did not know if her son loved her at all anymore. "she'll be happier to have you home, i think," she pointed out. "you've crossed the sea and come back again. she'll be over the fucking moon."

her mind was filled with fantastical images of things she had never seen, birds in candy hues with long bills that curled at the tip, flowers in the shapes of stars or clouds, heads turned towards a blazing essoi sun. "i like bawdy songs," she mused, finally placing the jug back on the table. "have you come back with a taste for exotic singers, then?" the look on her face was mischievous. she knew cato had his indiscretions, but it was not for her, who had made so many mistakes herself, to hold them against him.

Cato smiled at her, laughing as he allowed himself to be at ease in the moment and relax as he sat at her side. "Then this next bite is going to be for luck." He reached over and took another bite from one of the smaller pies. And closed his eyes, maybe it was true. Maybe the Reach made the best pastries in all of Westeros. He would have to update his notes.

"I'm happier to see her whenever I do." Cato loved his mom dearly, he cared about her and always wanted to care for her and give her nice things. He wanted her to know he was there whenever she needed him. Even if she was suppose to cut out her life before the faith, what mother could turn away their son? None, as far as he was concerned.

Cato felt the grin come on to his face, his taste for singers had nothing to do with her being exotic and everything with her being like him but that was a conversation for another day. A quiet day when no other ears could hear them. "Well, I do enjoy a bawdy song or two. Or three if the wine is free flowing." He took another long, deep drink and then put his attention back on one of the cakes and cut it in half.