you gave a kick, i gave a slap

“It is hard work,” she said, her tone more serious than it had been a moment ago. “It can be exhausting and solitary to navigate a marriage like a battle strategy”. To analyze words and silences, to try to predict outcomes, to placate and to smooth things over, and manage it all in a way that didn't bring about hostility. And to do it all with grace and a smile when others were around. Her gaze stayed ahead as they walked. “It is a heavier burden still, I imagine, when the man you must navigate is a king”. For all the empathy she felt for her sister after having navigated her own battle with Harold, Iona also understood what she'd gone through had been very different from her sister's current situation. Iona had been married to a lord. Niamh was married to a king, and to a Targaryen. There was infamy in the way the gods' toin coss went down in that family for a reason.

They had never spoken much about these matters, really. Not truly. Iona became keenly aware of that now, about how rare it was for them these days to have these sorts of private, unguarded moments. Most of the time, when the Queen of the Riverlands and the Queen of New Valyria could meet, it was for the feasts, the tourneys, the grand events of their realms. “We’ve never spoken much about him,” she added quietly, feeling like she was taking a step into a fragile, vulnerable territory. But as an older sister, she felt it necessary to do so. “About your marriage. About the load you carry”. She didn't speak in a way that was insistent or that demanded a confession from Niamh. She simply gave her sister an opening to speak more, to lay down some of the load here with her, if she wished it.

There was a slight shift in Niamh's demeanor and words, a sort of apology without being directly spoken. When her sister called her own sharpness barking, Iona’s lips curved into a light smile. “I’ve endured your barking all my life, Niamh,” she said in a more light-hearted way, her words almost teasing. “I became immune to it a long time ago, dear sister”. There was that rare warmth in the queen's words, reserved for those select few whom she held close to her heart. And the meaning behind her playful remark was unmistakable: there was nothing that needed smoothing over between them, and it was more than fine that the younger Tully stop thinking and speak freely.

if only she had taken a moment to realise the sound of their footsteps in union, crunching beneath the pebbles, niamh of house tully would have realised that she was not all too different than her oldest sister; especially considering they both shared mighty weight. and in all her stubborn nature and youthful pride, she had always considered them cut from different clothes - not as though one was superior than the other, but simply not the same, not walking the same path and never on the same page. "and if i did not navigate it?" she asked, sparkling blue orbs that mirrored the woman's opposite her glancing over through the streaks of flaming red locks that fell to her waist; almost indignant, always willing to create a challenge that was never asked for.

ever since she were a spoiled, irritable girl she had always quietly pulled faces when one would comment on iona's graceful nature, or how wellspoken she was; and when it were time to hide the mud from the bottom of her skirts or chided for her tongue, she braced herself to hear it time and time again to the point she was able to open her mouth and silent mimic the words close enough. words that compared her to her oldest sister, who had all but been the image of perfection in their house - until of course, she had married.

"he would be sick of me, tire of me and send me home." there was almost a wicked, impish smile that crossed her lips as she looked at iona: as though a plan had begun to hatch in her mind. she was not listening to her sister, rather she gave her a hint of the plan she hatched within her mind. the alliance between new valyria and the riverlands was not her child to carry, nor her burden; she would leave it to the fae in the thickest, most twisted of woods if she could. for whilst niamh would never openly admit it, and whilst she did not openly enquire as to the details of her marriage, a small green part of her felt some sense of relief to know iona was in fact not perfect. there was one thing she could do, that iona could not; one thing that could allow others of their realm to look upon with some form of impression. "and then we can celebrate."

how quickly that colourful illusion had turned into black and white; if iona's womb was barren, it appeared niamh too was unable to foster anything to grow from the spring within her. she did not know whether it were the curse of the gods to befall this upon her, or merely some greater force of karma - whether they were angry, or whether they were merely smugly laughing at her - there had been a time where she had managed it. where life had sprouted, rooted, blossomed; and yet it had been in the winter of her life, and niamh tully had been unable to see the value of life at the time. there had been blood in that season - blood that was the price she had paid.

her mind began to wander as iona spoke, no doubt trying to offer her some guidance and advice regarding how best to navigate the currents of marriage; she did not wish to listen to advice or speak of matters that princesses or queens or whatever they were now spoke of.

she wished to feel the mud beneath the soles of her feet and hear the sounds of the rushing current once again, she wished to be a black sheep within her own field rather than that of a dragons. her fantasy was interrupted when iona no doubt tried to navigate some path she could use and talk about her life; to build a bridge across their two separate currents that would never cross paths - speaking of the load she had to carry. what iona had not yet realised, was that niamh refused to carry the load - still, even whilst she shared the king's bed some nights and some nights she had the bed to herself. she told herself she bedded him because she wanted to; and ignored the feeling of stress and the way her stomach knotted when she awoke feeling her moon's cycle between her legs each month.

