everything you touch turns to gold

No, he knew Tyland would act when he wanted, when he was ready in some Tyland way and when things didn't work they would eventually reach Arron's way, his view. Arron didn't think they should share the islands, he didn't think they should just see the world as a board or a realm but a battlefield with swords hanging over head waiting to fall.

The Prince chose to listen to him, to keep his mouth shut and try to understand. Arron didn't like this feeling, he didn't like feeling like he had no control and that he would just have to wait. But, nothing his brother said could truly be disputed. So he followed him, his tongue dragging over lips as the breeze hit him. The salt air and sound of the sea as he looked out at the distance where his second home, perhaps true home was.

Then his brother began to speak to him about he would do with his men, how they would have more than just something minor. He turned to face him fully,focusing on his words, and perhaps Tyland did understand him. Perhaps Tyland knew that it was important to be ready, even deep down Arron knew it would take mor eon the sea but the land, well he would do well there.

"Some of my men would be perfect for this life. They are in need of something more. Bored warriors leads issues unseen here. Breaking up fights turn into brawls and smallfolk die or worse, we are embarrassed because some common can tell tales of how he bested a warrior. Though, none I will have a history of brawls for that would go against the purpose." And it was good to have men who did the hard things, the dirty things. Arron wondered how those men could be put to use when his brother mentioned Roman Prester. Arron frowned at the mention of the spy but he knew it would be good for them, useful. "I think....I know the harder men could answer to Prester, we all know how spies get their answers. I remember the clubfoot." Cripples were always devious, they were like bastards.

"Brother, what if the Fair Isle way becomes the way for our knights and warriors, guards? What i More than just second and third sons, the occasional first. Most everyone trains the same, you can see it when we get together. Yes, there are little differences but the biggest differences come from the Dornish and the Northmen. Men who take the oath will take it in blood." Arron already knew how he would have it done; an oath, signature, and print in blood.

There was something about discipline that he understood. He was more than familiar with strong hands to guide someone to greatness. It was the only way to survive Fair Isle and now the realm would face more than his rage they would witness rise of the King's Fist. And they would tremble in fear. They would beg for mercy.

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?"

Arron would swear he could hear the sound of Tyland's steps no mater where they were. There was a certain way the man walked, a certain way that let you one know the king entered, that his big brother was standing alongside him. His favorite, the one he pointed out who prepared to spar for the pleasure of the King. Arron almost smiled. His boys were the strength of the realm, the future.

To Arron Lannister there was nothing in the realm more important than the traditions of Fair Isle. Soft men were dangerous, they became weak and focused on nonsense. On Fair Isle boys were educated, they were sharpened, and they were cut from a different cloth. And now only the Westermen would know the power and strength of boys forged hard as Valyrian steel. They would need to cut their teeth against pirates and highwaymen but they would and they would survive. They would keep the West alive.

The Prince knew better than to respond right away. Tyland was more like their father than Arron in many ways. One of those ways? He was never finished with the first line of questioning, there would be more questions and more to say. Arron thought his brother didn't understand what he was doing, why he was doing it. He would be calm, thorough in a way that Tyland couldn't deny. Arron could make his brother see.

Then his brother spoke to him plain. And the words hat followed switched something on within, something that forced him to remember the King stood before him. Yes, it was his brother but his brother was the King. Even as he swallowed down the immediate anger and guilt something in him ticked.

"Will tactic stop the storm? If the sky has opened and seas have risen then what shall we do? Shall we write our way out? Perhaps, brother, we can talk our way out. And while we talk all who watch and see that there is somewhere the lion is weak. On the seas." And it was absurd in many ways, they were not a weak force. Their fleet was magnificent and yet they had less. As a child he hated being second, being third was worse, and anything lower was an atrocity. And after the war, after the damage, they were still whole. They revenged themselves upon the ironborn until they were naught but slaves. And instead of claiming the spoils remained they split them, gave them greatness and how were they thanked? They put their mistress of ships in his golden sea and her sails annoyed him.

