what's in a name?

Cato arched a brow. “Aye, I’ve seen you quick, and I’ve seen you mean. I’ve also seen you misjudge your footing and swear the ground moved first.” He laughed once more, his smile bright as he jested with the other. For the bastard of the West, he thought it was wise to know people all over and it helped when he considered them a friend.

“And you’ve the wrong of it,” Cato went on, voice pitching into that easy charm he wore like a well-fitted glove. “If you fall, I won’t be posing for some lady while you’re wallowing on the ground," A beat, then his smirk turned into a boyish grin. “I’ll be posing over you, so you can see it proper. Wouldn’t want you missing the view.” Walys’ words landed somewhere deep, out here, you’re just a knight, and Cato felt the old ache stir, the one that had started under a staircase with a too-small blanket and a name spoken like a stain. He swallowed it down like bitter wine. “Out here,” Cato agreed, quieter, steadier. “Just steel, skill, and the truth of your hands. That’s the only holy thing I’ve ever trusted.”

Then the softness passed, gone in a blink, as it always was, and Cato’s grin returned, bright as sun on a blade. “As for polishing boots…” he clicked his tongue, mock sorrow. “Walys, I’d do it, truly, if I thought it would improve the look of you. But mud’s the only thing keeping your face from scaring horses.” He laughed, nudging him a bit and then put his fist up as he ducked and weaved lightly tapping him before stopping.

“Still, if any man questions my place, I’ll knock him on his arse, like you say. And if any man tries it with you, I’ll do worse than carve a name in court records. I’ll carve regret.” Cato tilted his head, eyes gleaming with mischief.

he nudged him back, not missing the rhythm of it, the way they fell into it like no time had passed at all. “and the ground did move, i’ll have you know,” walys added, lifting a finger like he was about to argue it before a council. “shifty thing. can’t be trusted. one day it’s beneath you, next it’s trying to make a fool of you in front of half the realm.” his grin flashed, unbothered. “still stayed on me feet more often than not,and that’s what folk remember. not the fall, just how quick you get back up, aye?”

at cato’s words, something in walys settled. he caught that shift in him again, the flicker of something older, heavier, but like always, he didn’t press. he didn’t always need to know the wounds of those he kept close, as long as they knew he’d not judge them for it. walys simply met others where they stood. “aye,” he said, a touch softer, though the smile never quite left. “steel doesn’t lie. nor the hands that hold it. everything else…” he shrugged, with a low whistle. “noise.”

but then it was gone again, swept off with a snort as he leaned back, mirroring the demeanor of the man before him, eyeing cato with renewed mischief and infatuation he never was quite able to shake. “scaring horses, am i? bold words from a man who’s about to be thrown flat on his arse by that same face.” he tapped his own cheek with mock pride. “this here’s character, lad. hard-earned.”

"always a challenge for you, that," he mocked, eyes flicking down to walys' boots before back up to his face. "don't be looking down on my fancy footwork. would have tripped over you myself without it when you went low." it was naught but a well-timed jump that had kept him standing then, but what mattered was that it had worked.

he shifted his weight, swinging one leg over the log so his feet were planted on either side of it and he could face walys where he sat. "well that's nice," his tone was driping in sarcasm as he took the wineskin back, holding it in one hand rather than immediately raise it to his lips. "glad to know you have so much faith in me. warms the heart, truly."

the wine was working its way through his system, leaving him more mellow than normal. he could feel the dull ache of blooming bruises, but that was a worry for later, when he stripped off his clothes to settle into a warm bath that would soothe his aching muscles. "did i see it wrong, or did you take a bash to the ribs at the end there?" he asked, leaning an elbow on his thigh to prop himself up. "well, if you did, you're still up and walking. can't be that bad or you'd be in with the maesters right about now."

he shifted slightly, stretching out his legs, then tapped his ribs with two fingers when younes mentioned the hit. “bash? oh, that?” walys waved it off with practiced confidence. “just the big one trying to hug me farewell. didn’t take. i’ve had worse from a fall off a fence and a woman who meant it.” his mouth twitched, betraying the lie just enough, though not enough for him to admit the truth of it. “if i ran to the maesters every time i took a knock, they’d start charging me rent and asking after me family.”

