rain falls on all.

ellie watched lord duram retreat with all the wounded dignity of a man who had just realized he had argued himself into a corner. the moment he disappeared into the crowd, the tension that had gathered between her shoulders loosened, and she let out a quiet breath. happy the argument was over but slightly annoyed it had to take someone else. but at least it was him.

her eyes slid sideways to morgan.

there was a familar air to his posture. the quiet confidence with which he had stepped into the conversation as if it were the most natural thing in the world. he never made a spectacle of it. never made it about proving her wrong or showing himself cleverer. just… steady.

as usual.

ellie tilted her head slightly at his remark, a faint smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “a lemon tart?” she repeated, folding her arms again though there was far less bite in the gesture now. “my my, morgan. i didn’t realize your scholarly interventions had become so expensive.” she smiled warmly at him

her gaze dropped briefly to the parchment before them where the offending equation still sat. she tapped the edge of it thoughtfully with one finger before glancing back up at him.

“but i suppose you did save me from another ten minutes of him discovering new ways to misunderstand basic principles.” her tone softened with dry amusement. “for that alone, a tart might be a fair price.” she said taking the parchment off the table. "hmmm…maybe even two"

ellie’s smile widened just a touch at the mention of their games, the memory tugging easily at her. “gods, don’t remind me. you still owe me for that night you insisted your wizard could ‘absolutely survive’ jumping into a lava pit.”

“i knew he wasnt listening from the moment he started. annoyingly i figured that out from the moment he walked over. he had that look in his eye" she said giving a slight roll of hers. "but i knew i would catch him with the numbers eventually…though i admit” she said, brushing an invisible crease from the parchment. “it’s always more enjoyable when i have someone on my side who actually understands what i’m saying.” she said looking back up at him. "so….thank you" she said fully meaning behind it knowing he jumped in without a moment of hesitation.

he shifted his stance slightly, one hand coming to rest against the edge of the table. “nah, he never meant to understand,” he said simply. “men like that decide their answer before the question’s finished.” his tone wasn’t blunt, moreso certain of the type of lord who had found himself having words with elenda swann. “you were right from the start. he just needed time to realize he couldn’t argue around it.” his gaze lingered on her a second longer than necessary, not intrusive, just present. “you would’ve gotten there without me, though it would’ve been massively boring.”

at the mention of the game, a faint breath of something like amusement left him. morgan found himself at ease around ellie, far chattier than his normal demeanor. “aye now, my wizard had a plan,” he replied, though there was no real defense behind it. “poor one, maybe, but a plan.” his brow lifted slightly. “and if i remember it right, you encouraged it. something about testing the limits of the spell.” a pause, then quieter, “you just didn’t expect me to commit to it.”

wylliam swann stood with the mander at his back, the river’s roar needling at his thoughts as akhirah’s words settled heavy in the air. he felt them not as rhetoric but as weight, the kind that lodged behind the breastbone and refused to shift. he dragged a hand through his hair, dislodging it from its careful order, then pushed his spectacles up with a sharp, habitual motion, buying himself a breath before answering. “look, don’t mistake me,” he said at last, his foot slightly tossing a rock into the stream and he watched how quickly it was carried away - and in that small brief moment, he never found himself relating to an inanimate object more. he turned back to akhirah, frustration leaking now, thin and bright. "we aren't talking about numbers. we aren't even going to consider that."

“you say it’s too late, but you’re making it later still. you’re forcing a line to be drawn with your name at the top of it, and i don’t know if you realise how dangerous that is.” he stepped closer, boots pressing into damp earth, ignoring the slight feeling of a raindrop rolling from the bridge of his nose. when had it started raining? he was not even entirely sure yet. he just could not bring himself to understand how akhirah would think this a worthwhile move, all whilst not knowing what he was dealing with - how could he, when he was isolated on tarth? how could he understand jaehaerys targaryen's reaction from the isolation akhirah tarth moulded himself around?

“i don’t doubt your care for your people. seven hells, i believe you. but belief doesn’t stop soldiers. belief doesn’t stop collectors turning into men with swords.” his jaw tightened, “you think i enjoy this? i’m a stormlander too. i want our people to be better off than they are, but giving them even an inch..." he trailed off, letting out an exasperated sound as he could hardly get his words into the correct order he wished for them to come out. there was so much happening in his mind, so much he wanted to say and try and get across, and yet it felt as though his words had failed and betrayed him.

he glanced briefly at morgan again, voice easing despite the tension in his shoulders. “what you said about the king is true. he listens poorly...pretends he listens but, doesn't really. not always. and he listens least to those he thinks already lost. that’s the problem. once they mark you as defiant, you stop being heard at all.” he exhaled sharply, fingers flexing as if he wanted to seize the thought and shake it into order. “i can argue mitigation. i can argue adjustment. i cannot argue exception forever, not when one lord refuses outright. it makes every stormlander look like they’re testing the same edge.” wylliam ruffled his hair again, the gesture betraying how fixated he’d become, and forced himself to still.

