there is no righteous path.

it was not the kind of interest that came from anything rhys was himself, or anything he had done. elys couldn't really care less about house arryn, nor the vale. he cared not for the fact that rhys was a prince, nor the fact that of all the kingdoms in westeros, it was the vale that was held in the most contempt by the one he himself belonged to. that wasn't where his mind was in that moment.

it was on guinevere lannister.

their last conversation had left him disconcerted. for a man who usually was able to see beyond what it was that people said, and use that to figure out how to get what he wanted from them, she was a frustratingly blank canvas. it shouldn't trouble him, not really, and yet it did. but here was rhys arryn, and there was a chance, however slim, that he might possess something that could shine a light on that which he had, to this point, not been able to see.

he did not look up until rhys called out to the lord who had offered a thinly veiled insult, turning his head almost lazily to look. several around them laughed, but not elys. he didn't find it funny, nor did he think it made sense. what good was flight, he wondered, when prince rhys could barely walk? when the tittering had died down, he stepped forward, hands clasping behind his back. "you handled that well," he spoke with the ease of a practiced liar, without deception on his face. "the lords of the reach have grown bold in their own territory, it seems."

“you flatter me by calling it handling,” rhys went on as the other joined him, voice low enough to avoid becoming sport for nearby ears. “i’ve found that most insults wilt if you don’t water them. they expect anger, or wounded pride. sarcasm or deflection confuses them, it suggests you’ve already won.” he shifted slightly in his seat, the movement careful but practiced, posture still unmistakably that of someone raised to command spaces like this one, even if he was the spare.

He got the intention beneath the prince's words. Rather than meet the prince's sharp tongue with a sharper one, the Knight of Ninestars simply smiled. “Please. You know I have little talent for selflessness, your grace,” he said, his voice smooth, almost friendly. His expression turned more measured after a beat. “You are the queen's kin, and her grace places great value in your well-being. Naturally, my duty compels me to do the same”. A faint smile graced his lips then, not quite warm but not unkind either. “So I do value loyalty. Loyalty, and those who remember it, can be far more enduring than any rumor”.

Rumors are like smoke, they only choke you if you bother to breathe them in, the prince stated. Clever words. “You seem comfortable in letting them say what they will about you,” Percival mentioned, intrigued by the prince's stance. It was a fine line to walk; standing tall with confidence and remaining unbothered by the whispers of others, or crossing over to a dismissive sort of arrogance that blinded a man while his reputation shattered behind him. “It’s a rare stance”. He neither praised nor cautioned, simply noted. Observed. And perhaps, filed away.

he leaned against the edge of the balcony, letting the wind slip through his chestnut hair, the scent of pine and cold stone carried in the breeze. “perhaps it is foolish,” he admitted. “but i don’t much care to waste time trying to manage other people’s thoughts. that’s the kind of thing that drives a man mad, isn’t it?” he adjusted his stance, shifting his cane in hand, distracted for a moment by something slick beneath his heel.

his gaze dropped. there was a dark, viscous stain seeping toward his boot, crimson, unmistakable. a quiet curse escaped before he could swallow it, and his eyes lifted, trailing the source. half-hidden in a marble case, just barely visible between the columns: hair. and then, the shape of it. unmistakable.

soft smile spread across the river princess’ face at his teasing, her shoulders relaxing just slightly as she took the offered seat. it had been some time since she had seen the man last. so long it was hard to picture exactly who he was before but the man who was here now was certainly changed. maybe more confident even with the cane he carried. perhaps a determination. but to her he seemed to still have a way of putting others at ease unlike some others within the vale.

“well, i’ll do my best to ensure there's a touch more amusement this time. with my sister at the helm some of the more…aniquated things have changed from my father’s time.” she replied lightly, folding her hands in her lap. “though i can’t promise the gossip will disappear entirely. it’s as stubborn a guest as any.”

she tilted her head as she regarded him. “i’m glad you’ve come, truly. your presence means something to many here, and not just to the court.” her words were measured, but sincere. “we’re not the same realm we were a few years ago. the riverlands have changed. we’ve had to. and iona…” mel’s expression softened at the mention of her sister. “she wears the crown with more grace and strength than i think even she expected. there’s strength in her now that… well, i’m proud of her. more than i could ever say out loud.”

she paused for a moment, then added with a quiet laugh, “as for me—my place is a quieter one these days. i stay where i can be useful, but i’ve grown fond of the background. fewer eyes, i suppose. i dont mind it so much.”

mel's gaze flicked to his for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “but i am glad we’re speaking like this. you… you’ve been missed. even if some don’t dare say it.”

there was a spark of warmth in her expression as she leaned back slightly. “so, what has the vale’s falcon seen in his time away?”

he smiled, slow and genuine. not the grin he’d given when he’d first greeted her, but something truer. something quieter.

“i’ve always thought the riverlands suited you best when they weren’t watching,” he said, adjusting the grip on his cane before settling back into his chair. “you may be a princess, but it’s from the quiet places that you see most clearly. the background doesn't carry the crown, but it does carry the vantage, and that’s where the true power lingers, isn’t it?”

outside the window, laughter echoed faintly, the festival in full swing down the hillside, with lanterns bobbing like fireflies over the water, music drifting up to them in waves. night had settled in earnest now, and with it came the heady scent of riverflowers and roasted meats on the wind. it all felt heavier in the dark, the kind of night that remembered everything that came before it.