at the reminder of his shouted curse, walys barked a laugh and leaned in, conspiratorial. “if that’s what i’m remembered for, i’ll die a legend.” he straightened, suddenly earnest in the most misplaced way. “i can rhyme it, though. listen..‘oh fuck, you dirty bastard,’ struck down fast and fell much faster…d…” he broke off with a scowl and a flick of his hand. “no, no, that’s shite. tripped over the rhyme same as me feet.” he tried once more, squinting toward the field like inspiration might still be lying in the grass. “‘oh fuck, you dirty… lout? clout? arse?’ gods, none of those sing.” with a laugh, he surrendered, settling back. “ahh let the bards suffer for it. embellishment is more fashionable anyway.”

Jonathan Bailey as Dr. Henry Loomis in Jurassic World Rebirth (2025)

the tourney fields had quieted, most spectators drifted away now that the events had finished, but still, younes sat, amongst banners hanging low in the dying breeze whilst servants and squires packed up tents. he did not have a squire, and so, the task fell upon him, despite the weariness in his bones. he'd found a seat on a fallen log, one boot half-unlaced, cup of wine on the ground next to his foot, his winnings for the day heavy upon his hip and lady forlorn across his lap as he wiped the blood from her. his victory had been sorely needed, but would not have come without the help of walys bramble. the two had acted as a pair, and when their victory was called, had split the winnings.

the sound of footsteps approached, but younes did not look up. instead, he reached for the wineskin on the log beside him and gave it an inviting shake. "if that's you, bramble, sit and have a drink with me. you've earned it," he said, rubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on his lady's blade "if not, i'd prefer to share this drink with someone who risked getting skewered for me today. if you're not bramble, that's not you."

he finally glanced up, crooked smile crossing his face. "ah. it is you. sit." his spirits were high, his joy genuine. he'd almost forgotten the satisfaction of walking away with money earned fair and square, rather than because you were paid to take a tumble. "i'll dine like a rich man tonight, thanks to you," he said, though it was a lie. the coin would be given to yousra, who knew how to spend it best far better than he did.

he leaned back, elbow resting on his knee, eyes scanning the mess of straw and broken targets. “that move with the big one,” walys said, eyebrows arching in mock awe, “i’ll be swearin’ on the maiden’s bosom i didn’t think ye’d pull it off. i had me doubts, but then, look at us, like we planned it all along, clever and lucky enough to make a bard write a ballad about it. though between you and me, i’d rather he wrote it with exaggeration. makes us sound grander than we look, eh?” he tapped the hilt of his own blade lightly, a smirk still perched there.

"devani toland," she began when she eventually spoke, with all the haughtiness she could muster. "dresses like she took her inspiration from a jester's motley." perhaps she did. it would align with the history of house toland, if elia remembered it correctly. she arranged her skirts carefully, more to make a point than because it need arranging. the tiny jewels sewn into her silks, the bangles that circled her forearm caught the light, glittering as they did. "today, she is wearing blue with orange, and i remember because it clashed horribly. so it is interesting that you managed to confuse me, wearing this, for her."

her lips began to curl into something like a smile. "but, perhaps you are blind. i think that is the kinder assumption than that you simply can't tell dornish women apart." even when outside of dorne, she did not think she had ever been mistaken for anything but a martell. she could just about tolerate being called by her sister's name, but to be mistaken for a toland was another matter entirely. it scratched at her pride, at the desire that lived inside her to be seen.

he eased into the seat across from her, offering a lopsided grin that suggested he was more amused by his own blunder than he probably should be. “right, well, i’ll start by saying i’m sorry for the mix-up, yer grace. it was the hair, i swear it. though now i’ve seen ye properly, i wouldn’t make the mistake again if i were half-blind and drunk off my arse.” he cleared his throat at the slip and glanced sideways, theatrically scanning for devani. “can’t tell motley from majesty, clearly. but fashion’s a mystery to me. i once wore green and purple to a wedding and was told i looked like a roasted squash.”

he didn’t speak at first. he just sat there, letting the silence thicken between them like mist rolling in off the bay. his fingers drummed once, twice, then stopped. his eyes hadn’t left hers since she said the boy’s name.