“we already knelt, long ago." he said bluntly; there was no use in pretending the spirit of independence would do them any well. it would be selling mere dreams and delusion, nothing more and nothing less. he had never entertained such thoughts, and now he still would not. “you won’t call it rebellion, but the crown may, and intent won’t matter. the carons thought they were right too. you remember how that ended.” he paused again, attempting to knit his words together, despite feeling like he merely wanted to walk away from his conversation and that he was talking to a wall. he could tell by the look on their faces, they weren't listening - they did not understand.

"don’t give them cause to brand you a traitor. pay, loudly protest, document every wound, and let me take that into rooms you refuse to enter.” he adjusted his spectacles again, a precise motion after the disorder. “but you cannot be the only stormlander not paying. i can’t shield you if that is the case."

the rain had begun without ceremony, a fine mist at first, clinging to his lashes and darkening the leather of his gloves. akhirah stood unmoving with it, the river’s voice steady behind wylliam’s words, and he let the man finish without interruption. he did not bristle, nor did he retreat; instead, he felt the familiar settling of something final inside his chest, the same feeling he had known the day he first chose duty over ease. when he spoke, his voice was low, even, and carried no heat. “i understand exactly what you’re saying, will,” he said, eyes fixed on the water as if it were a ledger that refused to lie. “i know why you stand where you do. i know you are trying to keep me from being the lone nail that gets hammered down.”

he turned then, slowly, the reins creaking softly in his grip as his horse shifted. “and i know why you don’t want tarth standing alone,” he continued, his tone firm but not dismissive; there was no mockery in it, only acknowledgement. “i would not ask any lord of the stormlands to put themselves on that line. not caron, not wylde, not swann. i will not be the man who demands sacrifice from others while counting my own courage as currency.” his gaze slid to morgan then, steady and unflinching, and something quieter threaded through his voice.

“especially not you,” he said plainly. “i won’t ask you to plant your hall where mine now stands.” the admission sat heavy, deliberate, and he did not dress it up. he had no interest in shared martyrdom, no appetite for dragging good men down with him to soften his own fall.

he drew a breath, rain cooling the back of his neck, and squared his shoulders. “but knowing all of that does not change my answer,” he went on. “i will not pay the tax. not now, not quietly, not with a protest letter tucked beneath the coin as if that absolves the act. i won’t pretend compliance is wisdom when it guts my people. you speak of soldiers, will, and collectors with swords. i hear you. i have weighed that outcome, and i am not ignorant of the cost.” his jaw tightened, not in anger, but resolve. “i simply find the alternative worse.” he let the reins slacken slightly, the horse settling as if it too sensed the end of the argument drawing near.

“there is no use in us walking this circle again,” he said, not unkindly. his eyes lifted, meeting wylliam’s at last. “my decision is made."

the river surged on, relentless, uncaring of crowns or councils, and he gestured to it faintly. “i will take the weight of this on my hall alone. you do not have to like it. you do not have to defend it. but you will not convince me otherwise.” he inclined his head, a small, respectful gesture that did not concede an inch. “do what you must at court, will. argue mitigation, adjustment, delay. keep the stormlands breathing where you can.” his grip tightened once more on the reins, anchoring himself.

his gaze shifted to wylliam. “and you’re right that standing alone makes it easier to be struck. but telling him to pay loudly and protest neatly doesn’t change what the tax is doing.” there was no accusation in it, only fact. protesting while complying held little weight, in his mind. if words were thunder, action was lightning. “we can’t keep pretending the river isn’t rising just because we’ve learned to swim in it.”

he looked back to akhirah, jaw tightening slightly. “i won’t tell you that you shouldn’t bend. i won’t tell you not to kneel. something has to be done, and done openly. other stormlords feel the same. they just haven’t said it as plainly…or as eloquently.” he paused, rain sliding down the bridge of his nose. “but if you carry this alone, the crown will make an example of you. and then they will expect the rest of us to fall in line twice as fast.”

his hands settled on his hips, shoulders heavier now. “so here’s where i stand. i don’t think silence fixes it. i don’t think compliance with protest fixes it either. but if there is to be refusal, it cannot just be one banner. it has to be terms. clear ones. stormlanders together, stating what we will pay, what we won’t, and why. not rebellion. not apology. a boundary.” he exhaled slowly. “that gives will something to argue besides mercy.”

his eyes moved between them, strain finally visible in the tightness around them. “we don’t have the coin. they do. but we have the coastline. the harvest routes. the men.” his voice remained low, but it carried weight. “numbers matter, even if you don’t want to talk about them, will. not for war. for leverage. if something must be done, then let it be done with all of us deciding it, not one hall bracing for impact while the rest of us wait for the dragon to set the place ablaze.”

the lord of rain house did not commit himself one way or another, not yet. but the way his shoulders held, the way his gaze lingered on the river rather than either man, made it plain he was measuring every consequence. the choice before them seemed heavier than all the coin in westeros, and morgan, quiet as he was, intended to feel the full weight of it himself before he set it down anywhere permanent.

He stood half-shadowed by a willow, arms loose at his sides, head tilted slightly as he tracked the lazy arc of wings above the water. While not the exact bird he sought, he found it beautiful all the same. He had thought himself alone until a voice cut through the peave. Baashir’s eyes did not leave the sky, but one brow rose slightly. The accent was unmistakable, and the dry jab at Reachfolk nearly pulled a smile from him. Nearly. Afterall, his mother was of the Reach even if he argued she'd been in Dorne long enough that he Reachman's accent often died on the vine.

