you win or you die.

“ah,  so  we  are  alike  in  that  way,  then,”  she  muses.  “it's  strange  to  think  that  any  one  of  these  houses  here  could  now  take  the  throne…  isn't  it?  though  maybe  not  for  you,  as  i  imagine  you  are  quite  used  to  a  kingsmoot  at  this  point  in  your  life,  lady  harlaw.”

"they'll find a way to blame us for this too, y'know? if things go wrong, and they will. you cannot gather ambition under one roof and not expect bloodshed." yerin takes a sip of her tea. "despite assumptions, i do not wish for war. it is expensive and a waste of lives lost. i pray the drowned god and whatever gods you believe in that we are spared tragedy." the loss of her child still so fresh, it mattered little who sat the ugly throne as long as there is deliverance.

from across the hall, she sees one of her sisters acting up and lets out a long, tired sigh. "i wish you a pleasant rest of your evening. i have a stain, and other matters to attend to." she tips her head respectfully before taking measured steps through the hall to intervene on behalf of whatever poor soul seora had taken to toying with.

the silk on your shoulder dampened under his weeping. you drew back only a fraction to read his face, your palms resting heavy on his shoulders. he was entirely ruined by sorrow, and the sight of it cut a deep groove into your chest. "soon," you promised. "soon." you echoed the word a second time, your teeth set and your eyes burning red with unshed tears. the seams of your own heart were fraying simply from watching his break. you lifted your hands to his face, finding the wet paths on his cheeks still warm from the fire inside him. you began a most silent liturgy, brushing away the salt and drying his skin, a touch so faint it posed not a shadow, terrified of adding even a grain to the weight he already carries. you mend the leaks as they fall, letting the flood come. willing the well to dry; it must, it must. "he loved you much, you know that, right?" he held you the same way when you spoke of your brother, throwing pebbles on the shores of casterly rock. you had been testing who among you had the farthest aim, laughing into the wind before the weeping took you. the sea called to you in the eeriest of ways. it was him, you knew, willing you home. and it was death. and it was fate. and you would die by the water. you ought to die by the water. the resolve a grip as dependent and frail as the hand of a child cradled in yours; you could but you shouldn't let go. you couldn't. wouldn't. you had never meant to wail as you did then, but the name and the quietness and distant crashing of waves washed over you. it was safe to cry around cedric. "and he'd be proud of you." you'd hoped you, too, allowed him safe haven. "perceon will not warm that seat long. my mother won't have it. and then, we'll destroy him." then, quieter: "have you eaten since?"

“i  don't  care…  i  don't  care…”  he  mumbles  between  cries,  muffled  into  the  silk  of  her  dress.  he  just  needs  some  kind  of  outlet,  some  way  to  make  himself  feel  okay  about  all  of  this. 

he  had  loved  his  father  dearly,  always  following  in  his  shadow.  he  wanted  nothing  more  than  to  be  a  man  just  like  him,  as  great  and  as  honorable.  and  now  that  man  was  gone.  with  him,  so  goes  a  piece  of  cedric  lannister  as  well.

when  she  pulls  back  slightly,  he  is  looking  rather  pathetic.  his  eyes  are  bloodshot  red,  and  tears  continue  to  streak  down  his  cheeks.  eyes  half  lidded,  he  looks  down  at  her  as  she  holds  his  face  in  her  hands.  when  she  speaks  of  his  father  and  how  much  he  loved  him,  his  lip  wobbles  slightly.  he  feels  like  a  boy  again.  just  a  boy.

“he  can't…”  cedric  says.  “we  must  take  the  throne  for  ourselves,  and  we  must  rid  him  of  the  seat  he  paid  for  in  blood…  i  can't  stand  it,  maekara,  i  can't…”  he  sighs  heavily,  trying  to  regain  composure.  he  pulls  back  a  little,  wiping  his  wet  face  with  both  hands. 

“no...  i  imagine  you  will  insist  that  i  do  then,  hm?”

LOCATION: the gardens of the red keep, after the antidote were administered.