"kheerat," he repeated softly, like tasting it. then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, firelight glinting off the lines carved into his weathered face. "aye. that’s a fine name. strong."

he didn’t say the other things pressing at the edge of his tongue, that she was mad for trying this, that there were a thousand things that could go wrong, that bringing a boy across half the bloody continent with half the realm still cracking from the war wasn’t exactly what most’d call smart.

instead, he just shrugged one shoulder, slow and easy. "i know the reach well enough. might even owe a favor or two in oldtown still. not the sort who’d ask questions about a boy and a tired knight lookin' for work. if we ride fast, cut through the south past bitterbridge, we could skirt the worst of it. gods know the lords there still don’t look twice at men without banners."

he reached out then, tapping two fingers against the rim of her cup. "but you’ll need to let me handle the speakin’ once we’re past the docks. won’t do to have a mother lookin' like she’s about to bolt every time someone sneezes too close."

then, softer, less for her ears than the world itself: "and don’t worry about the boy not knowin’ you. he’ll know what matters. that someone came for him."

"i don't know why i chose it. kheerat, i mean." she had been in his life long enough to give him a name, but little else. there was utter sincerity in her voice, a softness that made it sound alien even to devani's own ears. "it means the one who sings to god. it's silly, really, because i'm not even all that devout or anything like that. i think i just liked the idea of it." she wondered briefly if kheerat liked to sing. it was one of the things a mother should know, but devani didn't have the answer to.

walys didn't tell her that her plan was a bad one. in fact, he offered her a solution to the bits she didn't have figured out, and for that, she was grateful, her appreciation enough that she reached across the table, took his hand in hers, and kissed the back of it. there was no verbal thank you, but that action was enough.

"i'll follow your lead," she agreed. "and i won't bolt. not this time. reckon i've run out of road to run on, anyway," as much as she made light of it, there was truth to it. the unthinkable had happened, and devani toland had reached a point in her life where she was tired of running.

"I reckon five years is long enough for your joints to rust, Walys," he replied dryly, though his tone held no true bite. "As for fisherman's hands, I imagine you've spent more recent days gripping wine cups than sword hilts. I look forward to testing the theory."

At the mention of the golden prince, a fleeting shadow passed over Cato's features, quickly replaced by a carefully guarded neutrality. His life among the lions was complex, the lines between guard, assassin, and bastard blurred, but none of that was for the tourney grounds—nor even for a trusted friend. "The lions are tolerable," he said evenly, a note of quiet irony woven into the words. "They don’t ask me to polish boots, but some days I think I'd prefer that to the nonsense of court."

He lifted a brow, the seriousness of his gaze tempered by subtle humor as he added, "As for my temper—someone needs to keep the Reachmen and Crownlanders wary. If not for me, they might mistake Westerlanders for gentlemen."

he rocked back on his heels, arms folding as he watched the bustle around the tourney grounds, squires scrambling, horses snorting, armor clinking like wind chimes made of steel. the scent of churned earth and oiled leather hung heavy in the air, thick with sweat and sun and the fever of competition. it was the kind of day that stirred blood and pride both, and walys had never been the sort to let either lie quiet.

“wine cups,” he muttered, shaking his head as though scandalized. “i’ve drunk just enough to keep me quick and mean. ask the last man who tried to throw me, he’s still coughin’ up grass.”

his grin turned wolfish, then, teeth flashing in the sun. “you'll be helpin' me up now? gods, i’d sooner let the dirt have me. at least the ground’s honest. you? you’ll be preenin’ for some lady in the stands while i’m still dustin’ my arse.”

he gave cato a firm nudge with his elbow. “but i’ll say this, if i do fall, and it’s by your hand, i’ll carve your name into the court records meself. big, bold letters, too. maester's won't even need spectacles to read it."

walys scratched at his jaw, his grin slipping into something softer, still crooked, still full of mischief, but gentled around the edges. he caught that flicker in cato’s eye, the little stormcloud that passed and vanished like breath on steel. aye, he knew that look. he'd worn it himself once or twice, when a man belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once.

the sun lingered overhead like a sovereign in its own right, casting its gold across the manicured lawns of highgarden’s famed terraces. in the distance, lutes and pipes played some courtly air graham couldn’t name, but here, within the ivy-walled cloister of the garden tennis court, the world felt stripped of ceremony. stripped of sense, too, given how many rounds he’d now found himself playing; there was sweat lining his forehead and his shirt, and if he went another few rounds, there was no doubt he would soon take it off. round five. he'd only meant to humour it.

