on affiliations

"I wasn't intentionally careless with Taliesin's heart these past years." Excuses, excuses, excuses. "I didn't dare think that I lingered in their mind the same they had mine. But we've reconnected, promised to speak only truths with one another. You extended your love and care to Falyn who is closer to me than any of my siblings. I wish to return it."

The thought of their running away gripped her with fear. No, he cannot leave me now! A sole contestant made for poor allies. Addam's sword and title may take him across the realm; love, or whatever this was, take Tal. Then what would come of Shiera?

She swallowed her wine and her complaint in one breath, and looked squarely at Lady Seraphina. "It is kind of you to approach me as an ally and a friend, my lady, but in truth I fail to understand what it is you wish to ask of me. Is it merely a sister's blessing? I will offer it happily where it is Taliesin's wish. If it is truth you seek, I have none to offer you, when I was the one who remained in the dark." Another bite to her tongue, harsh. Shiera forced her gaze away and to the window, where little light shone through that told her anything of worth. She was least equipped in the court of hearts. Even now she could not make whether Lady Seraphina spoke true—if Lord Hightower's daughter could mean her words of alliance with bastards and Targaryens. But if she did… if she did, could Shiera afford to reject her?

Could she, even if Lady Seraphina lied? "I make a poor friend at the moment, Lady Seraphina. But if you love my sibling true… you will have my loyalty, just as they do."

but it was a relief knowing she did not dream of the crag. that made dissuading her for duskendale a lot easier. you can almost see it. red and gold and black and silver, the colors draped over her, her raven hair pinned beautifully, as she dances with courtiers that'd now address her as one their own. a golden hue cast over your visions, making everything sparkle. you realize, then, it is not her you are dreaming of, but peace. your lips purse as she exposes your failure as a possibility. and it is. though you yourself can no longer give room for the thought in your head. you breathe in deep and exhale slow, taking one step closer to lord westerling's jewel. "you'll still have a place in my court in dragonstone," you tell her plain. "if ruin comes and fate decides the time for the dragon upon that sword seat has come to an end, then back to dragonstone we'll sail, and you with us. so long as i have your loyalty. so long as i can trust your whispers and aid." you do not tell her, though, that you do not think this refuge will last long. that you believe, deep in your marrow, that as long as any targaryen draw breath, you pose a threat to whatever new house wins the moot, and all of you shall be annihilated. but if she thinks such a forgiving, permissive world could exist, where you could simply go back home and forget--- let her. let her dream of solace under the roof that sheltered you since infancy. if that should happen, you will honor your part of the bargain. "what say you, shiera?"

But what else had Princess Maekara on hand? In case of failure, little remained to her. Would you offer the same to the lions or the falcons? she might ask, but the lions and falcons had no need for contingencies. "My requirement is met, it would seem," she said with a smile. Met only, and no more; but Princess Maekara would learn not to play coy with her offers in time. Their agreement could be revisited, when there was something to revisit. She wondered what Addam would have to say about this. What Taliesin would. It scarcely mattered; beggars were not granted the luxury of choice, or chance.

For her own part, then: "I would not lie to those who would shelter me and mine. Trust cannot be asked for, I know, but in time I hope you will see that you may trust what I give you. Whatever you hear from me will be true, or as true as I know it to be." She would not speak of loyalty, yet. It would hold no true meaning, no loyalty beyond that of the convenient and the dependent—and the princess may be untested in court, but Shiera did not imagine she was blindly willing to accept false promises. “Does that satisfy you, Princess?”