“your sister wears the crown well,” he said, voice lower now, thoughtful. “i’d be lying if i said i wasn’t surprised. but pleasantly so. the riverlands needed a queen with a spine, not a songbird. and from what i hear, she’s more steel than silk.” he looked back to mellara then, the warmth in her expression not lost on him. “you’re right. the realm isn’t what it was. nor are we. maybe that’s a good thing.”

he took a sip from the poured mug before him, savoring the flavors a moment before continuing. “ah, braavos…” he started, the word tasting strange and distant on his tongue. “it was a city that never slept, and yet somehow never seemed in a rush. the air always smelled of salt and forge-smoke. canals winding like veins through every district, the sound of water lapping against stone nearly constant. it was something out of a novel to truly see. no septa could describe it well enough."

ravella did not move as he spoke. not when the word “nothing” twisted out of his mouth like a curse, and not when his voice dipped low, like a serpent coiling in the dark. her gaze did not flicker. her fingers no longer trembled. they were still, clenched at her sides, white-knuckled with restraint. inside, the fury pressed against her ribs like something vast and caged, something with teeth. how dare he speak of duty as if it had not chewed her to the bone. how dare he speak of sacrifice when he had flinched at the first scent of fire.

she watched him with the hollow stillness of a woman who had learned to master storms. not just weather them, but command them. and yet her mouth was dry again, that same dryness that came not with fear but with rage, rage so deep it tasted of dust and ruin. “you gave what you had,” she echoed, and her voice was calm now—eerily so, smoothed into something elegant, emotionless, as if it had been honed down to its barest edges. “and what a pitiful sum that turned out to be.” there was not an ounce of care or hesitation in her words.

the arryns were moulded of marble and stone, and she cared not for his feelings or how her words may come back to haunt her. she hoped it would haunt him, late into the night; keep him awake and make him feel worthless if it meant he would finally become the man even their bastard brother was.

her voice dropped, the kind of softness that preceded slaughter. “you speak of martyrdom like it is cruelty. like i sentenced you. you were sentenced the moment you were born into this house. into this throne. we both were. the difference is, i did not flee when the noose tightened.” her breath hitched, but she did not pause; her eyes were alight with some venomous anger, and for a moment it may have appeared as though the entirety of her eyes went black. “i stayed. i endured. and now you dare to tell me you gave me something?” her fingers brushed the edge of her skirts as if to ground herself, and still she did not look away from him.

“you gave me the silence of a brother too craven to stand beside me. and now you come crawling back, cloaked in tiredness and bitterness and some illusion that you were kind enough to bestow power upon me like it was a blessing.” her hand rose, palm open, trembling not with weakness but with wrath - as though she wished to strike him. and strike him she would have, but some empty gnawing hole in her stomach seemed to distract her and suddenly her hand froze in the air. it would not hurt him.

"you have always been a boy. no matter how many worthy men surround you, you remain a pathetic, crippled boy."

“you gave me nothing, rhys. nothing. what i have, i took. i took it from the ashes you left behind. from the ruin. and i built a throne from it. a kingdom.” she turned from him briefly, pacing, fingers curling at her sides again. “i am not your keeper. i am your queen. and you will tread carefully, rhys. carefully.” her tone chilled further, voice sharpened like a dagger unsheathed. “if i ever hear your name on lannister lips again—if i catch wind of even the ghost of your presence at their side without my knowledge, i swear to you, brother, i will not forget it. and i will not forgive it.” there was no mercy in her now. not even the shadow of it. “i have suffered you long enough.” she stepped forward one last time, near enough that he might feel the heat of her breath.

rhys stood there, still as a man carved from the same stone that caged them in. the cold from the flagstones beneath his boots climbed up through his bones, brittle and biting. he felt it settle deep inside him, the way cold finds a grave and stays.

his jaw clenched until something inside him cracked. not loud enough to echo in the hollow chamber, but loud enough to split him apart. behind him, the old banners hung limp, weighed down by dust and years and the memory of victories that meant nothing now. one drooped low enough that it brushed the floor, the sigil smeared and unrecognizable in the dark.

he let her see the ruin of him. the fine tremor threading through his fingers, the fire burning, unshed, in his eyes. he didn’t flinch from her gaze. he didn’t hide. "you think i don't know," he said, voice rough like splintered wood, "what i should have done." he was almost talking to himself more than her, now. convincing himself that his previous belief was truth, in reality he knew the truth all along.

the cold bit deeper. his fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms until he felt the sharp sting of blood. "you think i don't know that i should've died with the crown still in my hands." the torch nearest to him hissed as the draft from the broken windows stirred it. the faint sound of it filled the aching spaces between his words.

"you think i don't feel it burn in my blood every night that i didn't."

he stepped closer, the weight of the room dragging at his every movement. the maps crinkled slightly under the shift of air, as if the very history they'd fought for recoiled from him now. "you think i don't see it when i look at you." his voice broke, a sharp and splintered thing. "how you took the ruin i left and made something terrible and brilliant out of it."

he shook his head once, slow, almost dazed, as if the truth of it still staggered him. "you became what they needed. what i could never be." his hand twitched, but he did not reach for her. he couldn't. he wouldn't dare to mar what she'd become with the wreck of what he was.

