shadows taller than our souls.

When she called his name and his gaze lifted, the recognition came swiftly, even if it had been a long time since he had last seen the Braavosi woman. Ulises tilted his head in a polite greeting. “Lady Sabiha,” he said in a serene manner, though the visceral memory of their first encounter, in such pivotal circumstances, was hard to suppress. “It is good to see you as well”.

He acknowledged her words with a faint nod. He had been well, yes. Any sort of appearance would be an improvement compared to the emaciated, sunburnt, half-dead soul that her family's merchant ship plucked from the ocean's grip. The lord looked healthy once more, though some indelible marks of the experience remained on his skin, in his eyes. Instead of focusing on himself, Ulises opted to focus on her inquiry about his home. There was little he could say truthfully in a space like this, however. “My home remains steady,” he said, his tone measured. “And we continue to be blessed, thank the gods”. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either. He knew better than to speak plainly about the current state of the Stormlands, stained by the pretentious name of New Valyria.

His dark gaze stayed on her, and with subtle curiosity, he asked, “And Braavos? I hope that your family, that your house is well”. There was something solemn in his words, something that hinted at his gratitude for the Zalyne house. “After all these years, your house remains in my prayers. I ask that the gods look after you all, that they give you good fortune”. It went without saying that he hadn't forgotten what she and her family had done for him. It was inevitable for Ulises to feel that in some ways, there was a debt there that he hadn't yet fully repaid.

When she spoke of Highgarden, Ulises glanced around, one brow lifting subtly as if in acknowledgment of how different this was for him. The rhythm of the Reach and the abundance of everything surrounding him were so unlike Gallowsgrey. “It is lively,” he agreed, a slight hint of dry amusement in his tone. “I admit I am enjoying the chance to see what others have brought to offer. There are many things one would not encounter without a gathering such as this,” he added, stormy eyes briefly glancing in the direction of the display he'd been interested in some minutes ago.

at his question, her lips curved again, gentle and sincere. “braavos is well, and my family with it,” she replied. “busy, as ever, but in good health. i thank you for your prayers, lord trant. they are received with more gratitude than i can easily put to words.” she paused, then added softly, “it pleases me to know that our houses remain connected in your thoughts. i have continue to pray for you and yours, as well.”

her gaze followed his briefly toward the displays he had been studying, and there was a flicker of interest there. “this is the perfect place for a curious mind,” she stated, warmth threading her voice. “the concord lends itself well to that. there is something reassuring in seeing people turn their attentions toward building and understanding, rather than only conquest or grievance.” her fingers laced together lightly, posture composed but open.

the reach was lush in a way that the vale was not, the air ripe with the smell of fresh-cut grass and blooming roses. younes was no stranger to these lands, though most of his visits had been riding through rolling fields to get to brightwater or the homes of others of the old way. never before had he been to highgarden, and not for an occasion as grand as this.

he sat in a shaded courtyard, one that seemed to be preferred by those of the old way for today. the sun was just starting to dip lower in the sky and the sound of bird calls faint under the chatter of the old tongue. he wished he could say he was happier to see her, but when younes looked at sabiha, the cousin that sat opposite him, all he felt was a deep-rooted sense of anxiety.

he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, noting how worn the stitching looked despite the effort he had put in to carefully mending them. from what he knew of sabiha, she was sharp, and that was the cause of his current apprehension. he wasn't sure he wanted those sharp eyes seeing too much.

"you've grown," he said, trademark lazy smirk making its way across his face. of course she had. last time he saw her, he had stolen her sweets and ran away laughing. he liked to think he had matured from that.

he wasn't just here to trade pleasantries and catch up. it struck him that he was probably her closest male relative in the reach, and as such, he wondered if that made him responsible for her. if he was, it would be another duty he'd have to try and fit on his plate, already stacked full as it was. how long was she staying? would she remain in westeros when all returned home from the concord? and did she expect to return with the corbrays to heart's home when it was done? he could feel a headache coming on, but it fell on him to fish for information.

she leaned back slightly, folding her hands in her lap with quiet composure, her gaze drifting briefly over the courtyard, noting the way the shadows from the trellises stretched in neat patterns across the flagstones, an order she always found comforting. “i am not only passing through,” she admitted, her voice calm, though careful. “i visited the vale, briefly, afterwards the king’s birthday took me north, then i traveled down through the crossing and the riverlands before coming here. it felt wise to linger in the reach a while longer. it has its own kind of abundance.” her dark eyes returned to him.