Arron stopped himself from mentioning sons, from mentioning the struggles of his chosen wife and how long it took her to produce a son and he doubted she would succeed a second time and he would be there for his brother when he came to realize he was wrong about something else. "We must ensure that what our sons inherit is strong on all fronts, domination is key." And he wanted those islands. They belonged to Fair Isle. Fair Isle and Lannisport bled for those islands. Where was the reach then? The Tyrells? The Redwynes? Nowhere to be seen.

tyland’s gaze remained fixed on the clashing blades of the boys below, their wooden blades swinging with a metronomic precision, though his attention was no longer truly on them. arron’s words had not surprised him—he had known that his brother’s mind would immediately leap to imagined dangers, to fleets that did not yet exist, to enemies conjured from ambition rather than reality. the wind tugged at the edges of his cloak, and yet he remained unmoved, regal, a lion in repose, listening with a patience that was practiced and precise. he did not look at arron when he spoke, yet the sharpness of his own thoughts cut through the air between them with unspoken force.

he could hear the rhythm in arron’s voice, the insistence, the litany of what-ifs, as if the world itself were a battlefield mapped out in endless lines of conflict. tyland’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, and he allowed a quiet smile, dry and almost amused, to ghost across his lips.

“no ironborn threaten our coasts. no tyrell schemes reach our walls with any shadow of power remaining. considering prester has made it clear the reach is too focusing on the septon. you imagine wars where there are none, and counsel preparation against ghosts,” he said, his voice smooth and measured, echoing slightly against the stone walls that bordered the training yard. “our fleets are strong, our ports secure, our hold upon the west unchallenged. we are not blind, arron, but neither shall we be carried away by your childish anxieties or boredoms.” he paused, finally turning his eyes toward his brother, letting the weight of his presence settle heavily.

truthfully, he was disappointed in him. he found it distasteful, the assumptions the kings rage made; again, no doubt too clouded by the ways of fair isle - their mothers ancient lands. out of touch, “do you think me so patient, so endlessly pragmatic, because i lack the will to act? i do not plan endlessly for debate’s sake. i act when the root must be ripped, when action serves, not when fancy or fear dictates. cedric tyrell’s overthinking is not my way. he sees the world as a board to be manoeuvred; i see it as a realm to be held, to be commanded, to be kept.” the words were deliberate, precise, each one measured, yet carrying the authority of a lion who had survived the dance of dragons and the sack of lannisport. "this is the last time i will remind you."

he drew in a slow breath, the firelight from the windows glinting across his features, cold and resolute. “it is not weakness to temper ambition with reason and another form of ambition. the west is safe, the seas are secure. you fear shadows where there are none. and i will hear no more of it. our house remains atop the food chain because we act with discipline, because we know which battles to fight, and which to contain. your sons will inherit that discipline; our sons will inherit a realm unmarred by the folly of imagined enemies.” his expression made it painfully obvious what he was telling arron not to mention, or rather, who; for his reference to all the boys was painstakingly obvious. his voice softened slightly, though none of the majesty left it.

“i am king, not a man seeking glory for its own sake. your zeal is noted, but it must be measured against reality, not dreams. our family, our house, our sons—these are what demand action, not the spectres of your imagination. and in that, you will follow my lead, as will all who bear the name lannister.” tyland turned back toward the central privy apartments, his cloak whispering across the stone. the clang of training weapons faded behind him, but the lesson he had delivered would linger, as it always did, heavy with authority, absolute and immovable: the west endured because he ruled it so, and arron, for all his fire, must bend to the reality of a lion’s reign. and for a moment, it appeared as though the conversation was done.

before his hand beckoned his brother to follow him.

tyland’s gaze lingered on the western horizon, where the cliffs of fair isle caught the last glint of the setting sun, and he allowed the moment’s silence to stretch, deliberate, before speaking. “some of your men are not to be squandered merely in patrols or minor skirmishes. they could serve a higher purpose, one that is ours alone.” he turned, pale green eyes narrowing as they met arron’s, reading the fire in his brother’s expression. “i will commission a league of these fighters, bound neither to ports nor petty lords, but directly to our house, our crown. a private battalion, trained in secrecy, swift in obedience, a hand unseen yet unbroken. their task is singular: to uphold the west’s reformation, to act where the banners of others falter, and to strike decisively if necessity demands. and when it is done, they will continue.”

she understood what he was telling her. what he had always told her, in one way or another. she knew her place. she had always known it.

and yet, for all her understanding, for all the grace with which she bore her station, there was something within her that would not still. not fear, not defiance, something softer, something she did not yet have the words to name.

her gaze remained steady upon him, even as he turned away, even as he did not look at her. she let the silence settle between them for a moment longer before she finally spoke, her voice quiet, unhurried.