just a bit of sport to fill the afternoon, to stretch the legs and show these reachmen that the vale bred more than hawks and high cheeks. yet now, with sweat along his brow and the linen of his tunic clinging to his back, it was clear the tournament had grown teeth. and he—perhaps out of pride more than anything—had bitten back. the court was nothing like the angular alleys at runestone. this one was rounder, the walls ivy-bound and fragrant, the stone uneven beneath the leather of his soles. the game here was older—court tennis, they called it, though in truth it was a cousin to war, with rules barely spoken and ever-shifting.

a heavy ball of tightly wound cloth, near a fist’s size, hurled not over a net but against angled walls, arched windows, and sloped roofs, each bounce spelling fortune or folly depending on how you played the rhythm. it was not a gentle man’s pastime. he surged forward, boots grating on stone, just as the ball came low and fast from the corner. some devil had cut it sharp—too sharp—and the cloth almost kissed the flagstones. graham dropped to his side knee with a grunt, the force of his body lurching to catch the stroke, arm stretched fully as his racket caught the ball just before it sank to the ground.

the crack echoed off the garden walls like a bowstring loosed - and there came the sound of gasps, and even graham letting out a noise as he managed to whack it back. one of half laughter and relief.

"tight angle, that," he called, rising in one fluid motion, not looking to see who stood across the court. "but not tight enough." he liked the weight of it. the game. the court. the air thick with rose and sweat and the occasional jeer from the gallery of bored ladies and sharper-eyed lords. it was honest, this. no titles. no brooding councils. just grit, and how fast you could think on your feet. how quick your wrist could turn. he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, glancing up through the lattice of leaves where a sliver of the sky showed pale. his opponent—a shadowed figure in white—watched him in silence, racket poised like a blade. graham didn’t know the name. didn’t care to, either. not now.

he had sweated through three rounds without blinking and four without manners. by round five, he’d unbuttoned his shirt halfway and declared, to no one in particular, “if i die on this court, carve it into stone: he played like a demon and dressed like a poet.”

now, racket in hand and a smear of dirt across one cheek, he paced the highgarden court like a sellsword sizing up a duel. the crowd was a bit too polished for his taste, lace cuffs and parasols, though even they seemed to lose courtly manners and snobbery as the game lingered on, but the game itself? that was real. brutal, even. this wasn’t lawn sport for soft-palmed lords. this was chaos dressed up in courtly lace.

he crouched low, eyes on the man across from him, tall, lean, certainly noble with hair too neat for someone who played this well. the bloke had a dangerous forehand and the kind of backhand that looked like it came from years of fencing, not finesse. walys respected that. still, he grinned.

“not bad for someone who looks like he got lost on his way to morning prayers,” walys called, rolling his shoulder with a theatrical wince. “though i’m startin’ to think yer racket’s got a mind of its own. might be haunted.” not even walys bramble could fully explain the absurdity of his insults, but when his competitive side struck him, he let fly the first thing that came to his mind.

the ball came flying toward him again, sharp, brutal, well-placed, and he lunged with a grunt, slicing it off the angled wall with a wild spin that barely caught the edge of the opposing court.

“ha!” he shouted, triumphant. “ye’ll have to do better than that, septon. or are ye waitin’ for the gods to intervene?”

someone in the crowd choked on a laugh. someone else whispered something about your grace, but walys was too busy wiping sweat from his brow and blowing a kiss toward a trio of ladies on a balcony.

then he turned back, pointed his racket at the man in like a sword. “tell me yer name after i win, will ye? i’d hate to forget the poor sod i humiliated in round five.”

the moment past, and devani merely nodded her head, the firelight catching on the gold in her ears, though her smile turned bright and playful again. "ah, come on. not like you to turn down a pair of boots. you've changed, walys." she was deflecting again, shifting in her seat as she tapped her fingers against the table in thought. as much as devani toland enjoyed playing the fool, she was sharper than she looked.

"right, the plan," she cleared her throat. "an old acquaintance from selhorys has put him on a ship bound for the reach. it's due to arrive at the end of the week. he'll be listed as crew. cabin boy." nobody would be paying attention to a cabin boy on a vessel like that. it should be easy enough to get him to westerosi shores, and for walys to make the collection. it was getting him back to dorne that was the issue.

