♟ — light and shadow.

of all the rooms in gull tower, norbie's study was the one that he preferred to keep private. it was his inner sanctum, and rare was it that he allowed another into it. as far as he could recall, it was only rhoswen selmy and wylliam swann who had ever been invited past its doors, until today. he thought this was the best place to have this conversation with zialla, as though letting her into the room itself was a rare treat that would soften what he was about to say to her.

the room was dominated by high, arched windows, offering a pleasant view over the city. the sun was setting over the harbour, casting shadows throughout the room, and norbie busied himself lighting candles, though his mind was on something else. the news of the verdant concord had come that morning, but it had been all norbie had thought about all day. it was as though king cedric had peeked into norbie's mind and managed to organise an event that was all his dreams come true, every name day and yuletide come at once. there was no way he could miss it.

the fly in the ointment, so to speak, was zialla. he had left her in gulltown while travelling before, but something about travelling to the reach felt different. he knew her history, and knew that it did not feel right to leave her behind this time, not when she would know where he was going and who he was staying with.

the only thing for it was to ask her to join him.

he lit the final candle, and sat down on a leather-backed chair at his desk, gesturing for zia to join him in the other paired with it. he wasn't sure why there were two chairs here, given that he usually, he used this room to be alone, but he was grateful for it now. "i'm sure you've heard of the verdant concord already?" he glanced at her, brows raised, waiting for her to confirm or deny it. "fascinating, truly. all manner of thinkers will be there - artists, inventors, scholars. it's the kind of thing i've been dreaming of since i was a boy."

it was obvious he was trying to hold back his enthusiasm, his hands fidgeting with the edge of a piece of parchment on the desk as he studied her face for a reaction. her feelings on the reach wasn't just a dislike, the way he didn't like the way the sands of dorne got everywhere or how his fingers ached in the freezing temperatures of the north. it ran far deeper than that, to a place that didn't feel like his to question. still, some doors only opened once. he would not miss the verdant concord for anything.

he'd imagined what it would be like to be there a dozen times already - what it might feel like to walk beneath vaulted glass with the greatest minds on the continent, to see things he'd read about not in ink, but in reality. to be part of it all. and yet, the thought of leaving her behind left a knot in his chest. it was not just the insensitivity of it, but because deep down, he suspected she might enjoy it too. after all, she herself had a thinker's mind.

“of course i’ve heard of the verdant concord. there's no avoiding hearing about it, it's the talk of the town,” she said after a moment, her voice calm but not without edge. her eyes flicked to him, unreadable, before returning to a tapestry that hung opposite his desk. “an assembly of minds from all corners of the world. thinkers, tinkerers, dreamers.” she exhaled slowly, lips pressing together. “and hosted in highgarden because where else would it be?” the irony in her voice was paired with a sigh.

she stopped her wandering and turned to face him properly then, her head tilting slightly as she studied him in the soft glow of the candles. there was an earnestness in his face, a boyish glint beneath the careful words. he was holding something back — she could see it as clearly as she saw the sea beyond the window. perhaps he thought she hadn’t noticed. she always noticed.

zia approached his desk, finally taking the offered chair, folding herself into it. she tried to hide the tension she felt, she did not want her discomfort to be too obvious in her posture. the thought of returning to the reach was torture. she felt that she'd rather walk into the sea, then travel to the kingdom that had been her home for around a year. norbie knew some of her experience, the meat of it, but there were still many things that she had left unsaid. not due to a lack of trust, but out of a desperation to try to move past it, to not allow it to linger like a festering wound.

she studied norbie in silence for a moment, allowing his request to hang in the air. he had quickly become her closest friend in westeros, and zia would genuinely miss his company if he went on another long trip without her. she hated the idea of disappointing him by saying no, and yet she was tempted to do just that. but then a thought that had haunting her for a while crept back in. perhaps because norbie had trusted her enough to invite her into a rare space… or maybe it was the call of opportunity.

she had been in gulltown for moons, and she had not seen norbie show any romantic interest in her, in anyone… not until she had first caught him glancing at lord peake, then lord estermont. it was hard to put her finger on what exactly she had noticed, why it was different from how he looked at her or other ladies, but there was something there. she knew not many in this realm were as open-minded as the braavosi, she had felt the sting of that herself. she wanted an honest conversation about it, to let norbie know that he could trust her, that he could confide in her. zialla just had no idea how to bring it up, afraid he would be too scared to open up, and their friendship would be severed if he attempted to push her away.