"of course, your grace," she said, the words carrying the easy acceptance he expected of her. and yet, beneath them, something lingered, a note too subtle to be named outright. "i have never doubted your hand upon the kingdom, nor the strength that holds it steady. i admit, the trials of motherhood weigh heavily on me today," she said softly, her voice laced with quiet exhaustion. "i have thought only of arthur, his future, his safety." her hands remained folded, her posture unyielding in its poise, but she allowed a breath to slip through her lips, measured, careful.

"but…" she hesitated, her voice trailing for a fraction of a second before she lifted her chin, just slightly. "it is not matters of state that trouble me. i spoke with prince arron," she said, her voice careful, composed. "earlier."

katherine inhaled slowly, smoothing the fabric of her gown between her fingers, willing away the quiet anger that still simmered beneath the surface. she had known her duty from the moment she had taken her vows. her purpose, her greatest purpose, had always been clear, to bear a son, to secure the line, to ensure that the golden lion remained unchallenged upon its throne. she did not resent it. she did not question it. it was the weight she had accepted the moment she had become queen.

“the prince,” she said at last, her voice smooth, careful, betraying none of the offense that still simmered beneath the surface, “spoke to me in a manner i did not expect.”

her gaze drifted to the fire, its flickering light catching the gold in her hair, before she looked back to her husband. “i approached him for the sake of this family, for jasper’s sake, for our son's sake, to ensure there was nothing that could be turned against us, no whisper that might fester into something greater. but his response…” she let out a soft breath, measured, as if weighing the words before she spoke them. “his anger was not unexpected. but the disrespect,” she hesitated, just for a moment, before continuing, “i will admit, it did wound me.”

slender fingers brushed absently against the fabric of her gown, though her composure did not break. “he called himself your brother first, above all else, including me, and made it clear that my concerns were unwelcome.” a pause, measured. “he spoke to me as though my words held no weight, as though my place meant nothing in matters of our family.”

tyland’s brow lifted, his back still turned as he listened, the flames throwing his shadow high against the stone wall like a spectre of old lannister kings. “ah,” he murmured inwardly, “so this is it, then.” he inhaled once through his nose, long and composed, though a muscle twitched faintly in his jaw. of course it had been arron. it was always arron—his younger brother, ever convinced that the world had wronged him, ever meddling where his opinion had not been asked. the fool fancied himself a soldier of truth, never realising that truth, when wielded without restraint, was little more than a sword turned inwards..

tyland turned at last, slow and deliberate, and allowed his eyes to settle upon his queen. the flicker of her composure had been slight, almost imperceptible, but he had seen it. “you are sensitive today,” he thought, though the amusement he felt was not cruel—merely masculine, rooted in the understanding that women, particularly mothers, were so often moved by things that ought not move them at all. “katherine,” he said, voice low and even, his tone the sort one might use to soothe a prized hound who had whined at thunder.

"he is my brother." there was no further explanation, no further clarification needed: there was a hierarchy to the world of the men of the westerlands, and whilst unnesecary disrespect and disdain would be considered, arron was not particularly wrong. tyland would take his advice on matters of state more seriously than that of his queen.

“you are queen of the westerlands. you have borne me a son, a true lannister, and ensured our line stretches proudly into the next generation. whatever was said by my brother—whatever tone he used—it ought not to wound you so easily.” he stepped forward, gaze fixed upon her now, weighing every small expression that played across her face. “the way of men is harsh, i grant you that. we speak in bluntly. yet, you know this.”

he studied her another moment, then turned again and crossed to the table where his untouched supper sat. his appetite still had not returned, but he needed the rhythm of movement, the shape of a room he could pace through. “what precisely did he say?” he asked after a pause, keeping his back to her again, though his voice now bore the firmness of a command. “i would hear his words in full." he plucked a fig from a silver bowl, but did not eat it. he merely turned it in his fingers. “jasper is not your concern, nor mine,” he said, tone cooling slightly now, a flare of distaste colouring his otherwise composed manner.