                                  the  red  keep’s  gardens  offered  what  the  city  had  little,  fresh  air;  the  smell  of  blooming  roses  and  hydrangeas;  some  beauty  amidst  stone  and  newly  created  city.  it  was  impressive  that  the  city  was  able  to  grow  so  fast,  from  the  shed  the  conqueror  built  when  he  first  landed  with  his  dragons.  maybe  elyas  could  use  their  time  to  venture  in  the  city  and  speak  with  its  builders  and  stonemasons,  such  mastery  should  be  brought  to  beautify  oldtown  instead.  with  all  these  nobles  staying  under  the  same  roof,  with  emotions  high  after  a  mass  poisoning,  the  red  keep  could  be  slightly  suffocating.  or  mayhaps  he  was  on  edge  for  other  reasons,  for  the  guilt  and  the  restlessness  that  came  with  their  delayed  visit.  when  the  first  ravens  arrived,  still  on  the  very  day  lady  lannister  was  recorded  screaming  for  her  father,  maester  olyvar  wrote  directly  to  elyas’  lord  father  and  grandmaester  mace  confirmed  before  the  dawn  of  the  day.  but  they  waited  and  bid  their  time.  the  longer  the  waited  the  more  desperate  the  lord  hand  would  become,  his  sister  ceryse  assured  them  and  she  was  found  correct.

                                  after  reaching  the  great  oak  tree  that  passed  as  the  heathen  godswood  in  the  keep,  elyas  sat  down  on  a  bench  and  his  stroll  was  interrupted  by  another  person  wishing  to  speak  about  the  poisoning  and  the  recovery  of  the  ill.  it  had  not  been  the  first  one,  nor  the  second.  others  had  received  their  coming  with  less  grace.  ❛❛ —  house  hightower  accepts  your  thanks,  my  liege. —  ❞  he  nodded  solemnly,  a  cordial  and  agreeable  smile  on  his  face.  house  hightower  had  established  enmities  but  they  arrived  at  king’s  landing  to  cultivate  allies.  he  feared  his  father’s  early  actions  already  would  require  some  smoothing  over.

as  she  ventures  through,  she  spots  a  familiar  face  –  that  of  elyas  hightower,  son  to  the  man  now  sitting  as  master  of  laws  where  her  liege  lord  once  sat.  it  was  an  awful  thing,  using  the  antidote  to  hang  over  their  heads  in  hopes  of  gaining  a  spot  on  the  council.  though,  elissa  cannot  deny  that  it  was  a  strategic  move.  she  wonders  if  she  herself  could  have  the  strength  to  do  something  similar.

she  offers  thanks,  and  in  turn  he  politely  accepts.  “may  i  sit  here?”  she  asks  softly,  looking  to  the  empty  spot  beside  him  on  the  bench.  when  he  agrees,  she  takes  the  spot  with  ease.  “i  imagine  you've  heard  many  thanks  since  arriving,”  she  begins.  “it  is  a  shame…  what  happened,  though,  the  loss  of  life.  many  more  will  think  you've  not  done  enough,  even  if  they  do  not  say  it.”

"oh i have. but too much wine might prove unwise as the evening unfolds. unless of course you trust everyone in this room." caution was far from the word makoa choose to live by but even he had his limits, knew when to stop himself from playing the utter fool. drinking more than his ill in this room full of adversaries would surely count. perhaps, cedric lannister simply thought himself strong enough to best all of them. he had heard little tale however on the man's prowess in combat but then again what would a lion of the rock be without his pride.

“trust?  no,  i  wouldn't  say  that…”  he  chuckles.  it  would  be  silly  to  trust  everyone,  now  wouldn't  it?  and  cedric  is  no  fool,  even  if  he  sometimes  may  look  like  one.  but  even  that  can  be  a  good  thing  sometimes  –  let  your  enemies  underestimate  you,  it  is  better  that  way. 

“now,  tell  me,  lord  redwyne,  who  is  it  that  you  think  will  end  up  on  the  iron  throne  at  the  end  of  all  this?  not  who  you  want,  no,  but  who  you  genuinely  think  will  come  out  on  top.”