"i don't know the reach," she admitted. "i don't know how to collect him and get him back into dorne without someone picking up on it. once we're in the marches, i think i can make it back to ghost hill. but there's that bit in the middle, isn't there?" she looked to walys then, as though hoping he would have all the answers for her.

she cleared her throat a little. "kheerat - the boy - also won't know who i am." it was an admission that could stir judgement. it was no small thing for a mother to leave a child, especially not at such a young age as she had left behind her son. "he won't remember me as his mother. i'm just a woman who knew his father once. i think it is probably best that i am the one to break that news to him, you understand."

he didn’t speak at first. he just sat there, letting the silence thicken between them like mist rolling in off the bay. his fingers drummed once, twice, then stopped. his eyes hadn’t left hers since she said the boy’s name.

"kheerat," he repeated softly, like tasting it. then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, firelight glinting off the lines carved into his weathered face. "aye. that’s a fine name. strong."

he didn’t say the other things pressing at the edge of his tongue, that she was mad for trying this, that there were a thousand things that could go wrong, that bringing a boy across half the bloody continent with half the realm still cracking from the war wasn’t exactly what most’d call smart.

instead, he just shrugged one shoulder, slow and easy. "i know the reach well enough. might even owe a favor or two in oldtown still. not the sort who’d ask questions about a boy and a tired knight lookin' for work. if we ride fast, cut through the south past bitterbridge, we could skirt the worst of it. gods know the lords there still don’t look twice at men without banners."

he reached out then, tapping two fingers against the rim of her cup. "but you’ll need to let me handle the speakin’ once we’re past the docks. won’t do to have a mother lookin' like she’s about to bolt every time someone sneezes too close."

then, softer, less for her ears than the world itself: "and don’t worry about the boy not knowin’ you. he’ll know what matters. that someone came for him."

Under the bannered grounds of the Red Keep, Cato moved with purposeful steps past clusters of tents where knights and petty lords gathered in anticipation of the tourney. The air was thick with expectation, and the strained alliance between The Westerlands and the Crownlands buzzed like a low, persistent hum in the background.

Clad in plain, light armor—its unadorned metal a deliberate refusal to bear any bastard sigil—Cato's every step spoke of duty and defiance. As he navigated the maze of canvas and stone, his thoughts were focused on the contest ahead and the familiar faces that the tourney drew from across the lands.

His blue eyes caught sight of an old friend among the gathering: Walys Flowers, bastard of the Reach and five years his senior. Cato’s gaze briefly softened, recalling long afternoons of grueling sword drills and simpler days. With a measured pause, he approached and greeted him with a dry smile, his tone serious but his eyes betraying a glimmer of humor.

“What a surprise, Ser,” Cato remarked, his voice low as he came to a stop in his steads, silently noting that he was not surprised to see a Reachman at a tourney. A brief, playful spark danced in his gaze as he added, “Should we come across each other in the list, I'll have to unseat you, old man.”

"old man, is it? gods save me, cato, ye speak as if five years is a canyon ‘tween us," he said with a chuckle. "should we meet in the lists, ye’d best hope i’ve still got a fisherman’s hands, else i’ll be pluckin’ ye from the dirt like a flounder caught in the shallows."

his gaze shifted briefly to the banners overhead, rippling in the breeze, and the men moving beneath them. the air was thick with sweat and anticipation, the hum of competition mingling with the underlying tension that had settled over the crownlands. stormlanders flying foreign colors, knights who once stood on opposite sides now forced into uneasy alliances, it was the way of things now. tides changed, and men either changed with them or drowned.

walys reckoned the stormlanders would find some third option.

he clapped a hand on cato’s shoulder, firm but easy. "but what of ye? guarding some golden prince now, are ye? ah, how the years do shape a man. last i saw, ye were all elbows and bad temper, and now look at ye—still bad-tempered, but at least they let ye hold a sword without wincing."

it was easier to look back and laugh about the adventures they had, when they had been young, than it was to face the truth of it. walys had been poor, and devani so utterly neglected that running from dorne was the only solution she could think of to it. it was the truth she did not wish to speak aloud, that not even those closest to her would hear her speak of with any sincerity.

the silence stretched between them, and her expression shifted into something less playful, and more knowing. she could act like she had not noticed the way he was watching her, letting her words hang between them - but it would be an insult to the intelligence of a man who was offering her something she needed.