“arron concerns himself with the bastard out of loyalty. if the boy survives to adulthood, it will be by arron’s mercy and upbringing, not mine. arthur is my heir, and he will want for nothing. this will not touch him."

he paused again, considering her final words. they had been chosen well—soothing, demure, even self-effacing—but he had not missed the subtlety beneath them. she had spoken like a queen, yes, but also like a woman bruised. “the trials of motherhood,” he echoed, almost sarcastically before he then turned once more, walking back to her with slow, measured steps. “i do not wish to see you troubled, katherine,” he said, his voice softer now, with something like warmth glinting faintly beneath the armour.

she had always known the importance of pride in their house, the lannisters’ unyielding position in westeros. she was, after all, the queen—the perfect queen, as he so often reminded her. but the thought of yielding to ravella, even indirectly, unsettled her in ways she hadn’t expected. it wasn’t just politics, not in this case. she could feel it in the pit of her stomach, an instinctual unease.

when he released her hand, stepping back with an air of finality, she stood firm, her expression calm, though the turmoil roiled beneath the surface. she had never shied away from difficult decisions, but this one felt different.

“at first," she began, her voice quieter, almost hesitant, "i thought it wise to consider what retaliation from her might mean for us, for arthur. her reach, her...cunning. i feared that defying her would open us to an attack we could not anticipate. and so i suggested we consider it." she hesitated, her gaze flickering down to the floor, before meeting tyland's eyes again. "but i feel foolish now."

her shoulders relaxed slightly, the tension in her form unwinding just a touch, but it didn’t entirely leave her. "i should not have doubted that, nor allowed my concerns to cloud my judgment. i know you will not let us be led astray by the whims of the vale, and that our house’s strength will guide us through this."

yet, despite her words, a small knot remained in her stomach, a lingering unease. she had feared what ravella could do, but in her heart, she knew that it was the unknown—the things that could not be seen, the strings pulled in the shadows—that truly unsettled her.

tyland watched her carefully, his gaze unreadable, the firelight carving sharp angles into his features. her words were measured, perfectly chosen to soothe the tension that sat thick in the air between them. she was always so careful, so considerate in how she spoke to him, and yet, tonight, it did not please him. instead, he saw it for what it was—an attempt to mend what had already been severed. an effort to assure him that she understood her mistake, even as the very fact that she had made it lingered, a stain upon the perfection he had once admired. he had not sat back down since rising from his chair, nor did he now.

his appetite had fled, chased away by the weight of his displeasure, and so he stood, a lion surveying a subject who had dared to tread too close to matters beyond her station.

“foolish,” he echoed, though not cruelly. the word was an acknowledgement, not an accusation, but it carried the weight of something final. it was the only concession he would allow her—that she had realised, at last, what he had known from the moment she first spoke. she was out of her depth. his gaze drifted over her, his queen, his katherine, the woman he had chosen above all others. she had always understood her place so well, had always played her part with grace. and yet, here she stood, seeking to speak on matters that did not concern her, to assert a voice where there should only be his. the disappointment settled deep within him, a quiet thing, but no less firm.

he had loved her for her obedience, for the ease with which she complemented him. but this? this was not what he had wanted. “you speak of ensuring we are prepared, of securing our house’s strength,” he said, his tone smooth, unwavering. “but have you forgotten, my queen, that we already are? that we do not scramble in the dark, grasping for control like lesser houses might? this is the rock upon which the realm breaks. we do not yield. we do not bow. we do not entertain the fears of women when there is a kingdom to be ruled.” he turned then, as if the conversation was already closing, his hands clasped behind his back.

the fire crackled softly, filling the silence between them, but it did nothing to warm the cold that had settled in his chest.

“you know your place, katherine.” his voice was softer now, almost contemplative. “you always have. it is why you were chosen, why you are my queen. there is no shame in it—no dishonour in remaining where you are most suited, where you serve our house best.” and yet, despite the gentleness in his tone, there was no mistaking the meaning beneath it. he was reminding her, carefully, deliberately, that the crown she wore was not one of governance, but of duty. of grace. of bearing heirs and maintaining the illusion of perfection that he demanded. he did not look at her as he reached for the goblet that sat untouched upon the table, running a finger idly along its rim.

His eyes searched his brother’s face, hoping—praying—for a sign of doubt, a crack in the unyielding mask. But Tyland stood firm, and the panic in Arron’s chest deepened. “Guinevere is no mere piece on your board. She is not some bargaining chip to be offered to a man like Jaehaerys, a man whose ambition blinds him to reason and whose name is steeped in fire and blood. You’ve seen what the Targaryens leave behind, brother. You know what they are.”

