WARDEN OF THE EAST,

The masquerade had made strangers of everyone, or perhaps it had simply revealed how little anyone truly knew of one another beneath titles, sigils, and carefully curated reputations. masks obscured faces, yes, but they also invited something stranger still. selyse moved through the ballroom with measured ease, the deep blue silks of her gown shifting like water beneath candlelight. the ocean mask concealed enough of her features to grant anonymity, though not enough to make her careless, old habits rarely loosened so easily. she stepped away from the center of the festivities, drawn toward one of the quieter alcoves bordering the hall. the music softened there, becoming little more than a distant swell of strings and voices.

another figure already occupied the space, for a moment, selyse said nothing, allowing silence to settle naturally between them as her gaze drifted back toward the dance floor. then with a light tone, "i am yet to make my mind whether the masks are helping or hurting tonight." amusement colored the words, subtle but present. her fingers briefly adjusted one of the rings adorning her hand, a small habitual motion before stilling once more. "on one hand, anonymity appears to be encouraging remarkable honesty, "a pause, "on the other, i suspect half the room is now convinced they are far more mysterious than they truly are."

he had also decided it had been an exceptionally stupid one.

the cane a maester had given him struck the stone floor with a measured rhythm as he crossed the room, slower than he cared to admit, his left leg protesting every step. whatever damage he'd managed to do sparring with sora had been survivable. insisting on fighting through it before half the realm had merely guaranteed the injury would linger.

he eased himself into a chair with a quiet grunt, setting the cane against its arm before beginning the slow, tedious work of unlacing one boot.

"if anyone asks," he called toward the adjoining room, "i lost because i felt sorry for the poor bastard."

his mouth curled into a grin despite the hiss that escaped him as he finally tugged the boot free.

"he looked as though he needed the confidence."

carefully, he rolled his trouser leg high enough to inspect the knee. angry shades of purple and blue had spread across the joint, swollen enough that even he could no longer pretend it was merely stiff.

only after he'd taken stock of his injry did he glance up, catching sight of alayne. the grin on his face softened immediately.

"don't," he said, holding up a hand before she could say a word. "i already know exactly what you're going to tell me, and i dislike being proven wrong almost as much as i dislike losing."

he leaned back with a weary sigh, rubbing absently at his knee.

"...in fairness," he added after a second, "i should probably blame sora. it sounds better than admitting i'm fifty-eight with a bad knee. that probably makes me a poor father, doesn't it?"

there was a flicker of genuine disappointment beneath the jesting then, gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

Free hand rises to shoulder-height, palm brandished as though professing her innocence as she steps closer, armed only with a footstool from their bed chambers and a pillow tucked beneath her elbow. "I know better than to scold you for your own folly by now." Try as she might to school her expression into something resembling mild displeasure or rebuke, all she's able to do is smile. Maybe it is a consequence of over thirty years of marriage, but there is little he can do to cause her any ire, nor to take her by surprise. Yes, she had advised against him taking part in the more martial activities of the gathering—it is a young man's sport, after all—but as with most everything in their union, long gone are the days of her telling him what to do.

she  had  slipped  out  to  the  balconies  following  the  announcement  —  not  due  to  it,  but  from  a  six  and  ten  year  old's  excitement  in  being  allowed  to  join  their  introduction  to  the  realm.  the  king's  proclamation  would  be  dealt  with  at  a  later  time,  when  calanthe  had  the  ability  to  sit  to  her  desk  and  change  figures,  a  raven  to  be  sent  back  to  oldtown  following  her  own  retirement  to  her  chambers  before  the  ball's  end.  her  mask  sat  abandoned  upon  the  seat  next  to  her,  first  goblet  of  wine  slowly  being  worked  through  now  that  she  need  not  watch  her  daughter  like  a  hawk  through  the  throngs  of  bodies  any  longer.  “  have  you  come  for  air  as  well  ?  ”  questions  when  another  appeared  in  the  corner  of  her  vision,  turning  just  enough  to  give  a  cordial  greeting.

he remained by the window, staring out across the vale as though the answer might be written into the mountains themselves. then, with a quiet breath through his nose, he turned back toward alayne.

"of course we are."

there was no surprise in it, only the weary certainty of a man long accustomed to the crown's poor sense of timing.