“whether i remain depends on what is asked of me, and where i am needed most,” she added gently, not unkind, but firm enough to show she carried her own direction, even if others thought otherwise. “but for now, you are indeed stuck with me.” her smile came softer this time, just enough to ease the tension she sensed in him, though she did not press at the reason for it. if he wanted to speak of burdens or responsibility, he would, and she would listen, she had always been good at that. she knew he was not ruling lord, but second sons carried their own weight, and it was usually thankless work.

caitria was finding the concord fascinating. she stood near the silver-flecked sculptures, idly running a finger along the rim of a carved leaf, listening half-heartedly to a conversation about dornish irrigation. her mind wandered, distracted by the steady thrum of the crowd and the salt-laced breeze threading through her curls.

caitria turned at the sound of her name, the low murmur of conversation and soft trill of music fading behind the sudden stillness that settled in her chest.

the voice was unfamiliar in tone, but not in sentiment. she had imagined hearing it again a hundred different ways over the years, written words into paper, careful script wrapped in all her thoughts and feelings. letters that had found her across distance and seasons, and lingered in her desk drawers like secret treasures.

now, that voice had a face once again.

"sabiha." caitria said, not as a question but as a certainty, the smile blooming across her lips slow and sincere. “you could never be mistaken.”

she stepped forward, reaching out with a graceful familiarity that felt almost instinctive despite the many years apart. her fingers brushed sabiha’s hand lightly, warmly, grounding them both in this long-overdue moment.

"years of ink and parchment after seeing you, and i was beginning to think you weren’t real." she teased gently, just grateful to be seeing her once again.

she took in the sight of her properly: the grace, the intellect visible in her eyes, the subtle elegance with which she held herself. yes this was exactly the woman caitria had gotten to know all those years ago. and now was getting to see again

"you’ve gotten taller" she added with a grin, tilting her head slightly, "but the rest? perfectly you."

caitria stepped aside slightly, gesturing to the shaded edge of the sculpture garden where vines curled overhead and a quieter peace lingered.

"come. let’s find a corner where i don’t have to share you with diplomats and dull lords." her voice softened as she met sabiha’s eyes again. "i want to hear it all! what you’ve seen, what you’ve read, what the portrait didn’t capture. there is so much to catch up on that letters cannot do justice."

a pause. then gently she added." i’m very glad you came.”

“i knew it,” she said, laughter caught gently between her words, “this place suits you far too well not to be familiar to you. all light and artistry and vines that listen in.” she glanced toward the sculptures, then back to her friend. “i tried to memorize all the keeps and roads before coming, but i confess, my grasp of the reach is still mostly floral and poetic. i remember it how you described it best.”

she followed easily as caitria led them into shade, steps light with familiarity. “you’re kind,” sabiha murmured with a wry smile, her tone colored by affection. “and wrong, but in a way i’ll take, for tonight.” her fingers brushed the edge of her sleeve as she settled beside her. “there’s been a bit of everything, beauty, confusion, wonder,” she said, a quiet kind of amusement in her voice. “oh, i went north for the king’s nameday. they held a wrestling match, the king himself took part. it was… something to see. all that strength put forward like that, how he interacted with his subjects so personally.” eyebrows raised. "i think that's been the most interesting thing i've seen in a while."

"you may, my lady," she nodded at the chair beside her, her voice quiet but sincere when she spoke. "please, join me. i'd be glad of the company." it was only a half-truth. whilst she wasn't overfond of crowds, she enjoyed one-to-one conversations perfectly well, even with those she had never met. her presence wasn't unwelcome, even though dacey hadn't sought it out.

the woman was not a northerner, no daughter of any of the houses she had grown up learning the sigils and words of. by her accent, she might have been braavosi, but dacey had never had much of an ear for that sort of thing, and so she did not ask, lest the woman be from pentos and find being accused of being braavosi a grave insult.

she let out a soft laugh, her gaze returning to the crowd. "it's quite the river, isn't it?" the metaphor amused her, because it often felt that way, like a particularly quick-moving river she could never quite keep up with without slipping under the water. "the river moves a bit too quickly for me, i'm afraid, though my brother seems to be enjoying himself." this was owen's element, wherever he had found himself.