His gaze followed the marsh harrier as it dipped behind the treeline. Then he lowered the dual spyglasses that hung from a leather strap at his neck, finally glancing to the side. “It is unwise to make assumptions of Dornishmen,” Baashir said at last, voice low, smooth, but not pointed. His attention wandered back to the sky. “Just as I assume it is unwise to believe a storm will wash away those born of it.”

He lifted the spyglass again with a certain care, watching the wings wheel and catch the wind, and spoke before lowering it again. “I look for wings,” he said simply. “Nothing more.” He paused, and with a faint shrug of one shoulder, added, “At least not today.”

He turned toward the man more fully now, taking him in fully before offering a light shrug of his shoulders, “Pale men always look strange outdoors,” Baashir observed without mockery, only certainty. “But clouds steal your sunlight, so perhaps it is I who stands out among the flowers and birds.” There was no jest in his voice, only a kind of mellow tone that was weathered, but not tired. He glanced again at the sky, then back at the other. “I suppose that means you and I are not so different, Lord...?”

at the question left hanging, he turned at last, giving baashir his full attention. not squared, not defensive, just present. “morgan wylde,” he said, simple as that. “of the rain house.” there was no flourish to it, no testing of rank. names, like birds, were better offered plainly, especially amongst men who were born enemies, despite not having known one another in any other way.  “and you’re right. i don’t belong out in the sun much. always too much cloud cover growing up, and large trees.” the corner of his mouth twitched, faint but genuine.

he shifted his weight, eyes lifting again as another shape cut across the light, smaller this time, quicker. “aye, wings tell you a lot if you’re willing to stand still long enough,” he said. “where the water runs shallow. where the air’s warm. what’s coming before it arrives.” his tone stayed even, practical, the way he spoke of most things. “i come out here to remember there are things in this world that don’t care about banners.”

wylliam swann descended the slope toward the riverbank with the deliberate gait of a man who would rather be anywhere else, but knew that duty left him no such mercy. the damp grass clung to his boots and the air was thick with that sour, buzzing quiet that followed tension long before words gave it form. he saw the two figures waiting—a contrast in composure and temperament if ever there was one. morgan wylde, steady as a carved stone, his manner always too mild for the stormlands’ reputation; and beside him, akhirah tarth, standing as if the ground beneath him were his own battlement. wylliam’s eyes lingered on him a fraction too long before he spoke.

“morgan,” he greeted, his voice clipped but not unkind as he reached the bottom of the slope. “you look the same as ever—calm as the godswood, though i can’t say the same for the rest of our kin.” the faintest twitch of a smile threatened his mouth before fading as his gaze shifted to akhirah. “and you, lord tarth. it’s been some time since you’ve deigned to leave your isle.” there was warmth nowhere in his tone—rather scathing sarcasm at the man who had been so intended to making himself a target he had made them all one. he stopped beside them, his hands folding neatly behind his back.

the sound of the mander filled the silence that followed, a ceaseless reminder that even the calmest surface could carry undercurrents strong enough to drown a man. he studied the river a moment before saying, “you know, morgan, you could give half the maesters in the capital a lecture on river currents. at least yours would be worth listening to.” but the humour was brief, swallowed by the seriousness that shadowed his next words. “as for the currents of men and money, well, those seem far less obedient.” his gaze turned fully on akhirah now, sharp and assessing - a frazzled bundle of irritation and desperation, all at once.

“i’ve heard the news from tarth. or rather, i’ve heard the lack of it. no coin, no tithe, no common sense.” the edge in his voice was unmistakable—an irritation born less of authority than of weary disappointment. “i’ve spent months keeping the stormlands out of the king’s mouth, and you—” he gestured vaguely toward the river, as if the water might carry the weight of his frustration away “—you go and set yourself apart like you’re itching for the crown to notice you.”

he knew how it sounded—accusation, not advice—but there was no helping it. wylliam had always struggled with diplomacy when dealing with his own. it was easier to scold a lannister than to rebuke a stormlander; easier still to feign distance with men who weren’t raised on the same salt and fury that bred him. “what is this then?” he continued, his tone tightening, a gloved hand indicating to the three of them stood there on the banks of the mander. “is this rebellion or pride? because if it’s the former, i’ve had enough of rebellion to last a lifetime.”

wylliam finally met akhirah’s eyes again, his tone less scathing now, but heavy with warning. “you don’t have to like it. i don’t. but you’ll pay, and you....you need to just pay it, akhirah. better to lose some coin than your head. you’re not the only one of us with a temper, but i’d like to think you’re one with sense.” then, quieter, almost begrudgingly, “if you want to change something, do it where it matters. make them hear you at court. force them respect you, because jaehaerys- he can be talked around. it's the right of the valyrians we need to just swat away, like these bloody bugs."

the mander bit at the bank with a steady, urgent voice, and akhirah stood with the reins coiled in his hand as if the leather itself could bind his resolve. his cloak smelled faintly of salt and damp, and the horse shifted beneath him, impatient in a way that mirrored the restlessness pressing at the back of his skull. he let the river speak for a moment, letting its motion settle the hot words that had been thrown at him; then he unfurled himself and answered, quiet but without apology. "it's too late."