"i gave you nothing but ashes. and you built a kingdom." he closed his eyes for a heartbeat, steadying himself against the weight of it all, before forcing himself to meet her gaze again, hollowed out and burning still, a dying star refusing to fall.

"you don't need me." a pause. the wind wailed through the broken windows, and the torches shuddered low, casting them both in deeper shadow. he swallowed, rough and dry, before saying the only truth he had left. "but i need you."

the words dropped like a blade driven into the heart of the world. he didn't bow. he didn’t beg. he just stood there, proud in his ruin, broken in his honesty.

"i understand."

ravella stared at him, her fingers trembling at her sides, the pulse at her throat fluttering like a caged bird. she should laugh—should let out some sharp, cruel sound, let it fill the chamber and ring between the stone walls—but her mouth was dry. a leader. he had the gall to say it as though it were a gift, as though it had been handed to her in some neat, gilded package rather than thrust upon her with bloody hands, with nooses tightening around throats, with whispers seeping through the cracks in the court like damp rot. her lips curled into something that was not quite a smile.

"is that what you tell yourself, rhys? that you made me a leader?"

her voice was soft, deceptively gentle, as though she were speaking to a child who had not yet learned that fire would burn - because from time to time, that is how she did view her little brother. as a child that still had not learned the way fire burned, or how to put it out once it spread; she had never imagined herself as the fire though. "you stepped aside because it was what the kingdom needed... i almost envy the way you have made yourself believe such lies." she moved then, slow, measured, as though every step were taken with care, but there was something coiled beneath her skin, something stretched too thin, too tight. "what choice did i have, little brother?" she breathed, stopping just before him, tilting her head.

"what was i meant to do when you fell apart before my very eyes, when you ran—because that is what you did, rhys, you ran, you fled like a frightened child—and left it all to me?" her eyes burned, not with tears, never with tears, but with something sharper, something deeper. an anger which she had kept buried for years now; something personal, something which had not been at the surface for many a moon. it was rare she spoke about how she felt about anything - because it was rare she felt anyway, about anything anymore.

"did you think i wanted it?" her hand twitched, fingers flexing as though she might reach for him, grip his chin and force him to meet her gaze. "i lived as i pleased, did i not? played the part of the older sister, content in my own world, content to let others rule. but what did you leave me, rhys?" her breath shuddered, and she did not care to hide it. "a kingdom teetering on the edge, with your name still whispered in the dark, with your shadow still cast over my throne." she stepped away, because if she did not, she thought she might strike him, might curl her fingers into his collar and shake him until something in him cracked.

"you say they would have looked to you not because you were the right choice but because you were the easy one," she said, voice colder now, something smooth and sharp as polished steel. "but you were the right choice. the only choice. the crown should have broken you, because that is what a king does, rhys. that is duty. that is the cost." she turned her head sharply, dark curls falling over her shoulder, wild and unkempt, as she let out a breath, slow and shaking.

"you should have died on that throne before letting it slip through your fingers."

her jaw clenched, breath quickening. "instead you might wander freely, so that you might make peace with my enemies, so that you might let guinevere lannister whisper into your ear while i sit on my throne and watch you chip away at it with your very presence." her laughter was breathless, humourless, scraping against the silence of the chamber. "they will remember, rhys. they will look to you, they will whisper of the rightful king, and it will not matter that you do not want it, that you made your peace." she turned to face him once more, and for the first time, she let him see it. the raw, seething thing in her, the fury that she had swallowed down for years, for as long as she had ruled in his stead. "i am the sole ruler of this kingdom," she said, each word slow, deliberate, a blade sliding between ribs. "and yet i will never be. not so long as you live." she exhaled sharply, shaking her head, the movement sharp, violent.

but then, then she said it.

"you gave nothing. at all."

his breath left him in a slow, measured exhale, though something in his jaw tightened, his fingers twitching at his sides before stilling once more. when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. dangerously so. “nothing?” he let the word hang between them, tasting the weight of it, the finality of it.

a slow blink. a tilt of his head, as if considering her, truly seeing her. then, he huffed a breath of something that might have been laughter, though there was nothing amused about it.

he took a single step forward, slow and deliberate. “you speak of duty as though you are the only one who bears it. you speak of sacrifice as though you are the only one who has bled for this throne.” his gaze was sharp, unyielding, pinning her in place. “but tell me, ravella, when did you decide that i was meant to be your martyr?”

his hands curled into fists at his sides, his voice dipping lower, rougher, but never rising. never breaking. “when did you decide that my only worth was to be crushed beneath the weight of a crown that would have torn me apart?”

his throat bobbed, and for the first time, something tired flickered in his gaze. something worn. “so do not speak to me of what i gave.” a pause. a breath. “i gave what i had,” he murmured, jaw clenching. “and the rest?” something bitter curled at the corner of his mouth, though there was no amusement to be found. “you didn’t take it, ravella. i gave that to you too.”

the chamber felt smaller, suffocating, pressing in around them with the weight of all that was unspoken. his fingers twitched, resisting the urge to reach for her, to grip her wrist, her chin—anything to make her see.

but instead, he exhaled, slow and measured, his voice quieter now. “and i will keep giving.” his shoulders tensed.

“but tell me, sister.” his head tilted slightly, voice smooth as glass, brittle as ice. “what would you have of me now?”

his eyes searched hers, unreadable but burning. “what more is left for me to give? would you have me kneel? would you have me break?” his breath left him, slow and quiet. “would you have me dead, ravella? if it meant you could finally rule without my shadow at your back, if it meant you could have your peace, would you demand that of me too?”

he was close now, close enough to see the flicker of candlelight catch in her dark eyes, close enough to watch for the answer in her face before she even spoke it.