context: "who are you?" "i'm pam, who are you?" "i'm the owner of this house."

fiona swirled the wine in her goblet, watching the way the candlelight danced across its surface before taking a slow sip. the grand hall had begun to empty, laughter and footsteps fading into the corridors beyond, yet zialla remained. It was, of course, nothing worth remarking on—people lingered for all sorts of reasons. and yet...

she let her gaze drift casually toward the other woman, her expression one of idle curiosity. “it’s been such a lively evening, hasn’t it?” she mused, as if the thought had only just occurred to her. “i imagine you must be enjoying gulltown’s hospitality. it does have a way of making guests feel comfortable.”

her smile was warm, absentmindedly adjusting the bracelet on her wrist. “i can’t quite recall how long it’s been since you arrived, surely long since before my return, right? this such a tricky thing when one is caught up in the bustle of it all.” a soft, lilting laugh, just enough to suggest she hadn’t given it any real thought. “but you must be settling in well. i’d say gulltown quite agrees with you.”

“indeed,” she agreed, her voice carrying that lilting braavosi cadence not yet softened the time spent in westeros. “i’ve attended many feasts, but there’s something about the air in gulltown that makes the wine sweeter and the music linger longer in your bones.” she found the vale easier to navigate than the reach. she had heard certain things of queen ravella, but zialla found that she preferred the blunt approach of the valemen.

she wasn’t entirely sure what to make of fiona yet. norbie had mentioned her in passing, mostly with a touch of frustration, as brothers often did. zia had no wish to make things more difficult for him, and so she had resolved to treat fiona with the same grace she would show any lady that crossed her path. she knew that her reputation frequently preceded her, and she also knew the whispers were not kind.

“i’ve been here some moons now,” she continued, setting her goblet gently on the table. “long enough to feel familiar with the rhythm of the place. i must have been here as long as you have been in braavos, lady grafton.” she glanced toward the high windows, where the candlelight flickered faintly against the dark glass. “as you might have felt yourself, then braavos taught me to move quickly, but spending time with norbie in gulltown has reminded me how to be still. i think i needed that.”

there was a bit of cautiousness behind her soft smile. she had learned that pretty words could be like a honeyed trap. she was still learning to trust again. “i do not suspect i will return home to braavos again, lady grafton, not permanently at least. but i will not take advantage of your brother's hospitality indefinitely.” zia's plan was still to establish herself in westeros. to be near her daughter, to make sure that years of education were not wasted. she was not sure what the future held for her, but she felt sure that it was not in braavos.

He stepped closer, his imposing presence casting a long shadow over her. “I left Braavos, not my skill. If you think I am so easily cornered, you underestimate me.” His words were sharp, clipped, but there was a hint of something deeper in his tone - a warning, a thread of danger woven beneath his control.

Rhaegar’s lips curved into a cold semblance of a smile, though his eyes remained steely. “Very well,” he said, his voice dropping. “Name your price, my Lady, and pray it’s worth the risk of holding this over me. But remember, favors work both ways.”

her breath came slow, measured. for a heartbeat, doubt whispered at her heels — was she truly about to entangle herself with a faceless man? but then came the steadiness. a favour owed by a faceless man was worth a lot. it was worth more gold than she could acquire without questions asked. and she had lived long enough to know that every step forward came with a risk. if this was a game, then she would play it with her eyes open.

He leaned forward, his gaze steady and cool. "When my wife's cousin Garland Hightower needed help putting things in order, he entrusted his daughter to my wife. And we thank the Gods for that wisdom, for he knew she could be trusted above all else—after all, her own mother abandoned her, left her alone. Without our dear, late Lord Hightower's sense, that precious child might have ended up nothing more than a corpse."

Omer paused, his thoughts turning briefly to the Braavosi pirates who had fled with the child. They were no strangers to our waters, he mused silently, but it’s the coin behind their boldness that still nags at me. It wasn't a secret he and Garland weren’t on the best of terms in his final years but he was murdered, not negligent of his child. Was she truly a ward? In some ways, yes; in others, she was nothing short of a hostage, living with her cousins until she’d come of age and, if fate allowed, returned to Oldtown.