“i know what you think, will, and i know where your patience comes from,” he said, his voice even as the line of his jaw set; “you think the court will fix what celtigar has broken because numbers and manners soothe a king. you plead practicality, and i see the sense in your ledger. you’d rather feed the dragon a little than watch the dragon burn the village.” but a dragon was a dragon - he could not pretend any further.

he shifted his weight and watched the light catch in the water, thinking of the farmers who had come to tarth with empty baskets, the fishermen whose nets had been taxed until the holes mattered less than the take-home. “but my backbone does not bend to appetite where my people bleed,” he continued, his tone planting itself like a stake in the riverbank. “i will not take coin from the mouths of my own, pile it into another man’s vault, and call it wisdom. that is not stewardship; that is starvation.” he let the words sit between them, sharp as a drawn blade, and felt the small tightening in morgan’s face at the admission that this was no simple refusal but a pledge.

the memory of morgan’s report—the hollowed room at court, the king’s distracted eyes—was a small stone in his gut that doubled his certainty. “morgan just told me how the king listened,” he said, voice lower now, narrower with the cold of disappointment as a gloved hand indicated towards the lord of rain house. “he told me of a room where the king, didnt listen. if jaehaerys’ ear is tied by those who profit from our plight, what faith do i owe a council that polishes ledgers and ignores hunger?” he let the sound of the river answer him, filling the pause with its indifferent truth. there was no hint of a politicians diplomacy in his tone, no assumption that akhirah tarth should be anywhere but his own hall, or on the battlefield. no council chamber.

he bent his head slightly, imagining the ledger-keeping men of the capital, men who balanced names as if they were pieces on a board. he shook his head against the mander's wind and flow at the idea of him going forward to court. “i will not trade the agency of tarth for the fleeting approval of men who count loyalty by coin. i will not venture to the capital, until the taxes have been lifted, or made equal with those houses within the crownlands." he realised it was not about valyrian lineage - for even the estermonts had to pay the taxes, and they shared the same blood.

“i will not call for a rebellion,” he added, slower, deliberate. “we will keep our houses fed, we will reroute what we can, we will tighten sails and hold councils in our own halls. we will refuse to be the treasury for a tax that crushes our people.” there was a beat, and then a slight exhale. "and if that is to be painted as rebellion, then..." the certainty in his voice was tempered by the knowledge of consequence—he had weighed it as carefully as any blade before choosing to press. he paused, the river folding sound into the dusk, and drew breath as if to throw a final, firm thread across the space. “help me then, will—if you still can. bring what sense and counsel you have to the table here, with us, not merely from the king’s chair. do not ask me to kneel where my knees would happily be broken."

he glanced toward wylliam then, acknowledging him with a slight incline of his head. “will’s been sandbagging the river for us at court. it’s thankless work, and it won’t hold forever. he knows it. i know it.” his brow furrowed slightly, the closest morgan came to showing strain. “but a single man can’t hold a flood back. not with ledgers or titles.”

turning toward akhirah again, his voice remained level, not unkind. “where your people bleed, you’re right not to ignore it. but if the crown names it refusal instead of protection, they’ll send collectors with swords instead of quills. and once soldiers start marching, getting them turned around again costs more than coin.” he drew in a breath, steady. “we survive by knowing when to give ground and when to reinforce it. not by taking the whole strain on one hall alone.”

morgan shifted, watching a fallen branch caught in the faster current, spinning helplessly until it snagged against a rock. “you don’t need to kneel,” he said, quiet but firm. “but if you plant your hall like a rock in the center of the flow, don’t be surprised when the river tears the foundation before it bends course.” he lifted his gaze to wylliam once more. “if we’re to hold, it has to be together. stormlanders setting the terms, here, before someone else sets them for us.”

his eyes swept the bank, then both men. “so if this isn’t rebellion, and it isn’t submission either, then we decide, now, what it is. and what we’re willing to risk to keep it from turning into something worse.” he fell quiet again, letting the rush of water fill what didn’t need to be said twice.

the lord of the rain house ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands as if the motion could steady the tension coiling in his chest. he let out a low breath, shoulders tightening for a moment before loosening again to speak. “our numbers are greater than theirs, even if our coin isn’t,” he admitted, voice quiet, almost swallowed by the rush of the river. “that’s what keeps me up some nights, the thought that we could have the people but not the means, and the crown will still call us out of line. we can’t pretend that strength alone solves everything.” he pressed his palms against his thighs, leaning slightly forward, as if the weight of that simple truth threatened to pull him under.

the banks of the mander were alive with the restless rush of water, a ceaseless roar that pressed against the ears and gave rhythm to the silence between two men. akhirah tarth stood with the reins of his horse wound loosely about his hand, the animal shifting its weight now and then, its dark eyes reflecting the flickering light of the river. beside him, morgan wyde seemed at war with his own patience, his gaze flicking irritably from the drifting current to the faint swarm of gnats that hovered about the reeds. akhirah could see it for what it was—morgan’s constant battle to seem unbothered whilst every twitch of his hand betrayed the nuisance.

the stormlander lord had learned to watch men quietly, not with suspicion but with that same calm distance he kept from the sea when he felt its temper growing. now, as they lingered together on the grass that sloped down to the water’s edge, he found the silence stretched enough to warrant words. it were painstakingly obvious what they were all here to discuss; the fact that as of now, not a single bit of coin had been sent forward to the master of coin's collectors - to the king's collectors. a summons had not yet been received from the halls of kings landing, but they all knew it was a matter of time.