Arron’s hands gripped the railing, the rough wood grounding him as his thoughts spiraled. “You say this is strategy, that it’s for the good of the West. But what good is it if it costs us her?" Cost him her. "Do you not see? She is…” He stopped himself, swallowing hard. She is everything to me. The words burned in his throat, but he could not let them escape. Words that he could never say for the unspoken meaning would burn so clearly it would destroy all held dear.

He turned back to Tyland, a choice being made as he found the words. “I will give you anything. Name it, and it’s yours. You have my ships, my swords, my loyalty—all of it. But I know there is something else and I will give it to you. I will do whatever it takes to stop this.” It was not a threat and he would not beg, or so he told himself. The King's Rage knew he was not about begging when it came to Guinevere.

tyland lannister remained silent for a moment, the sea’s vast expanse a mirror to the churning thoughts within him. arron’s desperation was palpable, his plea hanging in the salt-laden air like a spectre of their shared past. tyland had anticipated resistance—arron’s protective nature over guinevere was no secret—but the raw vulnerability in his brother’s voice struck a chord he had not prepared for. he looked at him as though he were looking for something, something else: the desperation that seemed to come from his mouth felt unnatural, foreign.

his gaze remained fixed on the horizon, the sun dipping lower, casting long shadows across the deck. the sea seemed endless, an apt reflection of the weight of their conversation. finally, he turned to face arron, his expression a mask of stoic resolve, though the flicker of something softer lingered beneath the surface. “arron,” tyland began, his voice measured and calm, like the steady rhythm of the waves, “you offer me everything, and yet you know there is no price i would ask that could sway my course. not because i do not value what you offer, but because this decision is not born of personal ambition. it is necessity.”

he stepped closer, his eyes locking with arron’s, the pale green depths unwavering. “she has stood as queen before, faced a world that sought to diminish her and came through unscathed. this is not a punishment, arron, nor a sacrifice. it is her role, her duty, and she knows it.” truthfully, it was the least she could do to atone for her foolish nature - she had returned to their family with the same aloof, distant and detached nature that was needed to master ruling a kingdom. or at least providing support in doing it; all she needed to do was provide jaehaerys with half lannister heirs.

tyland’s tone softened, though the steel within it remained. “you believe jaehaerys a man blinded by ambition, and perhaps he is. but it is precisely that ambition that can be tempered, guided. with guinevere by his side, with her wisdom and grace, she will safeguard our interests, our future.” he sighed, a rare gesture of weariness. “sisters are to be lost. they do not remain with us." he wondered why he was explaining the obvious; sisters were forever a temporary guest within their home, awaiting the day they wedded. the west cannot afford to sit idle while new valyria rises. we need eyes, ears, and influence within their halls. guinevere is our best hope.”

tyland placed a firm hand on arron’s shoulder, a gesture of both comfort and finality that none other would see from the lion king. he knew he would find this hard, but it was the only thing to do. “i do not doubt your love for her, nor your willingness to sacrifice. but this is the path laid before us, one we must tread for the good of our family, our legacy. she is a lannister, and she will serve as one.” he released his grip, turning back to the sea, his voice carrying over the waves. “do not fight this, brother. instead, trust in her strength, as i do. she will not falter.”

"my king," she began, her voice quiet but firm, "I share your resolve to protect Jasper and our house from insult. Yet Ravella's intentions, however audacious, are not without teeth." She stepped closer, the soft rustle of her gown breaking the silence. "your assessment of teh falcon queen is sound. she twists truths to suit her purposes and wields them as weapons. but it is precisely because of her cunning that i hesitate to leave this matter entirely untouched. her intentions are layered, as always, and I fear there is more to this than we see."

she stepped forward, her movements graceful and deliberate, the hem of her gown whispering across the stone floor. "she demands to see jasper not for clarity or peace, but for leverage. i do not trust that she seeks only the truth, and i cannot help but question what whispers she may carry back to the vale should we refuse her outright. if her goal is to provoke or humiliate us, we must ensure she does not succeed."

katherine paused, her fingers brushing the back of a nearby chair, a grounding gesture. "if she insists on meeting the boy, let it be under our terms, in a setting we control. not paraded before the court, as she might hope, but in private—surrounded by only those we trust implicitly." she looked up, her expression calm yet resolute. "you have always been a master of strength tempered with strategy. this approach would deny her the stage she craves while showing the realm we are neither afraid of her accusations nor careless in defending our own."