Omer’s tone grew coldly dismissive. "With that said, do not accuse my house of such crimes. The father of the child gave her to his cousin because the mother—if we can even call you that—was elsewhere."

zia felt an all-consuming anger at his insinuation that she had abandoned her child, a dagger twisting in her heart. her memories of garland hightower and the bitter taste of betrayal mingled with every word omer spoke. “i will not stand by and be painted as a negligent mother,” she immediately shot back, her voice low yet charged with a potent blend of grief and fury. “you know that he was the one who forced my hand, he did not allow me to take her with me, and i had nowhere to go but home. so i left my daughter with her father and the nurses i trusted to care for her, always meaning to return once new plans were laid. are you blaming me for not knowing garland would be murdered?” all of the artifice and polite conversation melted away, leaving behind a raw, unabashed emotion that she could neither hide nor deny. “and if i had known that he gave my daughter to your wife, you can trust that i would have returned from braavos immediately.” she would have rather be on the run with rosie, than knowing her child was being brought up by someone who hated half of the genes that made rosaria.

as omer continued with his patronising justifications, and the supposed wisdom of entrusting rosaria to his wife’s care, zia's disdain only grew. she knew that omer's tongue would never truly offer her the solace of genuine information about her daughter, only more of the same arrogant prattle that attempted to justify their cruelty. he was exactly like his wife. “i am not here to play your petty games or to listen to your lies,” she declared, her tone icy. “i learned long ago that the words of your kind are as empty as your hearts.” her mind raced, each thought sharpening her resolve to protect what remained of her heart, even as she scorned his every insinuation.

zialla was done with the conversation. she felt beyond done with the realm of the reach, and would be happy to never talk to a single person from there again. but she could never be truly done, not when her daughter remained there as the heiress of oldtown. there was also something else inside her, a feeling so conflicting that she did not know what to call it. what if rosaria was happy there? what if the side of her that came from garland was enough for her to be considered one of their own? she would grow up rich and connected, with a powerful title and keep of her own one day, probably wanting nothing to do with her mother if lucrezia whispered in her ear. rosie would have far more than zia could ever give her. but it hurt deeply to think about.

“you have nothing to say of my daughter, and i have nothing to say about your pirates, so i assume this conversation is done?”

“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.”

she did not quite look at him then, eyes fixed instead on the way the wind stirred the high grasses near the cliff’s edge. braavos never felt this thin in the air. never so high, so exposed. “i’ve not sung in some time,” she added, softer now. “not since…” the rest of the sentence twisted behind her ribs like a thorn. not since rosaria’s birth. not since garland’s request, cruel and cold as a blade. not since her voice, once a comfort, had become a memory of whom she used to be.

yet she found herself looking at rhys anyway, drawn to that flicker of amusement behind his words. he did not mock her, not truly. or if he did, it was the sort of mockery she could return in kind. she stepped a little closer, close enough to smell the leather of his coat, the faint metallic tang of old blood and mountain air. he was fascinating because he was not fixed. and neither was she. people like the two of them didn’t root easily. they drifted. she could deny that drifting with someone else for a short while seemed less terrible than drifting alone.

she gave him a long look, letting the silence hang until it felt like its own kind of defiance. a part of her would relish in finally telling someone of a standing above her that she would refuse to sing, to let their request fall on deaf ears. “i am afraid you might mistake me for someone simpler than i am,” she murmured, letting the words brush the space between them. “but i’ll give you what you’ve asked for, your highness. not because i must, but because i choose to.”

her gaze slid past him, out toward the jagged snow-draped peaks and the ever-shifting sky. then she breathed in once, deeply. when she sang, it was quieter than it had once been. no golden halls filled with murmuring courtiers, no sealord’s applause or clink of wine cups. just the mountains, the wind, and a single listening prince.

“when stone was bone and sea was flame, and black ships rose without a name, the old ones sang in tongues of tide— and braavos bloomed where blood had dried.”

the well-known braavosi valyrian words lingered in the cool air, trembled, and then vanished like mist. her throat felt tight, not from nerves, but from memory. she laughed then, dry and low. “there. now you know the songbird still has her voice, and i am sure my fingers still know the strings of the harp.” her dark eyes collided with the prince's again, watching carefully. “tell me then, did i pass your test of proving my offer was beyond courtesy?”

do you believe your neutrality can withstand that? graham’s brow lifted slightly at her question, the frankness of it catching him off guard as his expression remained as blank as it usually did, one hand resting behind his back and his grey orbs merely fixed upn her. it wasn’t often someone spoke to him without the usual coating of formality or caution, especially not someone like lady zialla antaryon—a braavosi with all the careful elegance of the free cities behind her. yet here she was, speaking as though they had known one another for years, her tone direct and unflinching - he were not enough of a courtly man to find offense at her words, but he began to understand just how she may have found herself being bitten by the garden snakes within the countless mazes and walls of highgarden.

he let the silence stretch for a moment, his gaze sliding past her to the dark waters of gulltown’s harbour below. lights flickered along the docks, ships swaying gently in the night tide. there was a calmness to the scene, but beneath it, the currents ran deep—much like this conversation.