                                     addam  stared  at  her  over  his  shoulder,  unimpressed.  his  father  letters  said  nothing  of  his  aunt  receiving  him.  her  solemn  serious  tone  aggravated  him  more  than  anything,  and  in  response,  his  acknowledgement  of  her  came  dripping  in  sarcasm.  ❛❛ —  sweet  aunt.  I  was  not  expecting  you.  did  father  sent  you?  —  ❞  was  that  lord  alester’s  idea  of  legitimacy,  did  he  feel  addam  would  be  happy  that  he  sent  his  westerling  sister  to  receive  him  in  the  keep?  when  addam  thought  of  family,  he  rarely  included  her;  his  father’s  younger  sister,  younger  than  addam  even,  no  matter  how  status  as  the  de-facto  lady  of  the  crag  while  his  father  ruminated  higher  ambitions.  for  now.  he  was  his  father’s  oldest  son.  his  aunt  always  needed  to  be  reminded  of  that.                                       she  never  missed  an  opportunity  to  remind  him  of  his  perceived  crimes.  ❛❛ —  many  others.  ruining  father’s  carefully  arranged  kingsmoot,  that’s  unfortunate.  taliesin  told  me  shiera  fell  ill,  but  she  should  be  fine  now. —  ❞  he  added,  giving  the  his  horse’s  reins  to  the  closest  stableboy,  carefree  attitude  that  was  far  from  what  he  was  actually  feeling.  unfortunate  for  the  disturbance  in  lord  alester’s  plan,  but  not  for  the  victims.  when  taliesin  listed  the  important  ones,  shiera  was  the  only  one  who  could  spark  any  concern  in  addam’s  heart.  his  aunt’s  bleeding  heart  and  empty  politeness  barely  registered.  ❛❛ —  pleasant.  now  that  is  a  way  to  put  it.  essos  can  be  quite  pleasant  on  the  right  circumstances.  —  ❞  he  answered,  pulling  his  hands  behind  his  back,  a  large  tall  man  playing  in  innocent  word  evasion,  as  if  his  travels  from  essos  had  been  mere  pleasure  trips  rich  noblemen  could  engage  at.  he  knew  the  truth.  aunt  elissa  knew  the  truth.  addam  suspected  she  knew  way  more  than  him.  ❛❛ —  but  now  I  am  back  to  westeros.  on  father’s  orders,  nonetheless.  he  will  need  any  help  he  can  get.  not  all  of  us  can  burrow  ourselves  in  the  crag.  but  you  would  not  do  that,  would,  aunt?  you  are  here  to  support  father?  —  ❞  he  wondered,  he  intentions  were  always  so  veiled,  so  clouded  in  the  righteousness  she  dressed  herself  with  as  easily  as  if  it  was  silk.  addam  would  prefer  to  know  exactly  where  his  aunt  elissa  was  standing  before  he  followed  his  father’s  ambitious  claims.

elissa  wants  to  scoff  at  his  sarcasm,  but  she  manages  to  hold  back.  just  barely.

“she's  recovering,  yes,”  elissa  responds,  trying  to  remind  him  that  this  is  no  easy  feat  at  all.  shiera  had  been  terribly  ill  and  though  elissa  herself  had  kept  her  distance,  she  still  worried  for  the  woman.  because  while  she  had  the  stain  of  bastardy  upon  her,  they  still  shared  blood.  they  are  family.  she's  always  kept  her  brother's  children  at  arm's  length,  but  she  still  cares  for  them.

most  of  them,  anyway.

“i'd  imagine  so.”  elissa  herself  had  only  been  beyond  the  narrow  sea  once  in  her  life.  she  had  enjoyed  it  well  enough,  but  essosi  ways  were  not  exactly  to  her  tastes.

“burrow  ourselves…”  she  begins,  the  expression  on  her  face  clear  as  day  –  she  is  infuriated  that  he  would  insinuate  that  she  simply  hid  herself  away.  that  is  far  from  the  truth,  and  they  both  know  it.  she  scoffs  and  rolls  her  eyes.