“it's moving fast, ain't it?” he remarked, his voice measured, carrying as much observation as it did intent; both of his arms crossed together over his torso almost defensively, as though his mood was beginning to reflect in the rush of the currents. he did not know why rivers moved so fast and why some did not, though he knew the lord of rain house would very much know - whilst he was not one for distraction, something felt needed to distract themselves from what felt like impending doom. from akhirah standing his ground, refusing to change his mind despite seeing it from the others point of view - it would be the beginning of a dangerous chapter, one the carons had already suffered from. “why's it do that?”

he let the words hang there, knowing morgan would likely shift them back toward the waiting at hand. akhirah had always preferred stillness to chatter, but he also knew this meeting was no mere courtesy. wylliam swann had summoned them, under the banner of duty if not unity, and it was not often that akhirah agreed to travel this far away from his own isle. he was, in many ways, estranged from such gatherings—his refusal to attend king’s landing was known well enough—but this was different. akhirah swiped briefly at his sleeve as another insect hovered too close, killing it with the quickest swat - before remembering who he had done such a thing before. akhirah let his mouth tilt into the faintest ghost of a smile, trying not to find the matter amusing. "sorry - i don't like the buzzing."

“they don’t mean harm,” morgan murmured, as though speaking more to himself than to akhirah. “we're just in their way.” he let it go after that, shoulders drawing back with a breath as he forced the thought aside. he wasn’t one for scolding or sentimentality, but some small part of him bristled at the casual end of a thing so small and persistent. he turned his eyes back to the water, letting the silence settle a moment longer.

“the king…” he began, but the word caught in his throat before it could shape into anything else. morgan shifted again, this time glancing at akhirah with a weariness he did not bother to disguise. “it didn’t go well.” the admission was blunt, but his voice remained low, level, as if even here the grass and the wind might carry his words back to the wrong ears. “i thought i’d prepared myself for it, knew the whispers, knew what was being said in the halls before i even set foot in them.” his jaw tightened. “but still, it surprised me. that i was surprised.”

he exhaled through his nose, uncharacteristically frustrated, for one so often calm and collected. “there was no reassurance in that room, no listening, no room for reason.” his hand closed loosely around a reed, thumb running along its edge until it bent under the pressure. “i’ve been thinking since i left what it is he actually expects of us stormlanders, and i’ve yet to find an answer that doesn’t leave a sour taste in my mouth.”

it was the most he said of the conversation since it had occurred, and after a moment, morgan’s eyes returned to the rushing water, its surface bright and fractured under the sun. he let silence fill the space between them for a few moments before his eyes caught the lanky figure of wylliam swann approaching along the treeline, the hand of the king moving with careful, thoughtful steps. morgan raised a hand in greeting, deliberate and steady. “oh look, here comes will, now."

it was a well-known fact amongst all who knew norbie grafton well - when he'd had too much to drink, his face turned a bright shade of scarlet. it wasn't there at the moment, but there was a tell-tale swathe of colour in his cheeks, painted high on his cheekbones, that made it plain he was well on his way. on the table before him was a velvet pouch, opened to reveal a set of jade dice. he was holding one aloft, so the light caught on it and illuminated the gold numbering and the veining of the gem they were hewn from, so that morgan could admire it.

"beautiful, aren't they?" there was no slur in his voice. norbie did not slur when he drank, though he vale accent became a good deal stronger, a brogue that could make him difficult to understand for those who did not possess it themselves. "hopefully these ones are a bit kinder to me than my usual set. i swear it's been months since i've seen a twenty." that was no exaggeration - at their usual quills games, he'd been on a notable unlucky streak, something the rest of the group had picked up on and joked about. he knew it was all a matter of probability, that luck did not really exist, but a new set of dice couldn't hurt.

"speaking of, remind me to show you my new artificer." their last had died at the last table, caught in a trap because the entire group had forgotten to check the glyphs. at the beginning, when seven were eight and they had only just started playing, he used to write wizards, a habit he had long ago broken when he had decided to try something new, and never looked back. "he's a gnome, and he wears funny little goggles. that's about as far as i've got, though. i'm useless at the backstories."

he rose slowly from his chair, not abruptly, but with the weight of wine and time both catching up to him. his hand lingered on the back of it, and for a moment he simply stood there, letting his gaze linger on the table, on the pouch, on norbie’s flushed-cheeked enthusiasm. “feels like the hours vanish with these talks. easier to lose track of time here than in half the books i’ve tried to finish this month,” he muttered, not quite smiling but not as stern as he often seemed. “the strategy’s one thing. but the stories are what pull you in. what keep you coming back.”