the flickering firelight cast long shadows across the room as tyland listened, his eyes narrowing with each word katherine spoke. her reasoning was sound, her calm demeanour a perfect complement to his own simmering fury. yet, beneath the surface of her measured counsel, he detected something that stirred his irritation—an implication that the lions of casterly rock might yield, even slightly, to the will of the arryns. she was perfect...until she was not. he rose from his chair, his imposing frame silhouetted against the firelight, and stepped towards her. the softness of her gaze, the delicate grace with which she spoke, only fuelled his resolve.

reaching out, he took her hand firmly, not unkindly, but with a grip that conveyed both his authority and his need to halt her words.

“katherine,” he began, his voice low but resonant, “you are the perfect queen—wise, poised, and ever mindful of our house’s dignity. it is fitting that you have involved yourself in this matter. yet, there is a line that must not be crossed, even by you.” he paused, his thumb brushing over her knuckles, a fleeting moment of tenderness before the weight of his words returned. “the arryns are our enemies, and ravella’s demands are nothing short of a provocation. to even entertain the notion of bending to her will—of allowing her to dictate terms, however subtly—is an affront to the pride of the west. we do not yield to demands born of spite and ambition.”

his gaze sharpened, the flicker of the fire mirrored in his eyes. “ravella seeks to undermine us, to sow discord and doubt. she demands jasper not out of concern for the boy, but as a ploy to gain leverage. we will not give her the satisfaction of believing she has any power over us. her audacity alone is enough to deny her.” tyland lannister cared not for the boy; he cared not for his sister, but rather the other in the equation he had made promises to. it was in this moment he begun to understand the knots and strings that had wrapped around arron lannister when it came to his sister.

as the sun began its slow descent beyond the horizon, the room grew darker, shadows creeping in from the corners. the fire in the hearth cast a warm, flickering light that seemed to hesitate in the growing dimness, throwing long, soft shadows across the stone walls. katherine's gown, gold threads gleaming faintly in the firelight, seemed to shimmer as she moved. despite the peaceful surroundings, there was an undeniable tension in the air.

"your grace," she said, her voice polite but laced with the urgency she carried. she dipped into a graceful curtsy before moving closer to her husband, pale hues betraying the elegance and sense of calm she managed to maintain up to this point.

she straightened her back as she took a seat across from him. letting out a small, controlled sigh, her fingers absently smoothing her gown as she spoke. "i’ve just returned from a meeting with queen ravella, and i fear the matter she brought before me is one that requires your immediate attention." she paused for a moment, the words lingering in the air.

"she claims that her late brother, king rowan, was not of true arryn blood, she insists he was a bastard," the queen of the west continued, her tone steady but tinged with a quiet disbelief. "and as if that revelation were not enough, she has demanded to see young jasper to confirm whether he is truly rowan's son or not."

katherine studied her husband's face, trying to gauge his reaction, her own expression calm but faltering as a hint of the nerves she worked hard to keep under control began to creep up. "i assured the queen that i would consult you before any decisions were made." she clasped her hands before her, leaning forward slightly. "i do not know what her next steps will be, but it is clear that this is a matter of great importance to her, and potentially to the stability of the vale."

the firelight danced in tyland lannister’s eyes, but the warmth from the hearth did little to temper the icy disdain that swept across his face as katherine finished speaking. his fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest of his chair, the golden lion embossed beneath them catching the flickering light. his queen's words hung in the air, their weight pressing down upon the room, yet his expression betrayed only cold calculation. “so, ravella arryn has taken to rewriting history,” tyland said at last, his voice low but laced with venom.

“how very convenient for her. rowan—a bastard. and not just any bastard, but one so false that she demands jasper be dragged into this farce. as though she holds the authority to question the blood of lions and falcons alike.” his lips curved into a faint sneer, the mockery sharp as a dagger. “it’s a bold move, i’ll grant her that. too bold. ravella means to consolidate her hold, to weaken any claim that might rival her own. and who better to target than a dead man, which would go on to indicate jasper, a boy with neither voice nor strength to defend himself?”

he rose from his chair, the motion slow, deliberate, as though the weight of his anger made him heavier. tyland’s gaze fell upon katherine, his queen, steady but unyielding. “you were right to bring this to me, katherine, but you must understand—ravella arryn’s machinations are no mere folly of the vale court. this is a declaration. she seeks to insult us, to provoke us, and to remind me, personally, of the disgrace my own sister brought upon this house.” his tone grew colder, his words cutting through the warmth of the room like a chill wind. “let her claw at her throne, let her scramble to keep her mountain birds in line. the lions do not answer to the falcons."