“i  am  here  to  support  house  westerling,  yes.”  a  carefully  crafted  response,  not  giving  anything  away.  “and  you,  dear  nephew?  what  have  you  come  for?”  it  is  not  as  if  he  has  any  claim  to  the  throne,  not  with  a  name  like  waters.  so  what  did  he  want  then?  a  position  on  the  new  council,  whoever  that  may  be?  surely  whoever  was  chosen  as  king  or  queen  would  not  be  so  foolish.

when it is harlon's voice that comes, mela's eyes flutter shut. she no longer pushes back the images that float to the forefront of her mind —  not like she might have in her youth. their backs pressed together as they woke, how fat, warm, arbor raindrops on her shoulders would have once reminded her of the pads of his fingers in the same place —  she lets them come in vivid technicolour, and lets them leave as well. he had sharpened her like a blade, his absence taking a whetstone to her personality. his marriage had been him twisting the knife to the right, and his wife's death had been mela's angry, youthful prayers twisting it back to the left. " i do not know. " she is reluctant to speak his name aloud. " your father's health wavers back and forth, " petulantly, mela pokes at his most tender spot, mentioning the grandmaester. a small revenge.

when  she  tells  him  that  his  father's  health  hangs  in  the  balance,  he  frowns.  “and  nothing  you've  tried  thus  far  has  helped?  what  is  this  sickness?”

mela's jaw has been clenched since the first dose of the elixir she and the lady greyjoy had mixed slipped past the throats of the sick. healing had never been what she had gravitated to when it came to practical uses of her knowledge of botany. ironically, she preferred poisons  — things that would help the elderly, frail, and injured pass in peace, without pain. the weight of not knowing pressed heavily upon her now, pushing down on her shoulders as she lowers herself to perch in a nearby windowsill. how exhausting it was, to heal. how fruitless, when your efforts did not come to pass. within her skull, the backs of her eyes ache with unshed tears. was it sadness, that brought such emotion to her door? or was it frustration —  anger at her inability to control the nightmare that transpired before the eyes of the court? rolling the thought over in her mind, mela cannot decide. " i have no good news to offer, " she speaks only at the sound of footsteps, insistent and echoing off of the red keep's stone walls and out into the courtyard below, the open windows carrying in a breeze that she might have found comforting, under normal circumstances. " we must wait. "

he  makes  his  way  through  the  keep,  wracking  his  brain  for  what  he  might  be  able  to  do  to  assist.  that  is  when  he  stumbles  upon  her  –  mela  redwyne.  gods,  it  has  been  some  time  since  he  had  last  seen  her.  many  years  yet,  too  many  in  fact.

the  sight  of  her  tugs  at  his  heart.

“mela,”  he  speaks  her  name  plainly,  no  trace  of  formality  in  his  tone.  “do  you  think  they  will  recover?”

The day was bursting overhead, a scorching sun baking the crimson city. Within the walls of Maegor's great fortress, Balon wandered, hands clasped behind his back. It was a relief to find himself in the shade, following his all-too brief venture to the decidedly disappointing godswood.

An oak is no weirwood, he thought. It was a useless thought. The godswood was what it was, and no oak could replace the mystic tree, even if it did bear a carved face. The place was no godswood, not really: it was but a garden, and pleasant enough. Soothing breezes washed over the spot from its overlook upon the Blackwater. It was small enough, growing dragon's breath, with smokeberry tumbling through the high branches, yet crammed with chestnuts and elms, alder and black cottonwood encircling the oaken statue. It was the fashion in the Reach, he'd been informed, something about the ancient Oakenseat of the Gardener kings. Balon knew little of the Reach.

For all that the so-called godswood was very pretty, he hadn't been disappointed to cut the visit short after offering a few whispered prayers for the wellbeing of his niece. Whatever their position, she was his blood, still. The blazing sun, however, had other ideas as to how one might best spend the day, and the truth was there were no gods in that wood. No, it had been a relief to escape into the shade of the edifice, sure enough.

And, it seemed, the gods were pleased enough. No sooner did he come inside, then he spied Elissa Westerling in the corridor. "My liege," greeted Balon, eagerly. "How do you fare? These are troubled times, I fear..."

with  some  of  her  own  family  sick,  she  had  to  wonder,  of  course.

she  wanders  about  the  keep,  trying  to  make  herself  useful  in  some  way.  there  had  to  be  something  she  could  do  in  all  this  chaos,  right?  just  as  she's  about  to  make  her  way  out  into  the  garden  to  hopefully  clear  her  head,  she  is  stopped  by  a  familiar  face. 