"what do you wish to know? it would be easier to explain should you ask and i answer, iona." she insisted, her arms crossing over her bodice as she continued to amble the path, not thinking much of the skirts that tugged twigs or caught on rocks.

she momentarily stopped in her tracks, listening closely to the words that came from her oldest sister regarding who would possibly become the king consort of the riverlands - she would not deny she had been waiting for iona to pick someone, and for a solid amount of time she had been sure it would be owen stark. why would someone not marry owen stark? iona, of course, wanted to make things more difficult for herself. she did not know why she felt so personally confused and almost affronted by the decision to marry a riverman, her brows knitting together for a moment as though she were processing the information. so iona would be able to marry a riverman, and be able to always stay in the riverlands, and stay within riverrun. she could laugh their way, drink their way, celebrate their way - with their people.

and niamh was in kings landing, with jaehaerys targaryen. he who had scorched, their way. "well aren't you lucky, iona. how fortunate for you, that you can do that. stay at home and marry one of our men." niamh responded, not queen to queen, but rather little sister to older sister - it were clear to see the image of jealousy within her, indignant - offended at something that was entirely not her place to be. but she would find a way to be. did she think that iona would, in solidarity with her unfortunate little sister, also perhaps take a difficult husband? she did not think about the fact iona had already done that - she just clearly sulked as she fiddled and twiddled with her braid. "i thought you'd also maybe have a share of a targaryen. aegon needs a wife." she did not think about the fact she said this aloud, in kings landing; she just continued going round and round in this maze, sure she knew the way out, whilst also wanting to rave and rant about how life was not fair - if only she realised that none cared.

niamh tully’s lungs screamed with the wind, her chest heaving in rhythm with the pounding of hooves against the damp earth. the trees rushed past like the blurred brushstrokes of some mad painter, yet for a heartbeat, the forest seemed hers again, not the lands of new valyria, not the place where every glance from jaehaerys targaryen reminded her she was both wife and prisoner. the branches above mirrored those of the tumblestone banks, the sun dappled through leaves like it had in the riverlands of her youth, and for a flickering, dangerous moment she believed she might leap through some unseen veil and find herself home, laughing along those familiar waters with no crown, no king, no burning memories to weigh her down.

yet the moment dissolved as quickly as it came, the illusion of freedom slipping between her fingers like water.

her fingers tightened around the reins instinctively when she heard his voice calling her wife, a deep, guttural sound that made her stomach curl with a mix of irritation and something unnamed. instinct took over—legs pumping, heels digging in, body arching over the saddle as though if she could run hard enough, far enough, she might outrun the chains of marriage and obligation alike. the stag was close, she told herself, and if she could seize it, if she could catch it before he did, perhaps a fragment of salvation would be hers. she grinned, a wild, unthinking thing that sprang from some corner of her being that had not yet been fenced in by protocol or fear. she shouted back over the wind, a challenge more than a reply, “you’ll not catch me yet! try harder, jae!”

then the world pitched. a fox, one she swore was white, was quick. it darted across the narrow trail, and her mare screamed, rear hooves flashing into the sky. niamh felt her body flung forward, then sideways, a fleeting, dizzying ballet of limbs and leather. she clawed at the reins, fingers slick with sweat, trying to wrest the horse back under control, but the ground rose up to meet her. mud sprayed her face and soaked through her skirts, and the mare’s panic sent her tumbling over a shallow curve, into a creek whose muddy waters swallowed her legs, pulled daisies and broken stems with her as she cursed aloud, teeth gritted against the sting. for a long, terrifying moment she lay there, chest pressed to the water, arms shielding her head, the sky spinning above in patches of green and gold.

and she realised it were shallow. just like it all was.

her heartbeat thundered in her ears as she let herself melt into the bank, letting the cold water seep through her skirts and cling to her skin. the flies hummed and danced overhead, indifferent to the pain on her side and whatever blood trickled into the water from whatever scrapes she had obtained, the overhanging branches leaning close like silent witnesses. she could almost believe the world had paused, that nothing beyond this creek existed. the stag, jaehaerys, the halls, the crown—everything was suspended, unreal. she let out a breath that was half laughter, half despair, letting the creek cradle her as though she could dissolve into the earth itself.

the chase was not over. somewhere ahead, she knew, the stag fled, untouchable, and somewhere behind, jaehaerys thundered, voice raw with worry and something else, calling her name. she laughed again, low and breathless, a wild, broken sound, splashing water with a hand, letting the creek soak her hair and cloak. “i’m alive, you fool!” she shouted, letting the words echo through the trees. “alive and still hunting. eventually!” for the first time in days, perhaps weeks, she felt the terrible, exhilarating weight of being herself, even if only for a moment, between the veil of past and present, between fear and freedom, between the stag and jaehaerys, between the queen and the girl she used to be.

“well,” she muttered, voice ragged but defiant, calling above as she heard the approaching footsteps of jaehaerys, pushing aside the reeds. “you’ve bloody well scared me this time. that was close, huh?” she remained laying in the creek, half resisting the urge to laugh at the expression on his face, right in his face. the last thing she needed right now was to listen to him screaming about something as she got herself onto the back of his horse - her one had got charging ahead, probably. she wished she could walk. she did not ask for help as she let out a low breath, almost preparing herself for whatever feeling of pain she would feel when she forced her lower back up; perhaps because she didn't want his help. perhaps because she would not make herself need him.