Her face remained composed, her chin held high, as the man spoke. She let the silence stretch between them for a moment, gathering her thoughts to avoid responding only viscerally. It wasn't her way, even when offended. Iona had prepared herself for the route she was sure this conversation would take. After all, Tyland Lannister was a vestige of the old world, of those who valued only gold, a strict religion, and a man's cock. “My womb is not your concern,” she said plainly. “Only the man I call husband is entitled to speak of it in any capacity. Now, Lord Westerling is no longer with us so I will do him the courtesy of not speaking about his inability to plant his seed”. And that was all Iona had to say on that particular matter.

“I do not speak of how you ought to conduct your realm. Let me mind my realm and my people,” the Queen of the Rivers said in a steady voice, her hands clasped in front of her as she spoke. She was not here to excuse herself, to offer apologies, or ask for permission to rule her lands when she had been legitimately chosen by those she respected the most in her realm. “There is no succession crisis, you only see it because you choose to. The Riverlands have an heir in my brother, and the heir will remain an heir until I have children of my own, or he succeeds in the only way an heir gains a throne: when a monarch dies”.

tyland lannister stood before queen iona tully, his presence suffocating the space between them, his cloak sweeping behind him like a river of gold, heavy with the weight of his crown and the years of power he carried. his eyes of striking emerald, cold and unblinking, lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary, noting the composed appearance she wore. she barely appeared a queen: most women in the west seemed to dress better than her, there was nothing about her presence which commanded respect or authority.

"the riverlands are rich in resources, and they rest upon a border that holds great strategic value. it would be a mistake to let these talks fade away into nothingness. i would see this matter resolved, one way or another."

the silence in the room stretched taut, but it was tyland who broke it, his voice low, formal, a rumble of authority. "your words are bold, queen iona," he began, the low rasp of his voice filling the room like a distant thunder. his eyes narrowed, fixing her with an unyielding gaze. "still, they betray your lack of understanding of the nature of things. the matter of succession is my concern - the riverlands sit upon my borders, and all too often does the riverlands turn to festering mud for the sake of war. if it is not you and your brother now, it will be your offspring when you are both dead. you are not blind to the implications and my patience is not unlimited."

his expression did not change, but his tone quietened slightly, as if he were explaining a matter of state to a child who had missed his lessons. the same way he spoke to everyone in his life; regardless of who they were. "speak with your brother if you wish, but know this: i am not going anywhere. and the longer we delay, the more difficult it will become to find common ground. so let us speak, and find another way to move forward." he did not speak of them being equals still; yet knew he would try to push this conversation through - it was not meeting in the middle, but rather drawing another line entirely.

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Under the gaze of his brother, it was as if their father were standing before him and Arron put down the cup and put his focus on the man. The King. And at his words he waited and when Tyland didn't give him a place he almost frowned but he thought against it. Thought better of it. He would do something else. Arron ran his land over his face, then hand his fingers over his hair to keep it out of his face. He would need to visit Guinevere after this meeting and have his hair trimmed.

What changed his mind? Well, it was Guinevere but he wouldn't tell Tyland about that as there was little purpose in sharing that information with Tyland. Arron had his own reasons beyond the need of his love who wanted him there at court. Who needed him there at court. "I am a Lannister. And if I am to be a Prince of the West then I should split my time more appropriately. And you're my brother." Tyland needed him even if he didn't know it or didn't agree. They were stronger together. The presence of crimson and gold clad Lannisters in the guilded halls of Casterly would just bolster their regal presence.

there was a resounding silence following the final words that were uttered, that seemed to even make those bones and dust within the hall of heroes even momentarily sit up in anticipation. with breath held. to hear, to know. to see. all the while, the lion king remained sat within the grandness of this specific chamber, noting the tapestries across the wall of great chapters of westerland history.

of the prides grazing freely amongst the open plains, in reminder of the brutality of nature. of how, even nature, force those to leave their pride.

his piercing gaze fell upon his brother, prince arron lannister, who had recently returned to casterly rock. arron’s request had not gone unnoticed, but was there more to it? did he wish to adorn the hand upon his doublet, the same way he brought down bloodshed and order with the swing of his giant longsword. such a position could not be granted lightly, even to his own blood. not even to his own pride. his voice deep and resonant when it finally spoke, akin to passing judgement.