Descendants of the great Sealord Uthero Zalyne, the ten day festival of the Uncloaking of Uthero being celebrated on the island in the city that belonged entirely to the family. Maris, Nestorys, Prestyn, Otherys, Antaryon, Zalyne and more - they were all wealthy families in Braavos. Keyholders.

What differentiated the House of Zalyne from them all, was their raw ambition. And they were shameless with it. Boasting with their extensive trading alliances throughout Essos and Westeros, the green and gold ships carrying their insignia no stranger to most ports. They had an ancestor deeply interwoven with the history of Braavos and its status as the Secret City, they had their ships and most of all, they had charm.

And for some, this was starting to become problematic.

That was how Rhaegar found himself, in a face and body different from his own, sitting next to the Lady and heir of House Zalyne, listening to her regale the crowd, that seemed constant around her, with stories. True or not, they were entertaining, and whether it be man or woman, they all clung onto every word that fell from her lips. She was captivating. She was dangerous.

Lady Aelyn Zalyne was marked for death because of it.

Rhaegar did not kill her right away. He had grown fond of her stories, despite himself. Spent time with her, listened, and - unbeknownst to the Lady - learned.

He had taken care to make her murder beautiful. Captivating. Dangerous. It was a shame no one would ever see the mastery of it. Rhaegar took her face and then began to fabricate a story. Aelyn did not want to be heir of anything. She wanted to sail away and see the world, dock in different cities and live her life like it was meant to be lived. To the very fullest, without an expense or experience spared. The plan had been to have the walking enigma of a Lady disappear from Braavosi ground forever, remaining only as a myth amongst the people. But Rhaegar found secret joy in continuing to spin her life story. He appeared wearing her face now and again, shrouding Aelyn Zalyne in a cloak of mystery that made her even more fascinating than before.

As fate would have it, hers had been one of the faces Rhaegar had taken with him to Westeros.

"seems i do," he admitted, settling himself into the seat she offered, his movements slow, measured, as though he were testing the weight of the moment. he kept his cane within reach, fingers brushing idly along the worn wood.

his gaze never left hers.

"wine," he echoed, tipping his head slightly. "not often i drink with ghosts." a jest, but the words left a strange taste in his mouth.

he had thought of her often since braavos. more often than he should have. there had always been something about her, something he couldn’t quite name. it wasn't just her beauty, though that was undeniable. it was the way she held herself, the way people leaned in when she spoke, the way she moved through the world like it owed her something, and it was only a matter of time before it surrendered.

he took the goblet, watching her as he lifted it to his lips.

"but braavos is far from here," he mused, his tone easy but his gaze sharp. "and i can’t imagine a woman like you came all this way without reason."

he let the words linger between them, studying her for a reaction.

ravella let out a brittle laugh, sharp and hollow as shattered glass as it bordered on hysterical. "peace?" she echoed, the word twisted into something obscene on her tongue; paired with the image of her long unkept black curls, and the bags beneath her eyes from a lack of sleep, she only needed to look in the mirror to realise herself on a path of madness. "oh, rhys, you truly are the soft-hearted fool they always whispered you were. peace." she spat the word onto the floor as though it had poisoned her mouth.

"guinevere lannister does not want peace. she wants influence. she wants her claws dug into every crevice of power she can reach. she wants you, rhys. not in the way fools like you think about your whores—but in the way that matters. she wants your mind. and you are giving it to her, wrapped in silk and tied with a pretty bow." she almost wished to shake him, for she remembered. remembered the way the two would look at one another, come to a silent truce. by the end of it, he no longer merely stomached her.

she turned sharply, hands pressed flat against the table as she steadied herself, the flickering candlelight throwing her gaunt features into sharper relief. her nails dug into the wood. "tell me," she said, voice suddenly lilting, almost light, though her knuckles had turned bone-white. "did she look at you with those wide, sorrowful eyes? did she sigh, did she lower her lashes, did she murmur of poor, sweet maddalena, gone too soon?" her head jerked up, her gaze snapping to him, and there was something unhinged in her eyes now, something broken at the edges. "did she tell you i did it?" her voice dropped to a whisper, and she was moving towards him now, slow, deliberate, circling like a hawk with its prey caught in the open.

"did she tell you that i killed the bastard's daughter?" her breath trembled with rage, with something deeper—something twisting in her gut like rot.

"because that is what she wants, rhys. for you to doubt me. for you to flinch when i look at you. for you to think—just for a moment—that i could have done something so vile." she stopped in front of him, tilting her head, searching his face with an intensity that burned. "but you know better, don’t you?" her voice wavered at the end, a crack in the ice, and she hated it. she swallowed it down and straightened, smoothing invisible wrinkles from the silk of her gown. "it does not matter," she decided abruptly, as if she could will it to be so. "what matters is that you will not leave. not until i say so. not until i am done with you." her fingers curled around his wrist, deceptively gentle, but her grip was iron.

"i did not give you leave, little brother. you are not free to wander off to your lioness and her pretty words whenever you please." she released him just as quickly, stepping back as if the touch disgusted her. perhaps because in this moment, he did disgust her - despite everything, he was still the better option. perhaps they would crown him king, and if he could not reproduce, he would crown her children his heirs. but she wanted it, she needed the crown; she would kill for it.