“Alive,” he echoed hoarsely, anger surging up fast to cover the fear. He crouched down despite himself, boots sinking deeper into the water, ignoring the mud that soaked into fine leather. His face twitched again, jaw jumping as he dragged a hand through his hair hard enough to hurt. “You frightened me half to death,” he snapped, voice rising despite himself. “You cannot ride like that and expect the world to simply… hold together.”

Then she ordered him to look away.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head, staring into the trees with rigid control, hands tightening until his knuckles whitened. The restraint cost him something visible. His shoulders were stiff, breath forced steady through his nose. He obeyed, but it burned. He hated obeying anyone. “You do not get to tell me what to do after falling into a damned creek,” he muttered, though he did not turn back. “But fine. I am looking away.” His voice softened despite himself, quieter, edged with something raw. “If you are broken, say it. I will not leave you there to prove a point.”

Silence stretched, broken only by the trickle of water and his horse stamping impatiently behind him. When no scream followed, no cry of pain, his anger returned full force. It was easier than relief. “You are impossible,” he went on, words spilling now that the worst fear had passed. “You ride like you are trying to outrun the gods themselves. You laugh while doing it. You bleed and still grin at me like you have won something.” His mouth curved despite himself, a humorless twitch he did not bother to hide. “And worst of all, you expect me not to follow.”

He reached out without asking, offering his hand. Not commanding. Just there. “Your horse ran off,” he said, more evenly now. “Mine did not. And do not mistake this for needing me. I simply refuse to explain to half the realm why my wife drowned in a stream chasing a stag.” He huffed a short laugh, breathless, shaking his head. “Next time, warn me before you decide to challenge death for sport.”

She veered down the twisted trail without a blink, cloak shredding on bramble, and he swore under his breath. “Fucking...” His words broke off when her mare reared, hooves striking sky. His heart leapt, stopped, stuttered all at once. For a breath he saw her tumbling, bones shattering, laughter silenced. He shouted her name, voice tearing from his throat raw as a boy’s cry. The world buckled under the weight of his fear.

Her body bent with the chaos, dragged the beast back under control, landed teeth-bared and furious as though she’d wrestled the gods themselves down to earth. He saw her laugh, blood at her lip, mud on her skirts, and in that moment he hated her for the terror she’d just struck into him. His face twitched, an old tic he could never tuck away, blinking hard as though he could clear the sight of her almost breaking.

“You mad woman!” he roared, echoing her own words, though his chest was still thunderstruck with panic. “You’ll kill yourself, and me with you, if you keep riding like that!” But she turned, shouting that she was fine, fine, like the word itself could shield her bones from breaking. And gods help him, he believed her, because she was grinning again, because she was unshaken, because she was her.

“Then cut him off we shall!” he bellowed, voice ringing with something dangerously close to joy. “But if I bring it down, you’ll admit, before gods and men, you love fishing!” He surged past her with a crack of leather and muscle, horse screaming with the effort, the wind clawing at his face. The stag flashed again ahead, nimble and merciless, but for once Jae felt no weight pressing him down, no crown digging into his skull. There was only the thundering rhythm of pursuit, the wild cry of her voice behind him, and the taste of laughter on his tongue.

She was not a queen. He was not a king. They were just a man and a woman chasing something beyond themselves, reckless and hungry. The world had narrowed to this gully, this ridge, these hooves. He remembered, dimly, that first time he’d seen her smile, not the rehearsed, polished smile she wore in the hall, but this one. The smile of a girl unburdened, fierce and quick and utterly untouchable. He’d thought then that he could live a hundred lives and never see anything finer. And here she was, proving him right, leaving him breathless with it all over again.

Again, he laughed, loud and unrestrained, “Ride harder, wife! You’ll not let me take all the glory, will you?” He glanced back once, just enough to catch the blaze in her eyes, the mud, the wild hair, the grin. And gods, he adored her in that moment more than he’d ever adored anything.

niamh tully’s lungs screamed with the wind, her chest heaving in rhythm with the pounding of hooves against the damp earth. the trees rushed past like the blurred brushstrokes of some mad painter, yet for a heartbeat, the forest seemed hers again, not the lands of new valyria, not the place where every glance from jaehaerys targaryen reminded her she was both wife and prisoner. the branches above mirrored those of the tumblestone banks, the sun dappled through leaves like it had in the riverlands of her youth, and for a flickering, dangerous moment she believed she might leap through some unseen veil and find herself home, laughing along those familiar waters with no crown, no king, no burning memories to weigh her down.

yet the moment dissolved as quickly as it came, the illusion of freedom slipping between her fingers like water.