"it is nothing... untoward. all completely above board," she explained. "the child's father has died. i knew him in essos and have agreed to take him into my care. but," her hands spread wide. "timing isn't right. i need it to stay unnoticed until i am ready." she had not seen kheerat toland since he was but a few weeks old, had left him behind with her breasts still heavy with milk. she knew not what he looked like, how much of his mother's face he had inherited. should she take the risk that it was very little, that walys would not notice the resemblance between them? and what if he did? would he feel angry? would he leave kheerat behind.

devani weighed up the risks, and decided she could not take it.

his fingers curled around the edge of the table, grounding himself as the weight of her words settled in his chest. her son. of all the things he had expected her to say, that had not even crossed his mind. she was too careful, too good at slipping between the cracks of the world, never staying long enough to let anything, or anyone, take root.

he should have known better.

walys exhaled through his nose, shaking his head just slightly, the ghost of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "well, fuck," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "ye always did have a knack for surprises."

he leaned back in his chair, watching her carefully now. the way she held herself, the way she spoke, it was all the same, all laughter and ease. but now he knew what she was hiding underneath, and it changed things.

"so, discretion." he tapped a finger against the wood, considering. "right. i can do that." his voice was lighter now, as if the weight of her admission hadn’t settled heavy on his shoulders. "but let’s get one thing straight, ya? i’m not doing this for boots. i’ve spent me whole life getting mud on me; a little more won’t kill me."

his smirk softened, something fond behind it. "i’m doing this because it’s you."

then he downed the rest of his drink, setting it back on the table with a renewed sense of conviction, perhaps the thrill of some sort of adventure, however small to him, but fragile it was to an old friend. "but since yer offering, i will take a new pair of gloves."

Jonathan Bailey as Fiyero Tigelaar in Wicked (Part One)

The tavern was alive with merriment, its rafters ringing with laughter and the clink of tankards. The scent of roasted meat mingled with the tang of spilled ale, and the crackling fire painted the room in flickering amber light. Aidan Tully, Prince of the Riverlands, sat perched on the edge of a table near the center of the room, his grin wide and infectious. He was deep into his fourth—or was it fifth?—tankard, the flush of drink adding an extra glint to his sharp blue eyes.

Dressed in a plain cloak that hid his finer garments beneath, he looked more like a traveling knight than a prince, though the way he carried himself gave him away to those paying attention. His voice, however, was unmistakable, carrying across the crowded room like a challenge wrapped in a jest.

"Right, listen up, lads!" he called, raising his tankard and standing to his full height, which wasn’t quite as towering as some of the knights in the room, but his presence made up for it. "I be the Prince of the loaves and fishes—aye, the river prince, if you like! And I’ll make you all a fine deal. First man brave enough to follow me outside and raise his sword wins himself a free pitcher!"

The room fell into a brief hush before erupting into laughter and murmured excitement. Aidan’s grin widened, and he drained his tankard in one gulp, slamming it down on the table. "Come on then, don’t all rush at once! Or are Reachmen more skilled at swinging ale than swords?"

"Five golden trouts to the first man to come outside."

when the challenge rang out and aidan stumbled into the night, the crowd jeered and jostled, but none moved quick. walys shook his head, muttering, "bunch o’ hens, the lot o’ ye."

he pushed off the wall, boots scuffin’ on stone, and stepped outside. the cold hit sharp, breath ghostin’ as he found aidan already there, hand easy on his sword, grinning like he’d already won.

"five trouts, was it? grand offer. though i thought the prize was a pitcher. or do i get both when i knock ye on your arse?" his accent curled warm, that reach softness with the faintest clover lilt that snuck in on certain words, like a reminder of his mother’s songs.

his hand slid to his hilt, fingers brushing the worn leather. he drew slow, let the steel catch the moonlight, giving it a little turn in his hand—lazy, practiced.

"careful now, river prince. i might wear fine shirts these days, but i haven’t forgotten what it’s like to get blood in the seams."

he stepped forward, boots crunching on frost, eyes narrowing with a flicker of mischief beneath the calm.