"rowan was weak. rosalyn was an idiot. but you..." her voice softened, almost fond, before it morphed.

his voice was steady, though there was something raw beneath it, something he would not name. "because i knew what would happen if i stayed. they would have looked to me, not because i was the right choice, but because i was the easier one. and what would i have been? a man dragged from his cups, patched together with more stubbornness than sense, paraded about until they found some more suitable puppet to take my place. that is not ruling, and you know it."

he exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. "but you—" his gaze flickered over her, the tight coil of her shoulders, the way her hands trembled even as they clenched into fists. "i gave it to you because you were the only one strong enough to take it and keep it."

her grip on his wrist took him by surprise, brown hues looking down to her grasp, before she released it. "perhaps," he began again, looking back into icy orbs that did not seem to truly be there in the moment. "that’s the trick of it. let them see a man barely standing, leaning on a crutch, and they’ll assume my mind is just as feeble as my body. let them believe i am broken." his gaze sharpened. "but i am not. and you know it."

rhys' expression hardened, and for a moment, something sharper cut through the exhaustion in his eyes. "but tell me, 'ella, what has become of you? because you stand before me now, speaking of phantoms and poison and seeing treachery in every shadow. do you hear yourself?" his voice did not rise, but there was an edge to it now, something bordering on anger, not at her, not truly, but at whatever had twisted her into this. "if i were weaker than rowan, i would not have endured as i have. if i were weaker, i would have succumbed to whatever illness took my good limb and made it a burden. if i were weaker, i would have died."

his grip tightened on his cane, knuckles paling, but his voice remained even. "and i did not die. i came back, despite everything, despite myself, despite knowing full well what kind of viper’s den i was stepping into. because this is my home. and you," his throat worked around the words, the rare admission he rarely allowed himself. "you are my sister. we are not enemies."

the bonfire crackled, spitting embers into the night sky. on the air, the scent of woodsmoke and roasted apples lingered, and fiadh sat on an upturned log, bottle of mead in her hand. they had been trading stories, and it was her turn, a chuckle escaping her and a flush that had nothing to do with the heat creeping over her cheeks.

"...and because i was looking up at the hawk, i wasn't paying attention to my horse," she continued, her tone animated, free hand gesturing as she spoke. "so i'm there all tangled up, upside down in a blackberry bush, and everyone's looking at me. my brother had to come and yank me out by my ankles, because the more i tried to get free, the worse it was. had so many scratches on me, i looked like i'd been to battle." she was clearly over the trauma, laughter bubbling up at the memory.

she held the bottle out to prince rhys, who she had somehow found herself sitting beside. at the end of her story, the crowd had started to disperse, leaving the two of them sitting alone. "i'd say it was your turn, but i think the games over," she pointed out. "you've been spared a bit of embarrassment tonight."

“well, i was going to regale you with a harrowing tale of my time in braavos, one involving a dubious healer, a bet placed at my expense, and an unfortunate encounter with a particularly vindictive swan, but i fear i simply cannot compete with the sheer tragedy of you being bested by a blackberry bush.”

he took another swig of mead, shaking his head solemnly. “it’s a cruel thing, really. here i thought my grand adventures would impress, but no, the true hardship, the real battle, was fought in the thorny embrace of an unassuming shrub.”

rhys tapped his cane lightly against the ground, as if for emphasis. “you’ve humbled me, my lady. i came seeking glory, and instead, i leave knowing that even with a limp and a cautionary tale of braavosi quackery, i have still not suffered as you have.”

he gave her a mock bow from where he sat, all wounded dignity and mischief. “truly, my heart weeps for you.”

rhys held his solemn expression for a moment longer, letting the weight of his mock lament settle between them. then, at last, a slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, his façade cracking like embers breaking apart in the fire.

“so tell me,” he said, turning to her with an amused glint in his eye, “how old were you when this great tragedy befell you? a child, i’d hope? perhaps a gangly girl still growing into her limbs?”

ravella arryn stood in the dim glow of her brother's chamber, her porcelain nightgown whispering against the cold stone floor as she moved, a figure that almost glided over the stone floor rather than made her growing spiral ever more obvious. the candlelight caught the sharp angles of her face—the hollow curve of her cheekbones that were thinning too quickly for a woman meant to be with child, the slight tremor in her jaw—but it was the wild flicker in her eyes that commanded the room. they were too wide, too bright, as though her mind were alight with something neither of them could see.

she turned away from him sharply, her fingers rising to press against her flat stomach as though she could will something to life beneath her skin. "it won’t matter soon," she said, more to herself than to him. "the rightful heir will be born, and your bastard nephew you care so much for will be nothing. less than nothing." the words were fierce, but there was a crack in them—a desperation that slipped through the seams of her cold façade. "you know i have not bled," she whispered, her voice trembling now. "everyone knows. they whisper about it when they think i can't hear. they watch me at court, waiting to see if my hand drifts to my belly. i need this, rhys." her nails dug into the thin fabric of her gown. "and the stress you are giving me, is not helping."