“the crown cannot bestow such a title based solely on kinship or proximity. it must be earned." the king's gaze turned contemplative, the shadows of the past flickering in his mind. “our lineage is one of great strength and power, but it is also one of duty. we cannot afford to act on emotions or personal desires. the realm comes first, always. and there are matters we must put first.” there was a pause as the king rose from his throne, and stepped down; the last golden rays of the golden hour pouring through stained glass.

"the once firm grip i held over jaehaerys targaryen seems to loosen with each passing day. it cannot all be attributed to lenora’s influence, though she certainly has her part to play. the winds of change are strong, and our hold over the crownlands must be reinforced.”

and then they were stood some inches apart, his younger brother towering over him. a true image of the purity of the blood of fair isle, of the westerland warrior. of a lannister. "show me that you are worthy of standing by my side as my hand. demonstrate your prowess in matters of state, your ability to maintain order, and your capacity to serve the realm above all else. start with new valyria.”

"strong." the words were a blessing to his ears which was why he recanted them; and it did everything to settle the whispers in the back of his mind. the constant worry of his age, and his lacking of an heir: his oldest and only brother a mighty warrior, but a king? impulsive, fierce and reckless; they were qualities which reigned upon the deck of a war ship, not upon a throne. "good."

and within the flicker of a moment, within the time it took for one to inhale a short breath, there was a changed expression upon the features of the lion king - an expression which was hard to read for it were utterly nothing. a calculating stillness that was enough to make a sudden sense of discomfort come between them at this table, where just moments before there had been laughter and warmth - all because of a small, fleeting comment made by the queen. by his queen, the woman who carried his lineage.

it was enough to cause his mind to tumble into many a situation, clashing worlds in his head; the gods could not be vexed with him. the gods knew of his path, of his might, of the glory he intended to bring upon his realm. they would reward and bestow upon him a sense of bounty, of blessing. "then you will rest." tyland's voice came unnervingly stern all of a sudden, and the only sound that came briefly was the sound of his knife against the porcelain - the veal was then sliced open, revealing what remained nearly pink inside.

"you will rest. confinement should be brought forward much sooner." he spoke of the practice amongst women of the west; to prepare oneself to bring forth the child to the world. mentally and physically, anything that could bring any sense of harm upon the child is eased. prayers are issued, the bed is anointed with holy oil; he remembered his mother going through it upon the birth of her only daughter, still too young to remember anything about arron other than the day he first met his brother.

his spare hand moved to rest atop of her own, only rather than lace his fingers with hers, he held his hand over hers. as though to stop her from her next train of thought. "these matters are not for your concern, nor for you to worry about. not in your current situation." her next words caused him to think, and he merely looked at her - as though he expected her to have the answer. he did not involve himself in the politics or role of women, no. most women were simply taught that by their own mothers, and their betters before them.

a small nod was given in response to his initial comment, no doubt sharper than his former tone, sharp as the knife he used to cut the meat upon his plate, the scraping of the porcelain filling the momentary silence. though the queen remained poised, the tension was clearly palpable. she grasped the tea cup next to her, taking a small sip of the now lukewarm liquid within, truly to give her something to do other than watch the king's mind work as it always had. while she complained of their son not resting within her womb, she believed the same could be said of tyland's own manner.

it was so soon, for confinement, so soon that she might have protested, but instead a gentle smile came over her face. he knew all the better, and perhaps it were to remove her from talks of her home, from whatever stressors that may put upon her. "if it is your grace's will, then i believe that is in our best interest." hand came to her stomach slightly faster than before, taken aback by a swift movement in her belly.

"you are right. i trust silverhill to my brother, and to the king's judgement, once the matter is resolved." there was a slight air of warning, now, with hand atop hers, and it was the clue that katherine would not press the matter further. she would only involve herself to make known the king's will to those of her family's lands, and then she would confine herself, to focus on her most important duty of all.