“as he should,” she agreed, her gaze following dacey’s to the heart of the hall. “for such a momentous day, and generous of him, to share it so freely. not just with lords and bannermen, but everyone.” she gestured lightly toward the crowd, where a servant was laughing with a knight, and no one seemed to mind. there was a current in the room, she noticed, the way people drifted and gathered, always circling back toward the king, as though owen himself was the fire in the hearth. it was a kind of warmth she hadn’t quite expected to find in the north.

her hands folded on the table in front of her, fingers interlaced. “the cold, yes, more bone-deep than i’m used to, i’ll admit,” she said with a light laugh, shaking her head. “in braavos, even the wind has a little more softness to it. but it makes the wine feel earned, i suppose.”

the scent of jasmine and rosewater hung sweet on the air, mingling with the sharper tang of candle smoke and the richness of honeyed wine. lucrezia redwyne moved through the crowded hall like a woman born for this kind of evening—her kaftan a deep olive green, gathered neatly at her waist with a golden shawl that shimmered with small bells as she walked, each step singing softly. she had discarded her heels long ago, the ache in her arches unbearable after three dances too many, but the long fall of fabric concealed her bare feet well enough.

none needed to know, and even if they did, who would dare say it didn’t suit the mood of the night? the floor itself was slick with movement, heels clicking, silks sweeping, palms clapping. there were drums from ashford, flutes from oldtown, and the high reedy sound of a reed pipe that surely hailed from some dornish border—none of it blended cleanly, and yet somehow it worked. it worked marvellously. she had hosted enough gatherings to know when one was a success. and this was one. oh, it was busy—every corner of the hall thrummed with bodies, laughter, and breath.

one of the crane daughters had taken up a ribbon dance and was twirling so furiously a few scattered petals from the floral centrepieces had launched themselves into the air in surrender. gods, it was wonderful, and she reached out to grab a hold of a few petals, calling her cousin's name from across the room - one she had only recently become more closely acquainted with.

lucrezia barely paused before she was gliding across the floor again, the bells at her waist chiming in time with a southern rhythm she couldn’t quite place. her arms had a natural sway to them now, even when she wasn’t dancing—her whole body animated with joy. tonight, she was not lady of anything. she was not a name with a dowry, or a fleet. she was a woman, host, sister, celebrant. “you’re late, i was not thinking you would show.” she said warmly to whoever had just stepped into the threshold, her voice low and unmistakably amused as she stepped forward to greet them, passing through a small fountain and down some marble steps as she lifted the bottom of her velvet skirts.

she wore braavosi silk in twilight blue, embroidered with glints of copper thread, a nod to both sea and spark. the fabric hugged her shoulders, loosened at the sleeves, practical enough to move in, but modest and elegant. her dark curls were gathered in a braided twist low at her nape, though a few strands had already loosened in the heat of the room.

the hall shimmered. silks twirled, petals danced midair, and somewhere ahead, a dancer nearly collided with a reed player mid-spin. sabiha blinked at the chaos and beauty of it, amused and a little breathless. it was not like braavos, less edge, more sweetness, but she could not deny its charm.

“i was delayed,” she said, her accent lilting soft over the clamor, “by a fruit vendor and three stubborn donkeys. i’ll spare you the order in which they crossed my path.”

lhe glanced toward Lucrezia, warmth bright behind her dark eyes. there had always been something of kinship between them, though it had begun not in person, but in ink. sabiha had hoped to meet the famed lady of the arbor when she first docked at its crescent shore, drawn by tales of its vineyards and artistry, its women and their wisdom. but lucrezia had been away, and so instead, she had written.

a letter left in trust with a well-dressed dockhand, its folds still faintly scented with brine and cedar. a note of admiration, of shared ties, and a passing compliment to the arbor ships, whose craftsmanship and cargo had long stirred whispers even in braavos.

lucrezia’s reply had come quickly, and with it, a voice that leapt off the parchment. clear, candid, and threaded with wit that needed no translation. they had corresponded since, about trade routes and salt-hymns, about women’s circles and festivals, about the many things unspoken, and those spoken too freely.

“this is… amazing,” she said simply, her voice low as they passed beneath a tangle of lanterns and climbing ivy that crowned the upper arches. her gaze swept over the dornish women who had taken to the dancefloor. “you’ve outdone every harbor celebration i’ve stumbled upon."

she inhaled, soaking in the vibrant room around her. “i’m glad you invited me,” sabiha added, trailing her fingers along the edge of a marble pillar as they passed it. “this is the first time i’ve really seen westeros like this… not just its ports, or the edge of a market." she had briefly been to the vale some time ago, but the memories had sadly faded as time went on. she was glad to have visited again, recently, if only briefly.