"don’t look at me like that," she said softly, her voice thin as a thread, but sharp enough to draw blood. how they usually spoke with one another, as though the walls had ears but deaf to the ears of their kin; the last ones standing. "like you think you know what i'm about to say before i've said it. you’ve already decided i have been inflicted with some disease of madness for standing here, for asking you what i have every right to ask." her lips pressed together, her hand trembling slightly before she balled it into a fist against her thigh. "you spoke to her. you spoke to guinevere lannister, without telling me."

the name felt like poison on her tongue, each syllable coiling tightly around her throat. not once had her brother actually denied anything, and yet in the spiral ling of the darkness, she found herself resisting the urge to grab onto him and shake him, as though he were still a babe. "don’t pretend you didn't, rhys. i felt it when you returned to the hall. the way you looked at me—i see it now too." she stepped closer, the hem of her gown dragging behind her like a shadow, lowering her gaze by dropping her knees ever so slightly, to stare him in the face. to try get some reaction, to try and hear what it was she wanted to hear from him. and her next words were shaped in the form of a demand; what was it she had siad?

"what did she tell you? what words did she slip into your ear while you stood there like a loyal fool, drinking in her lies?" she whirled back to him, the movement sudden and fierce, like a blade being drawn. "you will tell me what guinevere said. you will tell me, rhys. because if you don't, if you let her spin her lies unchecked, you are no better than she is. and i will not have a traitor for a brother."

"ella," he murmured again, softer this time, as if saying her name might pull her back from whatever frenzied edge she was teetering on. but he knew better. she would not be swayed by tenderness. not now. not when she felt the world closing in around her.

he pushed off the edge of his bed, moving slowly, deliberately, as though any sudden motion might shatter what little remained of her composure. "guinevere lannister didn’t spin me any lies," he said, his voice measured, careful. "she only spoke of peace. that’s all she wanted, all she ever wanted." his lips twisted into something resembling a smirk, though it lacked any true amusement. "hardly the words of a cunning viper, wouldn’t you say?"

the words tasted odd in his mouth, as if saying them aloud made them true. but the doubt had been planted, and it gnawed at him, refusing to be ignored. still, he said nothing of it.

he stepped closer, his voice taking on an edge of urgency. "you think i don’t see the game being played? that i would let her plant doubts in my mind, twist my loyalty? my loyalty is to you. it has always been to you. but you are making enemies of phantoms while the real threats move unseen."

his words hung between them, the weight of them pressing into the silence. he could feel the fight in her, the way she clung to her fears like armor, unwilling to loosen her grip. he understood it. seven hells, he even admired it. but it was a dangerous thing, to fight ghosts while standing on the edge of a battlefield.

he sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "you're right about one thing, though. the falcon throne is yours. but you will drive yourself mad if you see treachery in every shadow. if you keep grasping at ghosts, you will turn them real."

for a long moment, he studied her, waiting for some sign that his words had landed, that he had reached whatever part of her still listened to reason. and then, because the weight of the night had become unbearable, because tension this thick could only be broken by something absurd, he let out a sharp, tired exhale and smirked.

she thought of her father and his schemes, the struggle for power wherever he could find it. even in dark places where no one else wanted it. even if it cost him a daughter living across the sea. “my father is a smart man, he is usually good at balancing the cost and the gain. although, as you can see, sometimes he miscalculates.” he had bet on garland and the hightowers, and the price paid had turned out to be steep. zia was finally pulled from her philosophical pondering by the sound of his voice softening. she sent him a genuine smile as he looked back at her. “it would seem that we are. perhaps we should make a competition of it, and see who finds their place in the world first.” she chuckled humourlessly, they both knew it would never be that easy. even if they found a place, it would be a long time before they could consider it the right one. but there was something liberating about being able to joke about it with someone who understood how it felt.

she studied him while his gaze remained on her, she was reminded of the performances in braavos, those of stories of princes from faraway lands and the courtesans they somehow always fell for. zia wondered if that had been part of the appeal of braavos for him. “with the kindness your people have shown me, i'll play whatever tune you wish to hear.” her words had a double meaning. she rose from her seat to move her body as she stepped closer to him, standing beside him and looking out over the mountains. her left foot had fallen asleep as she had rested the other's weight on it. the thought of the future made her restless as well. “i am no seer, my prince, my only plan is to go where opportunities are.” some of it depended on how the situation with rosaria developed. zialla still had a hope that the reach would allow her daughter to keep her title as heir and grow up with her mother. but to have even a chance of that, she had to find someone who could accept her past, someone with a keep. ideally someone trusted by either king cedric or gael. “i would not mind a future in this kingdom though. i feel quite comfortable here.” she had found a lot of respect among the valemen, and she found that the closeness to home did ease her heart. she could be back in braavos within days if need be. zia turned her head to look at him, her dark eyes meeting the blue of his. she felt a little more alive now, the air of the mountains filling her lungs.

“your father is a smart man,” rhys conceded, tilting his head, “but even the sharpest minds dull when wielded too often for the wrong purposes.” his tone was dry, but there was a flicker of something else beneath it—something knowing. “he must’ve thought the odds were in his favor. and yet, here you are.”

his gaze drifted past her, to where the mountains swallowed the horizon. the world was vast, shifting, ever-changing—yet people like them seemed to linger in the in-between, waiting to see where they would land. her joke about making a competition of it earned a smirk from him, wry and fleeting. “i’d like to say i enjoy winning,” he said, “but I’m not sure this is a game either of us would celebrate coming first in.”

when she moved closer, the warmth of her presence cut through the cool mountain air. she was comfortable here, she said. that was something, at least. rhys had never found comfort in permanence—it was a foreign concept to him, something distant, as unattainable as a star. but for all her talk of opportunity, of futures uncertain, there was an ease to the way she spoke of the vale. perhaps she was looking for a place to belong as much as he was.

rhys studied her with something close to admiration, the kind reserved for those who understood how the world truly worked. too many people wandered through life with their heads in the clouds, dreaming of futures that would never come to pass, blind to the opportunities right in front of them. but zia—she was not one of them. she saw the board for what it was, moved where the path was open, and did not waste time wishing for what could never be.