“the vale’s weathered its share of enemies, lady zialla, the most significant being those who were once our own.” he said finally, his voice measured but clear. he took the time to ensure his royce highland accent did not wrap too tightly around his voice, maintaining eye contact with multiple of his fellow knights of the vale in passing - time and time again, they offered one another the same nod. “dragons once soared above these mountains. rebels hammered against the bloody gate. and yet, the vale stood. it always does.” his tone wasn’t boastful—there was no need—but it carried a simple truth. “we don’t bend easy.” he glanced at her then, studying her expression. she was sharp—he’d gathered that much—and her question wasn’t without merit.

bringing the iron bank into gulltown’s affairs would shift the balance. it would draw eyes—some curious, some hostile. but alliances, true alliances, always did, as far as he understood. “you’re not wrong to ask,” he admitted, his thumb brushing thoughtfully against the hilt of his sword. “siding with braavos puts a mark on us, whether it’s plain to see or not. the lyseni will take it as a slight—they already have, if their attempt on my life says anything.” there was a flicker of dry humour in his voice, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes - a sense of dry smugness which rang true in many knights from this corner of the world. “and their friends won’t be far behind, if they were true to their word.” jaehaerys targaryen, was not. he was not a traditionalist when it came to alliances; he would not cause issues upon the continent of westeros which would disadvantage him further, not when he were dealing with the dornish borders.

he shifted his weight, the creak of leather from his doublet filling the pause. “but the vale isn't a land that lives in fear of new enemies. we choose them carefully, aye, but we don’t shy from them when the cause is worth it.” and that was it, ultimately, just like how strategic decisions needed to be worth it on the battlefield, as they did when making political dealings across the table. his gaze hardened slightly as he listened and considered her deeper purpose here. “i know you’re not in this for braavos alone. it’s your daughter, isn’t it? her birthright. oldtown.” he didn’t soften the words, but there was understanding there. the fight for family was something he knew well—too well. “that’s not the sort of thing a mother lets go of.” his own never would have done such a thing so casually either.

“still, it was how you said it—‘fight’—that caught me. so i’ll ask plain: how do you plan to fight for her? is it through coin? backroom dealings? or somethin’ bloodier?” his eyes narrowed, not in accusation but calculation. “and more to the point—whose fight is it? yours? or your father’s? the sea lord’s reach runs long, and his coin longer. is it his ships that’ll set sail for reach waters, or are you leadin’ this yourself?” he asked directly, and did not expect to hear the truthful answer; only, he wished for her to know there allies. she could trust him, for he were a man of his word; but they were not akin enough for his realm to entangle itself in something that was simply not worth it. he could see the lines of tension in her, subtle but there. it was a fair question, and one that mattered. “i’m traditional when it comes to alliances,” graham continued, his voice firmer now.

zia did not believe it to be impossible to strike a deal with the reach, but she already knew it would involve signing all of rosaria's claims to oldtown and the hightower away. in her mind, they were merely waiting for an excuse to strip away rosaria's rights to oldtown, so the hightower line would continue through gael. sometimes in her desperation for her child, she would find herself writing a letter to king cedric. but then she would remember the feeling of the tip of the sword slicing across her back during the attempted coup, how she had been a target even as a child just for belonging to house antaryon. she thought about her childhood spent sitting by the window and gazing up at the tower of her ancestral home, while its shadows fall upon their lowly villa in comparison. the antaryon seat had never belonged to her closest family. it had always been occupied by an uncle, while her father had stubbornly clawed his way to some power. zialla would not condemn her daughter to a life of peril and envy due to having a powerful name but limited power. and so she always ended up throwing the letter into the fire, the words transforming into ash.