“lord  strong,”  elissa  bows  her  head  respectfully.  “i  am  well,  thank  the  gods.  and  you?  are  any  of  your  house  among  the  sick?  please  accept  my  condolences  if  so,  and  i  do  hope  they  recover…”

                                    after  returning  to  westeros,  addam's  plan  was  to  delay  his  arrival  by  at  least  a  fortnight.  lay  low  before  the  kingsmoot  as  all  the  nobles  rejoiced  and  reunited,  and  then  slip  inside  to  join  the  hand's  retinue  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  most  of  them  would  not  be  aware  of  anything.  and  those  who  would,  his  aunt,  his  siblings,  the  lannisters  would  be  otherwise  preoccupied.  for  over  seven  days  he  stayed  at  a  tavern  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  not  his  mother's;  never  his  mother's.  he  had  never  stepped  a  foot  over  that  threshold  ever  since  his  father's  guards,  dressed  in  fine  cloaks  displaying  shells.  plenty  a  decade  had  passed  but  addam  still  recorded  noticing  how  he  had  never  seen  clean  shells  before,  for  their  cream  color  to  be  immortalized  as  an  westerling  crest.  therefore,  not  in  his  mother's  tavern,  but  a  more  respectable  one,  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  city.  alas,  circumstances  had  changed.  at  first  he  did  not  believe,  taking  the  story  to  be  a  mere  fisherman's  tale,  they  were  prone  to  delusions  and  mirages,  it  was  known.  but  then  his  father's  letter  arrived,  not  dictated  by  a  maester,  but  with  urgent  fervor,  and  he  could  not  delay  his  entrance  to  the  red  keep  no  more.

                                    as  he  arrived  ahorse  late  in  the  morning,  he  smirked  at  the  astonished  eyes  of  the  guards  and  servants  that  crossed  his  way.  they  recognized  him  and  that  made  them  even  warier  of  his  coming  at  such  conturbed  times.  addam  stayed  at  the  courtyard,  where  his  father  informed  him  they  were  to  meet.  the  emptiness  was  unfamiliar.  no  sounds  of  knights  training,  noblemen  and  women  promenading,  nor  servants  scurrying  around.  it  was  slightly  unsettling  to  see  the  red  keep  so  silent,  it  was  hiding  its  daggers  away.  ❛❛ —  never  a  dull  moment  in  king's  landing,  for  sure.  —  ❞  he  drawled  once  he  noticed  steps  sounding  on  the  cobblestones,  derision  in  the  undertones  of  his  voice.  his  father's  letter  now  crumbles  in  the  pockets  of  his  doublet,  he  turned  to  the  person  to  satisfy  his  morbid  curiosity.  ❛❛ —  from  the  tales  they  are  spreading  at  the  harbour,  one  would  think  the  entire  keep  was  found  dead  at  the  hour  of  the  wolf,  and  krakens  reigned  over  us.  you  seem  well,  my  liege.  —  ❞ he stated, unimpressed.

when  she  receives  word  that  her  nephew  has  come  to  finally  show  face,  she  sighs.  it  does  not  surprise  her  that  he  comes  now.  he  arrives  like  some  bad  omen.

elissa  makes  her  way  into  the  courtyard  to  receive  him.  not  only  this,  but  gods,  does  she  need  some  fresh  air.  the  keep,  filled  with  so  many  still  ill,  has  become  stuffy  and  suffocating.  lifting  her  skirts,  she  descends  the  stairs  just  as  the  gates  are  opening  for  his  arrival.  elissa  scowls  at  the  sight  of  him.

she  is  quick  to  wipe  the  expression  from  her  features,  though.

“luckily,  i  am.  many  others  were  not  so  fortunate.”  her  tone  is  solemn,  and  serious.  unlike  his.  “and  how  have  you  fared,  nephew?  i  trust  your…  travels  were  pleasant.”

with  the  backing  of  the  dragons,  he  easily  could  be.