"yeah, what secret?" aila pressed in an exaggerated whisper, trying to return to the lighter mood, watching grover toy with the ribbon. they scooted closer, resting their elbows on their knees. "you know i love secrets." she didn't really but she liked being included.

the   smile   that   twists   at   his   lips   is   a   wry   ,       dry   thing.     robbed   of   his   usual   humour   ,       there's   not   even   the   slightest   of   urges   to   point   out   the   fallacy   of   his   wife's   words.   not   when   he   knew   the   root   of   her   ire   ,       and   wished   little   to   add   to   her   growing   frustrations.   while   the   maesters   had   not   confirmed   that   their   son   would   succumb   to   his   wounds   ,       there   was   a   different   sort   of   horror   to   be   left   waiting   as   they   were.   trembling   before   the   winds   of   fate   that   could   blow   just   as   for   them   ,       as   it   would   against.     ❝     it   certainly   wouldn't.     ❞     whether   maelora   wrung   their   necks   ,       or   lorent   their   heads.   the   maesters   were   smart   enough   to   know   that   their   lives   would   be   forfeit   for   assuring   the   life   of   their   son   ,       and   then   to   be   proven   wrong   in   the   aftermath.

     ❝     i   do   not   find   fault   in   your   words   ,       my   love   ,       only concern.   it   is   one   thing   to   seek   for   answers   ,       but   do   not   create   intrigue   where   there   is   none   ,       and   proceed   to   call   it   reason.     ❞     though   perhaps   it   was   lorent   himself   ,       who   always   preferred   the   easiest   way   out.   a   plot   to   poison   ,       discovered   and   dealt   with.   a   neat   and   tidy   ending   for   what   he   referred   to   as   little   more   than   a   distasteful   showing   of   the   court.   he   did   not   wish   to   further   entangle   their   family   into   the   schemes   of   those   around   them. he only sought to offer   their   children   a   chance   to   recover   in   peace.     ❝     and   yet   daemian   is   no   regular   boy   ,       maelora.   even   if   the   blood   ⸻   your   blood   ,       did   not   call   him to the dragons   ,       perhaps   the   recklessness   of   mine   own   did.     ❞     who   knew   whose   legacy   was   that   which   called   or   cursed   him.   pushing   him   to   the   point   of   finding   himself   at   the   mercy   of   dragonfire.     ❝     i'm   not   saying   you're   wrong   ,       but   daemian   will   be   the   only   one   who   can   provide   those   answers   in   truth.   do   not   torment yourself with all the possibilities that have yet to exist.     ❞

"Perhaps you're right," she said, turning to face Lorent. "Perhaps it was the blood of Old Valyria or a knight's bloodlust that took him to that street." She would not speak of the possibility of his having been responsible for the dragons' escape. Even if they were not watched and listened to here, she would not create that inkling in their minds, to be spoken aloud elsewhere. Gods knew there were plenty to find reason to point fingers their way. "But his blood did not burn him. His blood did not free the dragons from the dragonpit. Whoever, whatever did—expecting us to have all our eyes on the other end of the city—they've begun a dangerous fight." There would certainly be no more of taking this gathered court lightly. Enough figures with dangerous ideas lingered here to make that impossible. Dragons on the loose; one dead. Hundreds dead, dozens injured.. including two of her own. She stepped further into the room to place a hand on Lorent's shoulder, a quiet reassurance for the promise that was to come: that when he realised this, she would be right beside him. "For the moment you may see me only driving further blindly; you may be right. But these aren't shadows I'm jumping at. You'll see it soon enough yourself. Trust me, Lorent. When they step into the light, or get dragged into it kicking and screaming: whoever did this will answer for it." And she would hear no word of reason then.

"i'm sorry... i'm sorry..." she managed eventually, though the words came fractured between shaky breaths. a long silence followed. when she spoke again, her voice had dwindled to little more than a whisper. "syrenna," she swallowed, her throat tightening once more. "is she alright? she was with me --" her breath caught, and she shook her head faintly, as though the question itself hurt to ask.

it would be inappropriate to outright smirk in a sense, but the ghastly and knowing look lady celtigar gives makes them tuck one away. they're rather in frustrated agreement with her, and at times it feels as though they are two on an island of disapproval. "amerei is recovering, but ... she'll be changed for the rest of her life. clinging to a dead man as one's first true brush with death up close is irrevocable. even so, the news of your family's health pleased me too." they pluck a writing quill from the desk before them and turn it in their hand, thumb brushing through the pins of the feathers, pondering the news and the outbreak. a huff, for the hand who rules in the king's stead is no laughing matter.