“you have my father's support among the keyholders, and the gratitude of the sealord, and that is worth a lot in braavos. i struggle to think of a reason the iron bank would choose another kingdom to grant this boon to. i have heard of no suggestion of any other but the vale.” zialla was tired of pretty words that meant nothing, lies that poisoned every conversation until there was no trust left. her entire life in oldtown had been a lie. when she stepped aboard the ship to gulltown, she had promised herself that it would be different this time. “i could lie and promise you a bank in your lands is a done deal, your grace, but we both know that decision is not up to me, not even solely to my family.” while her uncle was sealord, he did not control the iron bank. he had influence, yes, but there were no guarantees. “however, you will have my support and i will make that clear to my father and uncle, i can promise that.”

she could not hide the humourless smile that appeared on her lips. “i am not planning on marching an army through the reach to reclaim rosaria.” the very idea was absurd. she had no army, no bargaining chip, and zialla understood that made it impossible to make any moves. her only idea had been to send someone to steal rosaria for her, but even making such a move from the shadows was dangerous. ripples, as graham called it, could quickly turn into tidal waves, and she would not be able to control them. even if she was succesful, the reach would know who was responsible. “as long as i am assured my daughter is alive and safe, i will wait until i am married to decide what action to take. i am sure any lord i marry will have an opinion.” she needed to be secured in westeros before she could start moving whatever pieces available to her.

"I've come to discuss something else with you," Omer continued. "The answers you provide here may ensure the safety of many children in the Reach, including the daughter of House Hightower, ward of House Florent." Omer had yet to form a judgment about the woman before him. She wouldn't be the first to fall victim to the charms of the late Garland Hightower, returning home with nothing but their name. Still, she left without her daughter, he looked down on it.

she had no interest in talking to omer if he would tell her nothing of rosie, and she was about to tell him so until he revealed the reason why he was there. zialla's initial expression betrayed her surprise at omer's words. braavosi pirates? she knew enough to know they were active in the narrow sea, but to sail all the way to the sunset sea seemed unusual and risky. she knew pirates went wherever there was coin to be made. it did not seem to matter whether that coin came from whatever they could steal or plunder, or from the lining of a rich man's pocket.

"aye, the braavosi have vision. and the lyseni be blockin it." graham royce stood beside lady zialla antaryon, his tall frame still and stoic against the soft glow of the moonlight streaming through the wide windows. his gaze flickered between the twinkling lights of gulltown below and the poised braavosi woman at his side. her words were measured, deliberate, but the weight of her inquiry was not lost on him. he crossed his arms loosely over his chest, the faint creak of leather from his doublet breaking the quiet for just a moment.

“what do i envision for gulltown?” he repeated, his highlander lilt rolling low like distant thunder. he let the question linger, drawing in a slow breath as if the answer might reveal itself in the view below. “i’ll tell ye plain, lady zialla: i’m no merchant, nor banker, nor lord with silver coin flowin’ through my veins. i’m a soldier, a knight—what i know best is steel, bronze, runes and the sweat it takes to hold a place like this. coin and commerce? that’s another battlefield entirely.”

his brow furrowed as he shifted his weight, the moonlight catching faint lines of weariness on his face. “but even a soldier can ken the worth of what’s bein’ built here. gulltown’s not a city for extravagance, nor do i want it to be. it doesn’t need marble towers or gilded streets to stand out. it needs roots—strong ones. a place where folk can trade honest, live well, and find somethin’ solid to hold onto. it’s not about rivalin’ king’s landing or oldtown. it’s about somethin’ that can endure. that’s how the vale stands, after all. solid as the mountains themselves.” he glanced at her, his eyes sharp but not unkind.

“now, i’m well aware that other lords and lands will claw to bring a branch of the iron bank to their doorstep. they’ll promise gold and glory, flatter with words sweeter than honey. but gulltown’s appeal lies in somethin’ simpler. it’s a port with honest purpose, a gateway to both the vale and the broader kingdoms. it doesn’t need to be the grandest or the richest - our beacon of neutrality means our ports won't be closin' due to wars, we'll only strike to defend ourselves. the coin will be stable flow; that's what sells it and make it suitable.”

graham’s hand moved absently to the hilt of his sword, a gesture as natural to him as breathing. “i’ll not lie to ye, lady zialla. i don’t ken half of what makes a place prosper in the eyes of coin-counters. but what i do ken is loyalty. gulltown has that in its people, in the men and women who’ve weathered storms and wars for their home. and i’d wager that’s worth more than any gilded promise. the graftons overcame their issue with a traitorous lord some years ago, and came out stronger. their people benefit from that.”