“My Hand is from the Stormlands,” he said sharply, each word clipped and precise. “I have Stormlords on my council and in my court. How much more representation should I offer them?” He reached up abruptly, tweaking the edge of his spectacles, a small, irritated gesture he often used when his patience was thinning. “For men who want and wish for so much, they seem to do very little with what they are given.”

His voice rose, irritation clear beneath the careful control, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly with suppressed frustration and damaged nerves. “They have every right to fortify their keeps, to build their roads, and the crown will assist where it is needed. Yet if men choose instead to cry into their cups rather than come and stand before me to voice their needs directly, what am I to do?” His eyes flashed, the spoiled dragon rose in the petulant curl of his lip. “Am I expected to ride to their keeps myself and beg? Shall I become the beggar king?”

Internally, Jaehaerys felt a cold shadow settle over his thoughts, twisting Morgan’s calm counsel into something unsettling. Why did Morgan know so much about the murmurs of discontent within the Stormlands? Were the Stormlords openly sharing their grievances with him, their doubts and resentments whispered comfortably to this man alone? A disturbing possibility flickered to life—perhaps Morgan encouraged their defiance. Perhaps the man seated before him, so steady and sure, was not quite as loyal as Jaehaerys had always believed.

“i would never expect you to beg, your grace,” he said at last, his voice steady and measured. “but it is not unheard of for a king to ride through his realm. even aegon processed through the riverlands, not to ask for allegiance, but to show them the strength of the bond he offered in return. storms end is not so far. a royal procession, even briefly, would say more than any raven ever could. men rally better behind a king they’ve seen, spoken with, shaken hands with. you know that.”

he moved to stand now, his tone respectful, but not meek. “loyalty is not the issue, your grace. the stormlords have sworn their banners, and they have not broken those oaths. what they question is not the crown, but whether it still remembers them. trust, i’ve found, is more brittle than allegiance. i only meant to speak to that, not to undermine you.”

the verdant concord was a living maze of minds in motion—ideas blooming in every pavilion, philosophy carried on perfumed breezes, ink and inspiration dripping from parchment and tongues alike. ellie had found herself tucked beneath a silken canopy lined with gilded diagrams, where geometric theories were being shared and debated. she had hoped for a thoughtful discussion. instead, she was halfway through a headache.

“no, my lord, you’re forgetting to account for rotational momentum. your values ignore torque completely,” ellie said evenly, though her jaw tightened as the man—lord duram of house whatever—waived his hand dismissively as though her words were mere decoration.

“i assure you, my dear, the method has been tested. you may have misread the chart,” he said with the kind of smile that made her fingers itch to hurl his inkpot at him.

ellie straightened, folding her hands neatly in front of her to keep them busy. “i read the chart quite well. that particular equation was derived from maester ulwyne’s work on counterweight mechanisms—only, ulwyne’s theorem included atmospheric drag. yours doesn’t.”

she saw the moment his confidence cracked—but still, he pressed on, refusing to concede the point. ellie had debated men like this before. she knew the pattern. she could beat him. the numbers were on her side.

but it seemed like divine intervention came in to save her as she felt the presence of her friend by her side. one of the seven quills. he would know she was righ, he always had.

she glanced toward him, just briefly. but her look was clear as day. the other lord was most likely arguing with her over something so simple probably for the fact she was a woman

ellie turned back to lord duram, her voice softer, but still razor-sharp. “would you care to wager a few silver stags on who’s read more treatises on rotational force? or shall we let someone else decide?” her eyes flicked to morgan now, at least happy there would be someone in her corner. “any chance you are familiar?”

he strolled up beside her, hands clasped loosely behind his back, eyes flicking over the papers. “i might not wear chains,” he said, tone easy but deliberate, “but house wylde keeps a rather large collection of texts on engineering and motion. old treatises, updated commentaries. a few of them even bear my handwriting.”

he looked up at duram now, not unkind, but not deferential either. “lord duram, if you’re basing your model on ulwyne’s second edition, you’ll be missing drag. if it’s the fourth, you’ll find it in the marginalia. ellie’s right, as usual.”

duram’s mouth opened, but no rebuttal came. instead, he gave a stiff nod, muttered something about double-checking figures, and retreated through the canopy with as much dignity as he could gather. morgan waited until his footsteps faded.

“you know,” he said lightly, stepping closer to her, “i don’t expect a thank-you, but i’d accept one in the form of a lemon tart.”

that was all he would offer on the matter, instead settling back into his seat and rolling a coin between his fingers with practiced ease. it was a sharp contrast - where morgan was a fish out of water here, aemon was utterly in his element, so comfortable that he could probably put his feet up on the table without it looking improper or out of place. he had always thrived in places like this, where a keen eye and a sharp tongue was worth more than luck.

on the other hand, morgan bore the pained expression of a man just waiting for something to go wrong. it was all over him - the way his shoulders tensed and his fingers drummed against the table. it was enough to send a pang of guilt through aemon, and the look of amusement in his violet eyes softened just a fraction.

"don't be so sure i'll win," he leaned forward to pluck his cards from the table, glancing at them quickly before placing them face down, his expression impassive. "it's all luck, isn't it? perhaps today will be the day mine runs out." he tapped the table, fingers making a light sound on the wood. "come on, are we dealing you in, or are you content to remain an observer?"

