we are not always what we seem, and hardly ever what we dream.

♛ → THE RIVERLANDS presents KEIRAN FREY, the RULING LORD of THE CROSSING / LORD REGENT of HIGHHALLOW / MASTER OF COIN. when the dragons danced in the sky they thought the GREENS would still fly, but in the blink of an eye, they would all die. the THIRTY-EIGHT year old MALE who was LOYAL & TEMPERED before they saw the first of the flames, is now CAGEY & CALCULATED after seeing the last. they’re often associated with a clover pin pressed into a fine silk vest, the sounds of antique pages turning, a field of flora and the soft creak of aged bridgewood.. ( matthew goode. )

the ruling lord of the crossing stood in an isolated corner of the garden, where hedges and climbing flora formed a quiet veil against watchful eyes. it would have been difficult to notice him unless one meant to seek him out. a missive had been sent, and now he waited. keiran was a patient man, no doubt. many thought the freys greedy, impulsive, even cruel, and perhaps there was some truth in that. still, keiran carried patience where others in his line had not, though even his had its limits.

his hand drifted to his pocket as he paced, his gaze catching on a cluster of flowers nearby. they reminded him of his late wife. they had been her favorite, though he had never known the name and did not know it now. still, he had always made certain they were gathered for her nameday. soft petals of rosy pink, brushed through with pale yellow. he looked at them only a moment before turning his attention away.

at the sound of approaching footsteps, he turned, a faint smile touching his lips. it was more habit than warmth, though his company, at the very least, was easy on the eyes. he hoped she was as clever as he believed her to be, as he had heard. such a plan would require discretion, and if she lacked it, he would see to it that his name did not become tangled in whatever followed.

the twins were never still. even in the hush of late afternoon, there was movement, ferrymen calling across the water, servants hauling crates of grain, the river grinding slow and relentless beneath the bridge. yet when a single rider slipped through the gate without escort, the air seemed to shift, just enough for keiran to take notice. perhaps it was instinct. perhaps it was habit. either way, word reached him quickly: a tully had come, alone.

keiran stepped from the shadow of the archway, the stone beneath his boots worn smooth by generations of frey feet. no guards flanked him, just the weight of the twins at his back and a quiet authority that needed no display. he watched aidan tully dismount, the young man moving with a deliberation that spoke of intent rather than courtesy. arrivals like this were never without meaning, and never without cost.

he didn’t offer greeting right away. instead, he let the silence stretch between them like the river below, waiting to see who would disturb its surface first. when he finally spoke, his voice was calm, unhurried. “you bear no banners,” keiran observed, gaze steady. “either you come in peace, or you’d rather not be seen coming at all.”