she observed graham curiously as he answered her question. it was interesting he noted his limitations, and it was just as intriguing the way he presented himself as just a soldier, a knight, when that was no longer his title. his response seemed to be truthful enough, but it was clearly also a selling pitch, and she respected the ability to combine the two seamlessly. “a branch of the iron bank in your lands will make you plenty of enemies and friends, your grace, do you believe your neutrality can withstand that?” she thought it was a fair question. zia knew the lyseni would not be pleased, and she suspected their allies would not either.

graham did not have to specify what he meant about matters in other realms. “you are speaking of my trouble with the reach,” zia concluded as her expression darkened. it was no secret that her daughter was the reason she had returned to these shores. she wanted to be nearby, even if she could not see the child that she had been forced to abandon. “i doubt my house have any expectations of the vale in that regard. there are no invisible strings attached to your kind invite.” the words had double meaning. there was an understanding that gulltown would receive the favour of house antaryon, but there had been no promises made. she wanted the support of the vale against the reach, of course, but the agreement had not been made with that in mind, and she would not ask for it. in the end, whatever favour gulltown would receive from braavos would not be dictated by house antaryon. her family could influence some decisions, but not enough to ask a kingdom to turn against another. no one would be against a branch of the iron bank in westeros as another way to fight against the lyseni, it was merely a matter of interests aligning on where to put it. those were the decisions her uncle and father could sway in favour of gulltown to varying degrees. but zialla could not promise anything. these were matters far beyond her powers.

zia believed the king consort had been honest with her, and she wanted to offer him the same. “as you say yourself, then gulltown has enough positives to speak for itself, but i am sure it will get recommended by my house as a fine candidate for the new branch of the iron bank, even if you should take no stance on the matter of my daughter.” once again, she promised nothing. how far her family would go for gulltown and the vale was unknown to her.

he would keep an ear out for her, he decided, whilst they were in ninestars. he supposed she was an attractive enough woman, and came with a large dowry. pretty women with lots of money could never be too careful when it came to suitors, and the men would not be on their guard around him. he would be able to listen, and let her know who would be a good choice, and who would make a bad one, who was courting her for the wrong reasons. zialla antaryon had seen enough sorrows in her previous marriage. norbie would not see her wed again, only to walk into more.

she gave his shoulder two little pats, as if he needed comfort for his ailments. “i'd recommend a corset if it was not such an evil invention. it is impossible to slouch in that thing, it is hard enough just breathing in it.” zialla had worn one most days while in oldtown until she got too pregnant for it. it was flattering, sure, but at what cost? there was one hanging in her chambers right now, but every day she refused to be laced up in it. she let out a frustrated sigh. “if it was easy, then everyone would get it right, and everyone would be much happier.” she looked up at him with an understanding look in her eyes. the choice seemed even harder for lords. at least they had the power to make a choice, but it seemed to her that choice also came with the possibility of many regrets. at least she could comfort herself with that her failed marriage had been arranged by her father, not by her. she had done what was expected of her, and it had all collapsed in an instant anyway. “which is why it's so good that you are wise enough to take your time in choosing your bride. you will get it right, i am sure.”

even when norbie looked away, she was studying him, trying to decide something for herself. it was odd that he had never attempted anything with her, never even made a mention of it. there had been no lingering gazes, no suggestions he expected anything from her. there was only friendship as they had bonded. she focused again as he suddenly looked at her, and only sent him a wide smile.

he straightened slightly, leaning more heavily on his cane as the cool evening breeze brushed against them, carrying the scents of mountain pines and distant fires. “though I must warn you,” he continued, “if we’re to take up knitting, i’ll require a tutor. my talents lie more in unravelling plots than in creating anything tangible.”

his tone remained playful, but there was a glimmer of something deeper behind his sharp eyes—a recognition of the balancing act she described. “your father,” he began, tapping the pommel of his cane thoughtfully, “sounds like a man who learned to thrive in the spaces others overlooked. a third son who found power in the shadows. there’s wisdom in that, though i imagine it comes with its own price.” there was always a price.

his gaze turned outward, to the jagged peaks of the vale stretching endlessly beneath the moonlight. “it’s a delicate thing, isn’t it? to be important enough to matter, yet not so much that you threaten the ones above you. a game of precision.” he glanced back at her, his voice softer now. “it seems we both find ourselves caught in a similar dance, my lady—seeking a place that feels like home, while navigating the spaces between others’ expectations.”

he let the words settle, then shifted the mood with a smirk. “and as for that harp of yours,” he teased, “perhaps you might play something for us one evening. a melody to distract us from the weight of these mountains—or at the very least, from the fire and needles of our supposed knitting sessions.”