“i’m not so sure i had better sense to begin with,” he said dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching with something close to a smile. “but what little i do have tends to keep me out of places like this.”

he shifted again, less tense now, though the noise still grated, too much laughter, too many flickering lights, the smell of wine too sweet and too thick in the air. his gaze drifted across the room, catching glimpses of men in loud conversation, women with painted lips leaning too close to eager ears. all of it performed. aemon fit here, as easily as a blade into a sheath. morgan, on the other hand, felt like iron bent in the wrong direction.

still, he didn’t stand. instead, he looked back down at the table and tapped once. “deal me in.” his voice was even, firm. not resigned, exactly—just settled. if he was going to be here, he might as well make use of the time.

“but i’m not making a show of it,” he added. “i’ll leave the flashing coins and clever remarks to you.”

he glanced at aemon again, this time less guarded. “you always did know how to make a room yours,” he said, almost thoughtfully. “even when it wasn’t.”

he picked up the cards when they came, turning them in his hand without flourish. “i’ll play,” he repeated. “only because you asked. not because i believe in luck.”

A slow breath left him, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “You have never been one to waste words,” he said, his voice quieter now, the edge of frustration dulling in the face of Morgan’s steadiness. “I have always valued that about you.”

His fingers loosened around the goblet, though he did not drink. Instead, he let his gaze drift, as if weighing what had been said. He knew the truth of Morgan’s words. The Stormlords were proud, stubborn men, and they would not be led like sheep. But he was not asking them to be sheep.

“I have never meant to drown them out,” Jaehaerys admitted, finally meeting Morgan’s gaze again. “Nor do I intend to now. But ruling is not a matter of listening alone—it is action, it is foresight. It is making the choices others will not.” His lips pressed together for a moment before he continued. “And there are many voices now, Morgan. You know that as well as I do. They speak of coin, of alliances, of what must be done to keep this realm from falling into the ruin my grandfather fought to prevent.”

His expression shifted then, something more familiar, something softer—though only for a breath. “But I have never forgotten who stood at my side when I had nothing but a claim and a sword.” He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “And I was always better with the sword than the claim.”

He let the moment settle, let the flicker of warmth remain before his voice turned steady once more. “I will not let them drown you out, Morgan. Or your men. The Stormlands have always been my shield, and I will not let them rust.”

"then give them cause to stand with you," he said. "not just in war, but in rule."

he leaned forward slightly, the firelight casting deep shadows across his face. "go to them. not as a king issuing decrees from afar, but as a man who would understand those he asks to follow him. ride through the stormlands. see the men, speak to them—not just the lords in their halls, but the ones who hold the swords, the ones who keep the fields, who pay the taxes that fill your coffers."

his fingers tapped once against the arm of his chair. "you ask for loyalty, for obedience, for coin. give them something in return. opportunity. a reason to believe that what they give will not be taken for nothing."

he held jaehaerys' gaze. "open new roads, fortify their keeps, give their sons a place in your guard, their captains a voice in your war councils. let them earn the wages to pay what you ask, rather than asking for what little they have."

his voice did not rise, did not press. it was a simple truth. "you know well, a king does not rule byj words alone. he rules by the strength of those who stand behind him. show them that you do not ask for their service lightly, that you do not take their steel or their coin without cost to yourself."

aemon knew well that this scene, a gambling den tucked behind a wine-sellers storeroom on the street of sisters, was not morgan's idea of a good time. that had been by design. he had no doubt that morgan would drag him out to the kingswood before returning to the stormlands, and so, for tonight, he could indulge aemon in this.

it was no second-rate affair, one of the more upmarket establishments in the city. even the girls serving wine were dressed in fine silks and finer jewels. smoke curled thick above tables light with candlelight, the quiet chatter punctuated with the clatter of dice on tables, and aemon loved it.

"don't look at me like that, morgan," he shot morgan a look from the corner of violet eyes, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. "it isn't like i forced you in here. and even if i did, you didn't fight very hard, did you?" he had spotted two empty chairs at a table, where the dealer was beginning to shuffle the deck for another round. he led morgan over, dropping into one of the seats and gesturing for the two of them to be dealt in.

"just one round, yes? if i win, you can buy me a drink. and if i lose, then i'll buy you one. good man." he gave morgan no space to answer. aemon's rings caught the candlelight as he placed his coins on the table, already at ease in his surroundings.

“you have a way of making a man forget his better sense, aemon,” he said, settling into his chair with a quiet sigh. his gaze now focusing on the dealer’s hands as they shuffled the deck. he wasn’t good at deflecting, but he did his best to keep his tone neutral.

he studied aemon for a moment, the smooth movements of his rings, the ease with which he slipped into the rhythm of this place. morgan wasn’t one for games of chance, but he knew the value of a wager. and in truth, he could appreciate a man who wasn’t afraid to gamble with his luck.