"we might as well be calling him his royal highness. i've no doubt he'll be nasty to me in the future for what i said." their knowing look deepens over the table. "but my tongue didn't fall out as of yet, so i'm safe. as for the ... mysteriously and conveniently discovered ... dragon tamer in dorne, will they be announcing them of ancient valyrian blood next?" mordhred would never boast to know more about dragons than those who had true closeness to them, even if that closeness has not yet manifested — "do you know of any? will we be hearing how they are distant relations to you?" this might be as close as they dare come to laughing outright. if they do not, their frustration will spill over. "i daresay the vote was already decided before we cast it." and truly that makes it simply more disagreeable in the end.

A slow nod, meeting their eyes. When it came to alliances one must at some point or other land upon a degree of trust. She hoped their mutual disagreement with the Hightowers solidified this, at least: “And I hope House Tully will speak further on this matter to its friends and bannermen as well. For the moment, however, I wished to ask you if you had had any word from Amaya Arryn... she approached me regarding a maester she's familiar with...”

And when he was awake and well… then perhaps he could answer properly, what he meant when he spoke of dragons listening to commands.

the  way  grover  held  himself  even  when  bedbound  ---  he  can  understand  mordhred's  pride,  and  endless  worry.  something  plagues  the  man,  but  akira  doesn't  push  for  an  answer.  it  is  not  a  confession  he  has  a  right  to  demand  let  alone  stress  the  acquaintanceship  held  with  his  ---

hm.  akira  clears  his  throat.

"don't  fret  about  me;  i  merely  stretched  my  legs  from  my  quarters  to  here;  i  wouldn't  dare  prance  around  as  if  unharmed."  the  humor  slips  into  something  softer.  "besides,  i  wanted  to  ensure  your  father  rests  for  a  little  while.  eat,  walk  in  the  garden,  bathe.  but  knowing  him,  he'll  return  to  your  side  within  the  hour."  a  quirk  of  lips.  "until  then,  you're  stuck  with  me."

ah,  the  news  had  not  traveled  here  yet.  akira  debates  for  a  moment  whether  mordhred  should  be  the  one  to  deliver  the  news,  but  ---  "the ruling greyojoy's spouse has offered their assistance. but i do not know any beside the other targaryen princess taking up the offer." a deep sigh. "no one has been found yet."

How does one even broach the subject? And potentially the worst way, she lays it out for the older woman in an quip. "Not concerning my niece, for once. Though in another world, we could have been discussing your niece, or nephew, who is to stay when it did not come to pass." Sera sighs, pouring out two glasses, in dire need of courage when laying out the truth for yet another Waters. She sits, taking a long drink. "I have little self-preservation, so it seems but there are those who are more precious than any other.

his stomach drops further and tightens. his whole body repulsed, his mind in a fit to do its best to think of something. think of something, would you? it falls upon you to think of something! such a word claims terrible vitriol, and it pains them to hear from shiera's lips. the poison seems such a distant nightmare now with the current one in play, a true game of cyvasse with the pieces moving upon the board. the irony is not lost upon him, with his certain tendencies and his tentative friendship with wyllas. the complex web continues. ( seraphina and i can never wed ... it wouldn't be allowed. ) a flick of their tongue, a tic from when they were much younger. "strangers might be much kinder than kin ever will be. addam will not let us fall beneath the cart's wheels, and i certainly will not either. as for ..." they glance over their shoulder. gods, it had been a whim! now she looks at him with such seriousness. "if they hear us even whisper that, they might have us for treason. if it ... if i am ... i mean, i suppose i could do it." the stammering provides little vote of confidence. "they would never let me. no one would. but i could." an evasion of commitment. both would know it. "it's true enough." it sounds so at the side, so trivial. like they are discussing what kind of fucking tea they'd like.