“a sensible way to live,” he remarked, gaze flicking over her as she moved closer. “there’s no use longing for what you cannot have when there’s always something else just within reach.” his voice held an edge of approval, though he doubted she needed it. a woman like her already knew her own worth.

his lips quirked slightly as he considered her. “you play, then? and do you sing, too? or is that another art you’ve left to the blind?” his tone was dry, but there was a teasing glint in his eye. “i’d ask you to play something now, but i suppose i can settle for a song instead. one now, the other later.”

he shifted to stand properly, only for pain to lance through his leg, sharp and unwelcome. he faltered, just for a moment, before catching himself, irritation flickering across his face. a lesser man might’ve cursed, but rhys simply exhaled through his nose, steadying himself as if nothing had happened.

his gaze returned to her, expectant. “go on, then,” he said, as if she had already agreed. “sing.”

the princess turned slowly, her gaze still distant, but her attention now firmly fixed on him. the soft rustle of her silken gown filled the silence between his words, an echo of the void that had grown between them. her emerald eyes, usually so enigmatic, seemed dulled by the weight of his accusations. “maddalena,” she uttered, her voice as delicate as the sea breeze filtering through the open window. “what became of my husband's first daughter, rhys? a princess of the vale, her skull shattered amidst a field of bluebells. who held her hand as she slipped away? who wept for her in the halls of the eyrie?” her questions hung in the air, not accusations but quiet laments. as though she were screaming to point toward the signs.

“how does a princess disappear, only to be found broken, forgotten by those who should have cherished her?” her voice seemed to echo through the halls of the golden hallway, as though it were a voice from the heavens; the boom of truth, the fear of it. the ugliness of it. it were enough to make them both tremble under the weight of what had become of their great tale.

she shifted slightly, the pale light casting her features in an almost ethereal glow, yet there was nothing ethereal about the sorrow etched into her expression. “what truths does the vale court guard so fiercely that children vanish, their lives reduced to whispers on the wind?” her tone sounded slightly harsher now, as though she were all too aware of what would have happened should she have remained with jasper in the halls of the eyrie. if jasper alone, had remained within the halls of the eyrie. she wished to shake him, to tell him to wake up; to tell him that any issue of his own someday would not be safe either.

guinevere’s gaze did not waver, though her voice softened, almost tender in its intensity. “rowan was not the only one to weave tales, to construct facades that crumbled under the weight of reality. you know that.” her words were measured, deliberate, as though each syllable carried the burden of their shared history. if she could, she would blink and go back to tense mornings where they broke fast over a shared table, following attending mass in the great sept of the eyrie. where his looks at her were clouded in suspicion rather than such bitterness.

he asked what it was she wanted from him, and in his eyes, she saw a man grappling with his place in a world that no longer felt like his own. she wondered if this was the fate awaiting her son—the curse of the kings of the vale, where succession offered no salvation. her voice, calm and unwavering, cut through the air. “i want you to keep the peace.” there was no flourish, no need for defence; she simply allowed his words to unravel the threads of their shared history. after a pause, her gaze softened, but her words held firm.

“and i speak to you as the true king of the vale.” if they were to untangle the lies that bound them, she would pull at every strand, unrelenting. in her heart, she knew—rhys arryn should be on that throne.

he ran a hand through his dark hair, the gesture more to buy himself time than to smooth his growing frustration. “maddalena’s death was... a tragedy,” he began, but even as the words left his lips, they sounded hollow, a fragile shield against the accusation that lingered in the air between them. his voice wavered—barely, but enough for her to notice, enough to betray the faint crack in his carefully composed resolve. “she was a child, caught in the wrong moment, in the wrong place. nothing more.”

he took a step forward, his boots echoing against the stone floor, his expression unreadable but for the faint flicker of something raw in his eyes. “you talk of peace as though it’s some trinket i’ve withheld from you, as if it’s mine to gift. i let you leave, guinevere. i let you call your son a bastard and take him west. do you think I didn’t see through it? do you think I didn’t know?” his voice dropped lower, his words weighted with a bitterness that even he couldn’t suppress. “i gave you the out. i let you protect him, even when i didn’t believe you. what more do you want from me?”

he turned his back to her, running a hand through his dark hair, his frustration simmering just below the surface. “do you think i haven’t considered the cracks in my own choices? the blood spilled under banners that should have stood united?” he exhaled slowly, his tone softening, though there was a distinct edge to his words. “i made the decisions i did, not because i wanted power or some claim to glory, but because i thought my time was nearing its end.”

he paused, his voice gaining strength as he looked up to meet her gaze. “ravella is my queen, and it is her word that i heed. it is her rule i protect." the words tasted heavier in his mouth now, the weight of loyalty testing him more than he cared to admit. “i will not apologize for that, even if it makes me a stranger to you or anyone else. ravella holds the crown, and as long as she does, i’ll continue to stand in her service.”

as if the gods mocked his words, rhys took a step forward, his posture unyielding, but as his weight shifted, a sharp pain shot through his bad leg. he faltered, a small stumble, his expression momentarily betraying the discomfort he had learned to ignore. the pain of atrophied muscle had grown worse in recent days, but he didn't pause. not yet.