“that  sounds  like  quite  the  deal,”  he  chuckles  slightly,  nodding  his  head.  “but  it  is  smart,  for  us  to  remain  as  close  allies.  i  think  this  is  the  beginning  of  something  beautiful,  princess.”

he  is  honestly  shocked  to  hear  that  his  father  had  been  surprised  by  the  proposal.  considering  their  houses  closeness,  it  shouldn't  be  all  that  shocking  that  the  dragons  would  propose  some  kind  of  alliance. 

“i  would  never  do  such  a  thing,”  he  even  laughs  at  the  idea  of  it.  “i  think  maekara  and  i  will  make  quite  the  team.”

he  takes  the  goblet  and  holds  it  upwards,  to  clink  against  her  own,  before  bringing  it  back  down  to  his  lips.  he  sips  on  it,  smirking  around  the  rim.  “i  am  honored,  princess,  truly…  i  look  forward  to  raising  the  matter  with  maekara  herself,  as  well.”

these  things  would  never  stay  so  easy,  but  they  could  be  relished  in  for  now.  it  feels  no  longer  as  nerve-wracking  to  face  down  the  rest  of  the  feast,  and  whatever  it  might  be  that  it  has  to  offer.  delfina  can  picture  them  at  each  other's  side,  with  those  same  expressions  and  duress  of  how  the  world  around  them  falls,  and  cedric  would  not  force  duties,  so  she  believes.  the  moves  would  stay  on  the  side  of  calculated,  instead  of  impulsive  —  at  least,  she  would  continue  to  hope  that.  “  to  the  beginning  of  something  beautiful, ”  she  echoes.  goblet  in  an  own  lift,  then  sipping  afterwards.  the  ambitious  gleam  in  his  eye  stirs  the  same  in  hers,  and  it  is  this  common  ground  that  helped  there  be  an  agreement  in  the  first  place.  “  i've  no  doubt  she'll  take  the  first  chance  to  get  away  from  it  all.  ”  with  you  resounds  as  the  implication. “ for  now,  i  must  make  friendly  with  the  ironborn…  even  if  it  won't  improve  any  of  their  moods  nor  thirsts,  yes? ”  she  sets  the  goblet  down  upon  the  empty  tray  for  such  drinks  as  it  passes  by  them.  “  these  things  are  so  entirely  superficial.  but  i  look  forward  to  seeing  you  with  our  meaningful  arrangement.  ”  even  giving  a  slight,  downward  nod  of  her  head,  which  for  any  of  the  targaryens  and  their  pride,  might  as  well  be  full  -  on  bending  the  knee.  and  for  the  time  being,  when  she  greets  others  throughout  the  night,  her  smile  is  genuine.

grief was a noose, tightening against your neck with every step you took through the keep, threatening to snap if you dared slip into the void. no mercy was shown to the weak, they said, so you kept your feet steady. the kingsmoot had ground to a halt, of course, and suspicion was rotting every corner of the court. and somewhere in the middle of it all, lord cerion lannister was dead. your chest felt tight just thinking about it. you had spent two weeks in a state of pure terror, watching the sickness run through the halls, your mother and sister losing their strength to the fever. the ravens from oldtown had never come. you had been out of your mind with rage and desperation until lord hightower finally arrived with his maesters and the antidote, naming the pestilence for what it was: poison. but it was funny how long he had taken to share it. long enough for the seat of master of laws to fall empty, just waiting for his claws to dig in. house targaryen was safe for now, the shadow had passed, but relief would not come. you just kept thinking of cedric, his father murdered for a piece of leverage. you remembered lady harlaw's warning at the feast: if a brother could fight a brother for the seastone seat, the great houses would not hesitate to spill blood for the iron one. the floodgates were open, she had said, and time would tell who sank or swam. she had been right, and that realization hardened your stride. you knew where he was. you knew the corners a person looked for when nothing else offered solace. it took very little effort to find him.