her fingers tightened around the reins instinctively when she heard his voice calling her wife, a deep, guttural sound that made her stomach curl with a mix of irritation and something unnamed. instinct took over—legs pumping, heels digging in, body arching over the saddle as though if she could run hard enough, far enough, she might outrun the chains of marriage and obligation alike. the stag was close, she told herself, and if she could seize it, if she could catch it before he did, perhaps a fragment of salvation would be hers. she grinned, a wild, unthinking thing that sprang from some corner of her being that had not yet been fenced in by protocol or fear. she shouted back over the wind, a challenge more than a reply, “you’ll not catch me yet! try harder, jae!”

then the world pitched. a fox, one she swore was white, was quick. it darted across the narrow trail, and her mare screamed, rear hooves flashing into the sky. niamh felt her body flung forward, then sideways, a fleeting, dizzying ballet of limbs and leather. she clawed at the reins, fingers slick with sweat, trying to wrest the horse back under control, but the ground rose up to meet her. mud sprayed her face and soaked through her skirts, and the mare’s panic sent her tumbling over a shallow curve, into a creek whose muddy waters swallowed her legs, pulled daisies and broken stems with her as she cursed aloud, teeth gritted against the sting. for a long, terrifying moment she lay there, chest pressed to the water, arms shielding her head, the sky spinning above in patches of green and gold.

and she realised it were shallow. just like it all was.

her heartbeat thundered in her ears as she let herself melt into the bank, letting the cold water seep through her skirts and cling to her skin. the flies hummed and danced overhead, indifferent to the pain on her side and whatever blood trickled into the water from whatever scrapes she had obtained, the overhanging branches leaning close like silent witnesses. she could almost believe the world had paused, that nothing beyond this creek existed. the stag, jaehaerys, the halls, the crown—everything was suspended, unreal. she let out a breath that was half laughter, half despair, letting the creek cradle her as though she could dissolve into the earth itself.

the chase was not over. somewhere ahead, she knew, the stag fled, untouchable, and somewhere behind, jaehaerys thundered, voice raw with worry and something else, calling her name. she laughed again, low and breathless, a wild, broken sound, splashing water with a hand, letting the creek soak her hair and cloak. “i’m alive, you fool!” she shouted, letting the words echo through the trees. “alive and still hunting. eventually!” for the first time in days, perhaps weeks, she felt the terrible, exhilarating weight of being herself, even if only for a moment, between the veil of past and present, between fear and freedom, between the stag and jaehaerys, between the queen and the girl she used to be.

“well,” she muttered, voice ragged but defiant, calling above as she heard the approaching footsteps of jaehaerys, pushing aside the reeds. “you’ve bloody well scared me this time. that was close, huh?” she remained laying in the creek, half resisting the urge to laugh at the expression on his face, right in his face. the last thing she needed right now was to listen to him screaming about something as she got herself onto the back of his horse - her one had got charging ahead, probably. she wished she could walk. she did not ask for help as she let out a low breath, almost preparing herself for whatever feeling of pain she would feel when she forced her lower back up; perhaps because she didn't want his help. perhaps because she would not make herself need him.

When Niamh spoke in exasperation that Iona hadn't given advice or direction, the Riverlands' queen raised her eyebrows slightly. She offered her younger sister a look that was somewhat amused. “No, I was not judging. I was just paying attention to our surroundings,” she replied in a calm tone. Highgarden held a kind of beauty that was more manicured and polished than Iona typically favored, but its gardens were still worth taking in. “And frankly, I was hoping we might converse about more than just the path to follow,” she replied softly, “But you got too focused on finding the right way. I didn't want to distract you”. It had been nice, just walking with her, taking in that confident and fiery energy she often missed in the halls of Riverrun after Niamh had to go to King's Landing. The eldest Tully sister glanced up, a hand covering her eyes from the direct sunlight. “I noticed where the sun was when we entered. The way in and out ought to be in that direction,” she suggested with a tilt of her head, offering something useful, like her sister asked. “But honestly, I had no intention of making our walk shorter”.

niamh almost smiled at that—almost. but the corner of her mouth only twitched, the expression dying somewhere between impulse and instinct. she turned slightly, just enough to glance sidelong at iona now that she had come to walk beside her, that gentle, maddening calm like a reflection cast across still water. “i wasn’t gettin’ lost,” she said, voice a touch too firm, but there wasn’t much bite behind it, completely in denial of the fact they were very much lost.

“i was just tryin’ to get us out quicker, that’s all. the evening celebrations’ll take half a century to dress for, and gods help me if i’m not back early enough to play sweet and serene while jaehaerys enjoys bein’ in one of his moods.”

the sun dappled through the hedges in long green streaks, and niamh’s fingers drifted to the braid at her shoulder, tugging it loose in a habitual fuss. she didn’t like speaking of him. not that way. not where iona could hear the things she didn’t dare say plainly. “he’s in good spirits lately, despite the nightsong situation,” she went on after a beat, gaze fixed ahead. because he did not consider himself responsible, because he put the blame at the foot of the stormlanders who had lost the war on his behalf.

“which means he’s got more to say. about everything. about battle strategy, about the reach’s harvest, about how lady brightflame’s dimples catch the candlelight.” the words were tossed lightly, but her voice cracked a little on dimples, and she hated that it did. "he's so talkative."