you know who it is. mordhred's gaze pierces grover's face even as their son glances away. you know who it is that you saw there. this settles not as information withheld, a father's instinct. the guilt sloshing through the choked tears and the refusal to look for too long at them, lest words come spilling out. they believe him in turn that it was just he and daemian there upon the street, but it was an evasion — it prevents the rest out of being shared. who was not upon that street? who was unfortunate enough to open the door? they have their conjectures. it takes no fucking magician to figure it out who had their wounds now caused by what.

"did he now? he spoke high valyrian, and it is said that one turned out of the city. i believe you, my boy. i believe it because you swear it to me." they choose to not pressure him. carefully, cautiously. so much has been said without being said, and they do not refuse their comforting touch from him either. they will not punish him; for being afraid, for being reckless, for evading the rest, no, they will not. perhaps they should. another might rain down with an iron fist, but they have never been gifted one, not even by the cursed gods. "women." plural. mor sifts the wounded's names through their mind. "yes i can imagine everyone ran faster than they thought possible."

they sigh through their nostrils, lips pierced and muffling the noise otherwise. steadied breath. "daemian is worse off than you, but lord celtigar has the blood of the dragon in him, whether the targaryens like it or not. he lives." they imagine a maester would not share such information.

So their words sent him right back into tears. He lives, more meaningful than any promise they may have made of things being alright. It didn't matter what happened to Grover, if his presence there was discovered and he was personally set aflame for having been there, whether it was his fault or otherwise, whether the dragons and the destruction and Amerei and all of it, all the rest of it, could be cobbled together into a sentence and placed squarely on his head—it wouldn't matter, because he hadn't killed his best friend over a stupid fucking dare.

Amerei next, he pleaded silently. Send her back, and I'll take anything.

                                     it  had  been  a  half-measure,  a  den  to  hide  before  and  during  the  kingsmoot  his  father  had  arranged,  addam  learned  very  early  in  his  life  one  needs  a  place  to  fall  back  on  when  the  highborn’s  favors  started  to  waver.  and  he  enjoyed  having  his  own  place.  he  just  never  thought  it  would  become  the  waters’  refuge  so  soon.  he  had  stopped  pacing  a  while  ago,  and  found  himself  just  sitting  down  on  the  sofa  near  the  big  windows  of  the  solar,  when  his  sister  spoke.  addam  stared  at  shiera's  big,  guillable  eyes,  and  for  once  in  their  lives,  he  was  not  annoyed  by  her  pleading.  he  felt  the  same  way,  almost.  the  only  difference  was  that  he  had  no  one  to  turn  back  and  plead  the  same.  the  waters  only  had  themselves  to  lean  to,  and  for  all  his  abrasive  attitude  towards  his  siblings,  most  specially  shiera,  he  never  severed  those  ties;  they  were  the  closest  people  he  held  dear,  the  only  ones  who  could  come  close  to  understand  him.  he  sighed,  feeling  more  drained  than  ever,  and  lowered  his  head,  his  right  hand  going  to  rub  his  eyes.  ❛❛ —  honestly,  shiera?  I  do  not  know.  —  ❞  addam  wholeheartedly  wished  he  had  answers  to  give  her,  but  he  had  nothing  but  an  empty  despair;  and  it  was  not  even  for  his  father.