So handsome🌻🌻🌻🌻

guinevere did not look at him as he spoke. her eyes rested somewhere beyond the gallery windows, fixed on the sea’s endless rhythm, as though it might steady the chaos within her. but the words he spoke, the way he leaned on his cane as though it bore the weight of more than just his body, they settled uncomfortably against her skin. she had hoped for many things in this meeting, though clarity had not been one of them; perhaps an assurance. perhaps just a moment to look upon another ghost in the hallways of her mind of the past lives she had lived; and all that had slipped through her fingers.

her gaze did not waver from the sea. “vanishing is for some, your highness. some of us are not permitted to disappear, instead anchored to the oaths we swear, and the lies that never leave us." her lips pressed into a thin line, her words biting not with venom but with the cold edge of truth. and guinevere lannister had developed a distorted version of the truth; blurred in the years, the confessions she held close to her chest; she spoke of lies as though it were the truth, and the truth as though they were lies.

"if it is true, i did not know." the words seemed to scratch at her throat as she talked; well of course she knew. rowan arryn had confessed the distortion of his lineage beneath the eyes of the seven, and she had sworn him her loyalty. where was that loyalty now? were they not standing with one another?

the formality in her tone seemed to choke her, as though each syllable came at a cost; as though she did not want to be here. it felt as though voices, lines and lives were colliding in her mind; the consequence of her own choices, unraveling directly before her. for in rowan's choice of lies, it was clear who had been robbed of his birthright. if things had gone according to the plan of their mere mortal minds, rhys would never have known; and he too would have been on an empty chair rather than a throne.

the once king, resting upon a cane; leaner, small than most of the other knights of the vale - there was more at play here than what was obvious. at last, she turned her head, her emerald eyes meeting his with a gaze that seemed almost translucent in its detachment. she stepped forward, though only by a fraction, her figure catching the pale light as though she were made of it. “i cannot allow the court to see jasper. you must know this. you must understand what it would mean. he is not a threat to her line, he is a mere babe swaddled in golden thread. if there is another that would be considered a legitimate rival to the vale throne, it would be you...not my son.”

her voice faltered for the first time, but she steeled herself, straightening, knowing of the closeness between ravella and rhys. truthfully, guinevere was shocked to find rhys able to walk these halls; that she would risk ruining herself in such a way by allowing for the presence of a legitimate male heir; especially if she is casting aside the first arryn male. “i came to you because you are the only one who might understand what must be done, even if you look upon me with loathing.” she paused, and for the briefest of moments, something like regret flickered in her eyes before she pushed it away.

"i never believed the lies you fed me. not then, not now, but i chose before to guard them, a mistake i will not make again." he continued, his voice softer, more measured, but still resolute. "you chose this path. you chose it when you held his secrets close, and for what?" he scoffed.

he leaned heavily on his cane, his breath steady but his mind churning with the implications. "you had the truth, and you buried it. i don’t understand why, not when it would have been easier to let it go, to let everything crumble. you could’ve freed yourself from the lies, from the burden of carrying a truth too heavy to live with. but you didn’t. why? had you happened upon some evidence when rowan died, would your brother not have welcomed you then?"

his voice trembled only slightly, not from doubt, but from the weight of the realization. "it doesn’t make sense. you were never the woman to play the fool. so why did you let him—and all of us—believe in a lie that you knew would ruin us all?" rhys’s fingers tightened around his cane, his knuckles turning white.. rowan was dead, and this fractured truth—this broken image of the man he had called his brother—was now a ghost he had to carry.

"what do you want me to do?" his voice was sharp, though there was a weariness to it that made the question sound more like a plea. "throw myself to the gallows, make myself the bigger threat to the throne? do you want me to give them reason to believe i’ll challenge my sister's claim just because of this mess?"

he gestured sharply toward the sea, as if it could swallow up the truth they were both dodging. "i’m supposed to step into the light and risk everything, to make them see me as the one who could take everything from them? for what? to clean up the mess your husband left behind, to settle a score with a bastard that never should have been crowned in the first place?"

"i let you call him a bastard," he said, his voice low but edged with something sharp, something that hadn’t been there before. "i let you say it, even though i never believed it, and i stood by while you took him away, far from the vale, far from the truth. i allowed that, i gave you the space, the freedom to hide, to flee. to protect him, i thought." he paused, the last word catching in his throat.

"you wanted to erase the past, to rewrite it so you could protect him from a claim that never existed to begin with. and i let you—because i believed you had to do what you thought was right, for him. i believed you were trying to protect a future that seemed impossible."

he met her gaze, his eyes cold now, though beneath the ice there was something raw, something human. "but now, standing here, knowing what I know—about rowan, about everything—it’s all just... fragments, isn’t it? pieces of glass that i can’t put back together." rhys' voice shook slightly with a mixture of frustration and a deeper grief, one he hadn’t fully let himself feel until now. "i don’t know what you thought you were protecting anymore, but it’s all gone to shit, guinevere. all of it."