“not that i completely mind,” she added swiftly. “a cheerful king’s less likely to burn another town, i s’pose. and the queen that pleases him reaps the fruit. gowns, gifts, the whole theatre of affection.” her chin lifted then, defiant as if daring anyone—iona especially—to suggest she sounded bitter. “but it’s work. harder work than he’ll ever know.” the quiet after her words was a thin, brittle sort of thing. niamh didn’t break it for a time. she just walked, fingers curled tightly now around the edge of her skirts. there was no wind in this part of the maze. the air pressed heavy and fragrant around them, and somewhere close by a bee wandered near her sleeve before buzzing off again.

But then she said it—Summerhall—and not the way he expected. Not as a softness, not as a shared thing between them, but with teeth in it, and salt. The way she mimicked his own words back at him, laced with irony, struck something low and quiet in his gut. He said nothing at first. Just adjusted the leather grip of his glove, jaw working, and pushed his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose—a nervous twitch disguised as practicality. The corner of his mouth ticked, not in mirth but something closer to discomfort.

He had loved it. The light in those ruined halls, the mornings spent with no council calling for him, no cousin trying to control him. For a moment—only a moment—he had been free. It had not been King Jaehaerys and his Lady Wife; it had just been them. And he had ruined it. Turned a gift into a grievance because it wasn’t the Red Keep. Because it wasn’t proof. Because he had mistaken a sanctuary for an insult.

Her jibe about fishing made him nearly choke on the wine. He coughed once and turned his head, scowling at her over his shoulder.

“You do fish,” he growled, pointing a gloved finger at her with all the indignation of a wronged younger sibling. “You love it. You lied about fishing the same way you lie about liking lemon tarts, and everyone knows it.” He sat straighter in his saddle, spectacles catching a glint of sun as his eyes narrowed. “You caught a salmon the size of a bloody Dornish child and told everyone you slipped and landed on it. Do you know how mad that sounds?”

But her words took a different turn—it’s not yours—and he almost bristled again, ready to cut her down with one of his clever, cruel remarks, when she looked upward and said, trees don’t kneel. And it stopped him. Not fully, not deeply, but enough to knock something loose in his chest. “Maybe not,” he muttered under his breath, half to himself, just as the woods silenced. And then—she saw it. He saw her see it before he caught it himself: the flicker of white in the trees, like frost given shape, like moonlight in the flesh. The White Stag.

"Niamh—" he barely managed before she kicked her mare forward and vanished like an arrow loosed into the wild. Her laugh rang out behind her like a battle cry. He froze. For one, stupid second. And then the childish rage returned, hot in his blood. She’d seen it first. She was chasing his stag. The stag of kings. The one from the tales. His.

“Oh, you bitch,” Jaehaerys muttered, spurring his own horse after her with a fury that stung the air.

Branches tore at his shoulders as he ducked low, the thrum of hoofbeats like thunder in his ears. His cloak snapped behind him, tangled in wind and pride. The chase was on, and gods help her if she thought she’d win. Not without him beside her. Not without a fight.

the reins bit into her palms, but she didn’t loosen her grip. she could feel him thundering behind her, the familiar weight of his fury closing in with each pounding hoofbeat, and gods, she smiled. truly smiled—not the brittle curl of politeness or the sharp twist of sarcasm, but something real and wicked and young. something reckless. the wind caught in her hair and tore it from its pins, setting it wild around her shoulders like a fire barely leashed, and she laughed aloud into the trees, just to hear herself ring through them.

“do not call it your stag, jaehaerys targaryen!” she yelled into the rush of wind and leaves, the name drawn out like a challenge. “you'll need to prove it first!” she ducked another branch, her thigh slamming against the saddle’s edge hard enough to bruise, but she barely flinched. she felt alive, damn him. alive. and she was going to get that stag.

the path twisted sharply downhill, hooves scrambling against loose earth, and for a moment she leaned too far into the turn, nearly lost her balance—only catching herself with a hissed breath and a snapped curse in the old tongue her mother would’ve slapped her for using. she didn’t care. not today. not with the white stag darting through the trees ahead like some holy thing come to judge them both. she knew he was gaining. she could hear him. the rhythm of his horse’s breath had always been different from hers—more laboured, more forceful. always impatient. just like the man.

“and i do not like fishing,” she shouted again, barely able to get the words out between lungfuls of wind. “stop telling people i like fishing! as if i’ve no better pastime than hauling wet creatures out o’ the lake while you sit on your arse with a wine skin!” she nearly swore again.

she veered hard to the left as the stag disappeared down a narrow, root-knotted trail that barely looked passable. the mare balked for a half-second—smart girl—but niamh’s heels dug in, and they surged forward through it anyway, bark and bramble raking at her legs. her cloak caught and tore on something sharp, and she let it go with a snarl. let it be his to find. a scrap of queenly velvet caught on a thorn—something for him to pick up and frown over, like some moonstruck boy from the tales.

what intoxicated her was the chase. the proving. to win something by her own hand for once, not by the ceremony of it, not by bloodline or marriage or crown. just her. her. she could feel her body singing with it now—the strain in her thighs, the wild churn of her heart, the sting of twigs and sweat and pride. the stag was close. just ahead, leaping like a ghost through the underbrush, its antlers bright against the green. and jaehaerys—gods, he was close too. she could hear the muttering, the breathless litany of curses he thought she couldn’t hear. he’d be snarling to himself now, biting back insults like grapes between his teeth.