for a moment you didn't move. you knew your heart was a heavy weight, but you imagined his felt worse. your eyes fell on him and saw only the squires you used to be, messing around with blunted swords when your families visited each other, and the camaraderie you shared. your mother and his father had a bond that outlived a lot of strife, and you carried that same loyalty into the lists, never begrudging him a victory if you fell short. those days were sweet; the present was bitter. you stepped across the stones and wrapped your arms around him before he could put up his guard. one hand locked behind his neck, fingers sinking into his hair, holding his head against your shoulder as if you could barricade him against this cruelty. you held him steady. "i'm here," you breathed out, simple and fixed. your hand moved once through his hair. "you do not have to say anything." there were no words in any tongue that could patch over what had been done. your hold tightened. "fuck the hightowers. fuck the redwynes. the westerlings. fuck them all. we will make them pay." you whisper just for his ears, as the two of you stand there in the maidenvault, letting the seconds pass. then, what comes out is barely an echo: "i am so sorry, cedric." the noose tightened. the void sang a song to lull you in; you listened.

he  is  the  shell  of  a  man  when  the  help  from  oldtown  finally  arrives,  much  too  late.  his  father  dies  and  the  greedy  lord  hightower  is  quick  to  take  his  seat.  the  lord  lannister  has  half  a  mind  to  retrieve  his  blade  and  cut  the  man  down  then  and  there.  let  the  consequences  be  what  they  may,  he  does  not  care.

but  he  doesn't.

now  he  wanders  the  keep  like  a  ghost,  eyes  dull  and  lacking  signs  of  the  liveliness  that  he  had  always  been  known  for.  he  finds  himself  in  the  maidenvault,  honestly  unsure  of  how  he  even  got  there.  he  doesn't  even  notice  the  other  presence  in  the  room.

not  until  her  arms  are  wrapped  tight  around  him,  too  tight  for  him  to  break  free.  he  wants  to,  at  first.  he  wants  to  push  her  back  and  yell  and  scream  and  curse.  but  he  doesn't  and  before  he  knows  it,  there  are  tears  rushing  down  his  cheeks  as  he  nearly  crumbles  in  her  embrace.

“i…  i  should  have  killed  him.”  lord  hightower,  that  is.

cedric  had  plenty  —  his  laughter,  his  smile,  the  easiness  to  their  choreography.  his  eyes  were  the  perfect  shade  of  water.  the  kind  that  could  tempt  a  sailor  to  drown  in  its  depths.  in  her  cerulean  reflection,  vaiora  could  imagine  herself  as  one  of  the  countless  women  who  had  seen  themselves  mirrored  within  them.

because  how  could  it  not?

for  a  moment,  it  is  just  them  two,  and  everyone  else  has  faded  away.  he  nearly  forgets  the  game  they  play,  nearly  forgets  himself  and  makes  a  move  he  cannot  take  back.  lucky  enough,  he  has  enough  sense  to  remember  where  it  is  they  are.

“fine,  fine!”  he  chuckles.  “shall  we  dance  the  night  away,  then?”

lord alester was hardly a popular man, wildly thought incapable and short sighted. if there was anyone to consider, it would be the young woman before her. "i pray your father be in good health. it is never easy taking on responsibility of one's house and family. the crag is lucky to have your leadership."

“ah,  so  we  are  alike  in  that  way,  then,”  she  muses.  “it's  strange  to  think  that  any  one  of  these  houses  here  could  now  take  the  throne…  isn't  it?  though  maybe  not  for  you,  as  i  imagine  you  are  quite  used  to  a  kingsmoot  at  this  point  in  your  life,  lady  harlaw.”

with  the  backing  of  the  dragons,  he  easily  could  be.

“that  sounds  like  quite  the  deal,”  he  chuckles  slightly,  nodding  his  head.  “but  it  is  smart,  for  us  to  remain  as  close  allies.  i  think  this  is  the  beginning  of  something  beautiful,  princess.”

he  is  honestly  shocked  to  hear  that  his  father  had  been  surprised  by  the  proposal.  considering  their  houses  closeness,  it  shouldn't  be  all  that  shocking  that  the  dragons  would  propose  some  kind  of  alliance. 

“i  would  never  do  such  a  thing,”  he  even  laughs  at  the  idea  of  it.  “i  think  maekara  and  i  will  make  quite  the  team.”

he  takes  the  goblet  and  holds  it  upwards,  to  clink  against  her  own,  before  bringing  it  back  down  to  his  lips.  he  sips  on  it,  smirking  around  the  rim.  “i  am  honored,  princess,  truly…  i  look  forward  to  raising  the  matter  with  maekara  herself,  as  well.”