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.

High Commander Omer Florent's bicep itched, he blamed the air irritating his iron arm. The arm that was as much a work of art as a testament to his resilience. Forged from dark iron and secured with supple leather straps, the arm replaced the limb he lost in the fight with the iron born. Its fingers, jointed and riveted, moved carefully though they would never move like fingers but it allowed him to wield his blade as if it were an extension of his very soul. And while he still trained, he was coming to realize his place would not be on a battlefield forever.

The arm bore the Florent crest—an elegant red fox encircled by delicate blue flowers on an ermine field—etched into its surface with painstaking detail. A symbol of cunning and nobility, it was both a tribute to his house and a source of inspiration for his knights, the knights who drank and ate to their fill of Grafton hospitality. Omer only needed some privacy and was grateful to have it.

"Lady Antaryon." Omer looked up as his guards at the door announced her arrival.

Omer rose as she came into the room. He looked toward his man and nodded, dismissing him. Once the door closed, he looked at her, nodding his head and then taking a seat. He put the smoke down in the ceramic tray, the High Commander was not a man who offered false smiles, he found they made people uneasy if smiling wasn't part of a man's reputation.

the eldest son of runestone had never been a politician; never been one for diplomacy, or the skill that was learning how to talk their way out of or into a situation. not because of a readiness in drawing his mighty blade and settling matters with a universal code, but rather the fact that he were not one for such things. their ancient customs, their very blood; it were as though neither him nor his brother were made for such actions.

and yet, he did not see such a discussion as a matter of diplomacy; but rather that of practicality. "it is not the same view as that beyond the windows of gullown, lady antaryon." he spoke, looking upon the way in which twilight hung over the skies and the stars came out to play. how close they were to it here. "only better." he could almost picture norbert grafton's gaze looking sideways at him, and it were enough to cause the flicker of a wyry smile to cause his lips to twitch upward.

house antaryon had been handed a rotten hand in their attempt of straying off their usual path, and the risk had ultimately not ended up paying off. once again, it were the traditional alliance between the vale of arryn and their oversea neighbours that proved fruitful; and it seemed as though at the end of the day, all one needed to do was incline to the heartfelt sentiments of a father who sought a place for his daughter.

he shook his head at the offer of wine, though extended his hand toward their guest; the epitome of chivalric grace, of pure knighthood. of permanently bloodstained hands, and the mirror of a back wound which he had inflicted upon another. his closest, once. what felt like many lifetimes ago.

"and how are you finding gulltown, lady antaryon?" he asked, looking upon the features of a woman who seemed to have such a legacy attached to her. he understood it, now more than ever; only he would never admit it. it were not his place to be relatable or approachable, his role was to support and to lead. "there is much potentional for it to be something more. now the vale of arryn has settled the issue of the clans, at least for the next few years, it will be a priority."

zialla was mesmerised by the sight below her for a moment, as she spoke without much thought. “gulltown reminds me of home in many ways. the sounds and smell of the harbour, the screeches of the seagulls.” she wondered if even the seagulls dared to venture this high up. she finally tore her eyes away from the sight of the night sky outside, how the moon illuminated the mountains of the vale.

her dark gaze landed on the king consort. with her focus on the reach the first time around, she had neglected the alliance with the vale. but she would not make the same mistake again. none of the antaryons would. “i am sure the city will prosper with the right investments. lord grafton seems determined to improve it.” she knew that the vale wanted something in return for sheltering her. she had left a trail of scandal in her wake when she had quickly departed from oldtown. she had enemies in the reach, and she was sure the words spoken about her were far from kind. she was also divorced now. if only garland could have dropped dead a few moons before, so she could have been spared that particular stain on her reputation.

but the vale had been willing to take her in, and she knew they hoped their ties with braavos would be profitable. it was different to be around westerosi with the correct respect for her people, for her home. “that is how braavos was built, free people with an indomitable spirit and vision of a city to rival all others. each generation leaving a greater city behind.” zia had long dropped the idea that she needed to become one of them to fit in. she was braavosi, and she would never be made to feel ashamed of that again.

“what do you envision for gulltown, your grace?”