“if you catch it,” she called back, “you’d best propose again. because that sort o’ miracle warrants a second marriage!” she grinned, twisted and brilliant. and then she bent low over the saddle, wind streaming past her, and gave chase like the girl she used to be. the one before the throne. before the crown. before the boy with spectacles and sharp words and a name like fire who had made her a queen. then it happened.

her mare reared up so violently she thought the earth had swallowed a snake whole. something white and sudden had darted across their path—not the stag, but a blur of fur, maybe a fox—and her horse shrieked, hooves flailing in the air. niamh’s body jolted forward with bone-rattling force. for a breathless second, the sky spun sideways. her boot slipped from the stirrup. her fingers, slick with sweat, nearly lost the reins. she was almost—almost—thrown. but instinct won out. her legs clamped hard, and she leaned into the chaos, dragging the mare’s head back down with a desperate, furious growl from the base of her throat.

leaves exploded upward as they crashed back down to earth, skidding sideways in the dirt. the reins burned through her skin. her lungs felt too small for her ribs.

“you mad bitch,” she gasped at the mare, and herself, and the world at large - completely unaware of what jaehaerys himself had muttered. and still—still—she laughed. somewhere behind her, she could hear jaehaerys shout her name, voice raw and splintered with something close to panic. let him worry. he always had. but she straightened her spine, ignored the taste of blood from a bitten lip, and kicked her horse forward again. she twisted just enough in the saddle to shout back, breathless but fierce: “i’m fine!” and she was, heart beating like a war drum—but still in the saddle, and grinning through it all. “i’m fine!” she called again, louder this time, with a laugh that rang like thunder.

her mare, unsettled but obedient, danced beneath her as niamh steadied herself, blinking the sun from her lashes. there was a smear of mud up her skirt and her pulse galloped louder than the hooves beneath her, but she was grinning again, wild and giddy. ahead, the stag burst through a patch of thorns and veered sharply down into a dry gully, hooves scrabbling on the slope. for a moment she watched its path twist and change. a perfect fork in the wood. she turned halfway in the saddle, catching sight of him now—him, crashing through behind her.

“if we cut across the ridge,” she shouted, her voice flushed with heat and breathlessness, “you can head it off from the left! it’s cornered between the stream and the stone wall—it won’t have much room!”

sora stood near the edge of the large gathering space, surrounded by the soft murmur of conversations, the occasional laughter, and the clinking of wine glasses. the verdant concord was in full swing, and the pavilion hosting the weapons demonstrations was as packed as any of the others. highgarden’s grand gardens were bathed in golden sunlight, the scent of blooming flowers mingling with the fresh scent of the fields beyond the estate. people milled about, some admiring the fine craftsmanship of blades and armor, others deep in conversation about matters more political than artistic.

the demonstration in front of her was captivating—a weaponsmith demonstrating a new hybrid between a spear and a pike. its long, graceful shaft seemed to glide effortlessly through the air with every practiced swing, the blade catching the light in a dazzling display. a small crowd had gathered around, and sora, her interest piqued by the weapon's unusual design, had managed to find a small gap in the sea of spectators to get a closer look.

as she moved to lean in, someone tall stepped in front of her, blocking her view completely. sora paused for a moment, blinking up at the stranger, but their broad shoulders and height left no room for her to see around them. she shifted her weight to one foot, gently leaning to one side, but they were firmly in her way.

sora let out a soft sigh, her patience wearing thin as the demonstration continued, the weapon swinging gracefully in the air. she took another half-step forward, hoping for a glimpse, but the tall figure remained unmoving, utterly oblivious to her presence. she shifted on her feet, trying again, a little firmer this time: "excuse me, could you move just a bit?" but the person didn't flinch.

with a brief glance at the back of their head, sora’s expression softened, and she shook her head, realizing they weren’t going to hear her. her shoulders relaxed, her posture straightened once more, and she decided not to push it any further. she gave up, instead attempting to peer around the stranger's broad form, her eyes darting back to the demonstration.

niamh had not meant to go that way. she truly hadn’t. it was foolish, reckless even—jaehaerys would be speaking with the tyrells, and her presence was expected soon beside him. and yet… she had caught a glimpse of dark curls, the set of a familiar jawline, that particular angle at which sora tarth always tilted her head when something caught her attention. that tilt was burned into niamh’s memory: countless campaigns with dice and parchment, stolen hours discussing fictional realms more merciful than their own. and now—here.

the queen of new valyria did not announce herself. she merely stepped forward through the crowd and, in doing so, accidentally blocked the very thing sora had been trying to see.

for a moment she just stood there, spine straight, hands folded loosely before her, gaze fixed on the swinging blur of metal in the sunlight. and then came the voice—soft, a little strained, oh so familiar. niamh didn’t turn at once. instead, she smiled faintly, her eyes fixed on the glinting weapon ahead as she said, lightly, “you always did prefer the polearms. i said they were unwieldy and pretentious, and you said they had poetry.” then she turned. sora looked older. not aged, not weary, but… sharpened. stormland steel made flesh. niamh could not say whether it was the war taxes, the distance, or the inevitable passage of time that made her look so. she only knew it made something throb quietly behind her ribs. "hello, old friend."