"a week of celebration," he repeated, the words dry as dust. "how generous of them to summon the entire realm under the guise of merriment."

his mouth curved, though there was no humor in it.

"their dragons are dead, the king's mind is a ruin, your sister has been locked away, and now they mean to ask us to smile for it." he gave a slight shake of his head. "i've seen less absurdity in a fool's performance."

petyr crossed the room then, taking the letter up again only long enough to skim it once more before setting it aside with clear disdain. his gaze then settled on alayne, sharp and steady.

"if we refuse, the realm will notice and i can only imagine the consequences the king will be happy to reap on us. if we attend, we walk straight into whatever game maelor has decided to make of this." his jaw tightened. "what do you make of it?"

"No better than a mummer's farce, that much is certain." Quiet treason that she dare only voice in the sanctity of the Eyrie, her husband its only witness. There is much to consider, much to plan, but Alayne finds her mind either unwilling or unable to focus. Thoughts linger still on Alys' fate: it has been over a year since she last heard from the Queen, or indeed, saw her. Hard as it is to be a Hand dismissed, cut off from the court and the King, it is harder still to be a sister kept from a sister.

When truth leaves us, when we let it slip away, when it is ripped from our hands, we become vulnerable to the appetite of whatever monster screams the loudest.

petyr knocked once against the open door, though he scarcely waited for permission before stepping inside. a letter rested between his fingers, the parchment bearing the unmistakable three-headed dragon stamped into dark red wax. "forgive the interruption," he said, though the lack of apology in his tone suggested otherwise. "i've brought you a gift from king's landing." his mouth twisted into something between amusement and irritation as he crossed the room. "whether it's an insult, a demand, or merely another reminder of how highly they think of themselves remains to be seen." he extended the unopened letter toward her. he had recognized the seal immediately, but had not broken it; whatever arrived from the crown was hers to read first. once the letter had changed hands, petyr moved away without another word, settling himself beside the nearest window, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked out across the mountains surrounding the eyrie. "if the gods are feeling generous, perhaps they've finally decided to release alys and restore a measure of sense to the realm," he said after a moment, tone tinged with bitterness and mockery. a pause. "though i've never known the gods to be particularly generous where targaryens are concerned." his gaze remained fixed beyond the glass. "well? how angry should i be?"

She tries to temper that hope, tries instead to prepare for the worst news that King's Landing could send out—nothing is beyond the realm of possibility with how Maelor is now, all fractured sanity and volatile fancies. Petyr makes no attempt to hide his feelings about the situation, and she's not got it in her to try admonish him for it. Whatever loyalty she had toward the King has dwindled and dried up now, and there is no need to feign allegiance here in her own domain.

Weight shifts forward in her chair so she can better grasp the letter, turning it over and over in her hands for a moment, considering it; trails a finger over the seal, unaware of the little curl her lip takes on at the dragon imprint in the wax. Finally, she snaps it broken with a flick of her wrist, unfurling parchment and keenly scanning its contents.

Some part of her is aware of her husband's bitter words in the background, his stoic positioning by the window, the tension that lingers in the room. Alayne finds herself reading the letter's contents once, twice, thrice before finally tossing it aside, letting it land carelessly among invoices and correspondence alike.

their  silent,  stilted  trek  through  the  keep  wound  them  through  to  the  gardens,  so  far,  the  most  quiet  place  erena  had  managed  to  find.  a  sort  of  nervous  energy  had  crept  to  lodge  both  in  pit  of  her  stomach  and  notched  in  their  throat  since  the  decree  had  been  received.  in  the  bowels  of  the  targaryens'  keep  it  had  risen  to  a  peak  that  left  them  feeling  close  to  choked ;  quick  steps  from  the  allotted  chambers  before  anyone  could  say  otherwise.  bustling  bodies  streaming  in  either  direction  dodged  easily,  face  downturned  as  they  first  reached  what  looked  to  be  the  kitchens,  out  to  the  foliage  lining  each  sides  of  them.  it  was  the  first  true  breath  they  had  taken  since  leaving  the  dreadfort,  inhaled  deep  and  caught  somewhere  between  nostrils  and  mouth  when  she  realized  they  had  nearly  walked  upon  another.  “  my  apologies,  my  liege.  ”