“one round, eh?” he said quietly, his fingers tapping on the wood of the table in an unsteady rhythm. “you’ll win, I suppose.” his voice was dry, but there was a hint of resignation beneath it. he wasn’t confident in these games, never had been.

he glanced up, catching a fleeting glimpse of aemon’s smirk, before his eyes quickly dropped again. “but if I end up buyin’ that drink... I’ll just call it a good reminder that I don’t belong here.”

his thumb brushed idly over the leather strap across his chest, keeping the quiver of arrows secure against his back. he'd yet to draw one, or to so much as raise the bow he held loosely at his side. he doubted he would before the day was done, but one did not come to a hunt without weaponry. "i would invite you to visit gulltown and experience that rhythm for yourself, if i thought you'd take any enjoyment in it," he chuckled. he did not know morgan wylde well, but he knew the lord's reputation well enough to know that he was a man who preferred nature's quiet to the city's bustle. for norbie, it was a different matter entirely. morgan was right - he often found himself yearning for it when he was away from home. it was his city, and he loved it dearly.

it wasn't that he could not appreciate the beauty of the forest, too, it was simply that norbie knew this was not his element. he considered himself to be a modern man, and here amongst the trees, they were in a place that had yet to be touched by civilisation. there was a stillness to the woods, a sense that they could be transported to any era, and simply not notice until the time came to emerge.

the forest around them held a stillness that morgan found more familiar than any city’s pulse. here, the air moved differently, untouched by the press of bodies and the weight of stone walls. yet he understood norbie’s attachment to gulltown, the way a man could come to love the place that shaped him. morgan supposed he felt much the same about the stormlands, though his love was not for the streets of storm’s end but for the cliffs and sea, the raw, untamed nature of his home.

his gaze followed norbie’s upward, watching as the sunlight wove through the canopy, dappling the ground in shifting patterns. “harmony’s a fickle thing,” morgan remarked after a moment, returning to their earlier conversation. “braavos finds balance because it must. like gulltown, like any place where men gather close. it’s necessity, not peace.” he glanced at norbie, considering him. “but there’s a beauty to that, i’ll grant you.”

norbie’s next words, that quiet musing on duty and self, gave morgan pause. he turned the thought over in his mind before answering, even if one wasn't warranted. “if not duty, something else would define us,” he said finally. “we aren’t made to drift aimless.” he glanced at the bow in norbie’s hand, at the way his fingers traced the strap of his quiver. “you’d still find your way to the heart of things, i think. just as i’d find my way back to places like this.”

brandon karstark’s eyes flicked towards morgan wylde, catching the faint twitch of his fingers against the goblet. the stormlander’s steady composure betrayed little, but brandon knew better than to mistake still waters for calm. the quiet hum of the hall wrapped around them, the fire casting long shadows across the stone. “ye ask if i know the stormlands?” brandon’s voice rumbled low, the northern accent thick as the winter winds that howled through the north.

“aye, i know them. not from wanderin’ yer hills or feelin’ yer rain, but from knowin’ what it means to be forgotten. to feel the weight o’ the crown bear down, heavier than the storms ye weather. and yer closer to us northerners than any other.”

he paused, his grey eyes narrowing as he studied the flicker of the firelight across morgan’s face. “experience teaches a man plenty, wylde, but it’s the sharp eye that keeps him breathin’. i’ve seen enough to know what happens when pride turns brittle, and we've seen a whole kingdom crumble ‘cause they didn’t see the cracks ‘til it was too late.” brandon shifted slightly, the leather of his gloves creaking as his fingers tightened briefly around the edge of the table.

“rebellion, ye say? it’s a fool’s game against a king like jaehaerys. man’s temperamental, too quick to the sword. he’ll rip the stormlands out by the roots if ye give him cause. but there’s another way. nightsong—it needs to be yours again. it’s a start. a symbol, aye, but symbols carry weight.”

he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “ye want to make a statement? then do it right. refuse the tax. all of ye, together. they can’t punish ye all without cripplin’ themselves. it’s not rebellion—it’s a stand. one they can’t ignore, but one they can’t call treason neither.”

he leaned forward slightly, his voice low but firm. “a stand, you say?” his eyes narrowed as he thought it through. “i’ve never been one to back away from a fight, but a refusal... that’s something else entirely. it could break us, or it could make them see us again.” his hand tightened slightly around his goblet as he considered the ramifications. “the crown’s not a forgiving beast, and the tax... it’s a weight that’ll break anyone eventually.”

his friend's gaze remained steady, but there was something like understanding in it, as if he too had wrestled with the same dilemma in quieter moments. morgan exhaled, sitting back as he rubbed a hand across his jaw. “but if we stand together, all of us... if we make it clear we’ll not bend under the yoke, that we’re not their fools... well, maybe that’s a statement that even the crown can’t ignore.” he glanced up at brandon, his voice quieter now. “maybe that’s the kind of statement that could force change.”

his fingers drummed idly on the rim of his goblet. the longer he thought, the more the idea of standing firm felt less like an impulsive act of defiance and more like a necessary step for the future.

“if we stand together,” morgan muttered, almost to himself, “perhaps it’s the way to hold on to what’s ours. aye, there’s no denying the risk, but is the crown willing to make the same sacrifices we are?” he shifted his gaze back to bran, his tone thoughtful. “we’ve not been pushed this far before, but there’s power in making them reckon with us.”