“i didn’t mean to stand in your way,” she murmured, though her gaze didn’t waver. “i saw you and—well." she hesitated. not because she didn’t know what to say, but because there were too many things she wanted to say, and too few that she was allowed to. “i have missed you.” the words came plainly, no gilding. no grace, no poise; just a mere statement. she cared not if she were stood close to other courtiers; a part of her was desperate to ask sora if she would be her lady, and yet she wondered if that would somehow be an insult to her. she was too free for such things, and considering the nature of the court, she would not wish to put her in such a position.

“you and your birds, and your impossible dice rolls, and the way you used to bring lemon cakes to every session even though no one liked lemon cakes, and your ridiculous insistence that your rogue could also be a knight if she ‘believed hard enough.’ niamh laughed quietly, but it faltered. “you made her a knight anyway. we let you.”

“Alright, Ni,” he said, using the old nickname without hesitation. “I’ll admit it—I do get a kick out of ruffling feathers, whether with swords or syllables.” He exhaled in a gentle plume, then tapped his boot lightly. “And about roses and verses… I write what I please, and yes, I hide them under my pillow. But I’d never expect you to read them—some things are best kept for the night.”

He stepped a fraction closer, mindful of the respectful gap between them. His green eyes flicked to the tapestry where she’d pointed. “As for this mess you’re to admire,” he continued, voice easy now, “that bit you called a wilted turnip, just makes me hungry for a hearty stew.”

He gave her a crooked grin, smoke curling around his face. “I would hug ya, but—well, he may not be here, but I bet he has eyes in every corner.” His tone was teasing, yet respectful.

Leaning back against the marble colum, Hugo folded his arms. “Audacity, you wonder? Riverlanders don’t do timidity. Standing here, talking flowers and paint, feels small compared to what we faced back home. It’s honest, though. No hiding behind pavilions or perfumed arcades.” He flicked ash onto a nearby planter. “Look, this Reach show is all flash, chance to show off their wit and wilt.”

With another warm smile, Hugo lowered his gaze. “Thanks for humoring me, Your Grace,” he added softly, teasing.

niamh did not answer at first. her smile held, of course—what else could it do? it had been honed like a blade in the courts of riverrun, a gentler sort of armour, stitched from silk and wit. she did not let it falter even as something inside her pressed against her ribs like a caged bird. not pain exactly, not anything so unpoised. just the terrible ache of recognition; and of how everything still felt so very the same, despite being so incredibly different. her voice dipped quieter then, softer than she’d meant it.

“...don’t point out ponds, hughie. not when you know i can’t go.” she met his eyes, finally, properly. her lips didn’t move. but she hoped he would understand. this is how it must be. and then she smiled again, that bright, bright thing, and gave a little shrug of her shoulders as if nothing had passed between them at all.

“besides,” she said, nodding toward a passing knight with a familiar tilt of her head, “you’ve already had your moment with me today. don’t grow greedy, lest you turn into a leprechaun.” it were as though in just a few moments they would find themselves drawn to the rest of the quills; sitting upon wooden benches and putting on voices akin to goblins. it was foolish, but it was them.

“and you'll be dining alone then, you know i don’t like stew,” she said at last, and there was a lightness to it, even a playful raise of her brow. her eyes flicked toward him, fleeting, and then away again. the scent of the sour leaf curled around her, familiar as spring smoke over the fields of vance lands, or the crushed lavender on her riding gloves. it should not have made her feel so much. but then, neither should his voice—ni, said as though it had never left his mouth, as though nothing had changed, and they had not been tugged apart by titles and thrones and vows they had not written.

how easy it would be to lean against the column beside him. to let the tapestry be tapestry, the crowd just noise, and sit by that pond as he said—just sit, and speak, and maybe not speak at all. but that wasn’t the world they’d promised to live in, not that day beneath the willow when she had picked grass from the hem of her skirts and told him they would be alright. that they would manage, somehow. not grandly, not in poems or wars, but in these small things. stolen words beside tapestries. murmurs beneath chandeliers. nothing more. nothing less - for they were good people. good folk. and her kin was depending on her.