                                     it  almost  made  him  laugh.  their  father  could  be  but  he  felt  no  guilt.  no  shame.  lord  alester’s  love  had  always  been  cheap,  why  would  he  spend  more  precious  times  mourning  him  than  he  ever  thought of  them  before  they  came  of  a  certain  age.  ❛❛ —  it  still  does  not  feel  right.  do  you  feel  the  same?  ‘tis  almost  funny.  I  always  blamed  him  for  bringing  us  to  court  but  not  doing  enough  to  elevate  our  position.  and  to  my  shame,  I  believed  if  we  just  pushed  him  into  doing  more  and  more,  he  would  have  been  persuaded  and  now…  —  ❞  he  stopped,  almost  overwhelmed  by  disbelief  of  the  situation  they  were  in  at  the  moment.  abandoned  and  politically  vulnerable.  he  said  it  with  a  finality.  ❛❛ —  now  we  are  ruined.  —  ❞  in  the  back  of  his  mind  his  typical  last  solution  was  still  available:  flee.  to  far  away  from  westeros.  he  would  survive  with  the  seconds  sons  or  any  other  mercenary  company  in  essos,  but  what  of  shiera?  she  was  not  made  for  encampments.  what  of  their  rights  their  father  and  the  other  noblemen  had  always  denied  them?  it  would  be  only  to  their  delight  if  the  waters  burrowed  their  heads  and  scurried  away  like  the  unworthy  rats  they  judged  them  to  be.  he  raised  his  head,  instead.  ❛❛ —  we  will  need  to  seek  out  allies,  someone  will  vie  for  our  allegiance  even  with  father  dead.  we  can  still  be  valuable  for  one  of  the  factions  climbing  on  the  throne.  —  ❞  any  of  them  would  suffice,  addam  was  not  picky.  ❛❛ —  or  we  will  be  out  on  the  streets,  sooner  or  later.  —  ❞

"It seems impossible," she agreed. How had *she* too subscribed to the falsehood of Lord Westerling living forever? "No push would have been enough. No force... he cared so little for our lives if we were not the pawns of his desires." Tears threatened once again. Shiera blinked them away. The factions climbing the throne were plenty, yet none that she knew. None that trusted her. The Targaryens had seemed potential allies in her desire to escape her father, before Maekara Targaryen had rejected even her presence on the same balconette, simply for the fact of her parentage. The Celtigars she knew nothing of, save Vaiora's betrothed; the Hightowers were his very replacements. "We are nothing. Who would seek us as allies, Addam, without the Hand's position to sway them?" A harsh swallow. The rapid staccato of her heart threatened to drown words out. "I could make myself of use. I have listened to conversations for Father's sake for years.... smiled, and laughed, as he bid."

And had she not wanted to flee that?

A notion that must be past. The time for hoping for endings from songs already was. Shiera forced her voice to be even. “I could do the same for another's bidding... as long as it meant a place at their court, in time. But so many contenders rise. The wrong choice now would ruin us forever.” Yet was there any further destruction than what already gnawed at their heels? Already Shiera had been told she had but a moon's turn to vacate her chambers. A space would be found for her… for the moment. What when the Kingsmoot ended? What when their father's body was found? Shiera's friends were all from court. They may smile and laugh with her, but would they invite her home, now that she had none here? Vaiora's betrothed is a Celtigar. If she would… Would she beg her friends for a guarantee of her use, now? Perhaps. Lacking all other choice.

She looked to Addam. "What of you? Your friends from your travels? Has anybody spoken to you?"

she had coveted the apple since he had sunk his teeth into it. it was a perverse desire, perhaps —  but desmera found herself far from caring. " you speak of yourself quite highly, grover, " she notes, as if she herself had not only just done the same. " i should like to hear the tales behind your claims. if only for verification, " she sighs feigned disinterest, eyes shining, " it is unbecoming of even a fool to lie. " with that, she plucks from his hand the apple, biting it in the same place he had. " — this apple is shit, " she insists, its tartness lacking, its texture grainy. she was accustomed to better fare, the sweet and sour offerings of the orchards around cider hall. " if they came to fight you, this apple may serve better as a projectile weapon than it does a piece of fruit. we shall be shield brothers. besides, i should think it worth the bloodshed — the opportunity to name me beautiful. "