“ain't nothing like the honesty of riverland dirt. even when it clings under the nails.” she was not speaking about dirt. niamh’s eyes followed the knight until he disappeared into the fold of the crowd, and when she turned back, her smile still held—but the weight behind it had shifted, ever so slightly. there was a hush in her manner now, not sombreness exactly, but something tender, almost childlike in its quiet eagerness. “does everyone still meet?” she asked, gently, and she did not say who. she didn’t need to. “i suppose they do. why wouldn’t they? just because their eighth had to go and marry a man who doesn’t know the difference between a warlock and a wyrmling.” she laughed softly, but it was thinner this time, stretched around the edges with longing.

"Did they lose it for me?" he echoed bitterly, the brat prince rearing fully to the surface now. "Of course they lost it. They let it slip through their fingers like children who couldn't hold a toy. A castle of stone and steel taken by men who fight with sand in their boots." He nearly spat the words, disgusted by the thought. It had been Stormlanders who manned Nightsong, and in his eyes, it had been Stormlanders who failed. They had handed Dorne a victory he could not abide, could not forgive.

But her mention of Summerhall brought a sudden, sharp silence from him, and for just a moment he faltered visibly, his posture stiffening in the saddle. Summerhall. It still haunted him, that sunlit sanctuary Daenaerys had dangled before them like a consolation prize. Niamh had seen it as freedom, a haven away from the demands of a throne he did not yet sit. But for Jaehaerys, it had been an insult, a gilded cage dressed as a gift. He had wanted King's Landing, the Red Keep—proof that he was meant to rule more than just some crumbling summer ruin always in a state of repair. The bitterness rose fresh in his chest again, hot and stubborn, because the truth was he had loved it too—but pride and resentment had poisoned even those memories.

"Summerhall," he said, the single word a clipped retort, as though she had struck him. He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, scowling at the path ahead. "You mistake my eagerness for duty. I did not flee the Stormlands; I was called back to the capital. A king does not hide in some half-forgotten ruin."

He turned toward her abruptly, irritation clear in the stubborn tilt of his chin, his gaze challenging her defiance. He saw the glower on her face, saw the crossbow she held with such casual skill, and he realized with a fresh jolt of annoyance that she intended to challenge him even here, in the heart of his own hunt.

niamh’s lips parted in a faint scoff—barely a sound, more breath than breathless—but it scraped against the quiet like a blade unsheathed. he had said it. summerhall. one word, spat like a curse. as though the name alone sullied his mouth. she felt the sound of it settle somewhere low in her chest, coiling. he mimicked her, she could hear it—the cadence of her voice twisted into something petulant and sneering, as if her thoughts were too simple, too sentimental to warrant serious reply. of course they lost it. her jaw locked; she half needed to remember they were in public.

“oh, of course,” she muttered dryly, fingers tightening around the reins until the leather creaked. “merely men with sand in their boots, those stormlanders.” the words rolled out of her mouth like stones, heavy and flat. she didn’t even try to mask the echo. so that was it. she met his glare with equal ire, half waiting for him to say something akin to telling her to shut up. "i would love to see lord celtigar be able to disarm one of them."

the stormlands reduced to careless boys fumbling with a blade. it was easier for him that way. easier to blame them than admit anything had been truly lost. anything that mattered. her eyes tracked the forest path ahead, narrowed and winding and indifferent to royalty. the stag’s trail had vanished some time ago, but neither of them would say so first. not when they’d staked so much on being right. she exhaled through her nose, slow, then turned her head toward him just slightly, not enough to meet his eye.

“and summerhall,” she began lightly, carelessly, “well, maybe you had the right of it all along. a half-forgotten ruin full o’ ghosts and moths. servants vanished for days at a time—spooked, no doubt, by the great insult o’ being housed somewhere so far from the capital.” her smile was faint, a brittle curl of the mouth that didn’t reach her eyes. “it wasn’t a palace. not a proper one. not fit for a king.” she said it just to say it. just to see what it did to him. because he had loved it once, in his quiet, bitter way. she’d seen it when he thought she hadn’t—the way he’d walked those sunlit corridors barefoot, or sat for hours beneath the fig tree near the broken western wall. but he didn’t deserve her remembering that. not now.

"shameful of you jaehaerys, to expect your wife to live there, you know. most new brides are spoiled. what'd i get?" it was there she’d caught him smiling to himself, like a idiot who forgot he was supposed to be angry. "leaky roof. hearth never lit properly. who needs casterly rock?" she almost joked who needed arron lannister, and yet she knew that would be too far of a joke. scalding, he would go from being irritated to being genuinely angry. when he brought up the fishing, her head snapped toward him properly, the scowl sharp enough to cut.

“oh, that again is it?” she barked a laugh, mirthless and thin. “whoever told you that needs floggin’. whatever spy you put on me—fire them. i don’t fish.” she sat straighter in the saddle, chin up. “i’ve never fished. i don’t enjoy the smell, nor the patience it requires, nor the slimy things that come out the water. it’s slow, and dull, and—” she stopped herself, catching the ridiculousness of it. “and i don’t. so drop it.” of course, she did fish. loved it. loved the quiet of it, the pull and give of the line, the stillness that came only when water was the only thing before her. but he couldn’t have that. he couldn’t have everything.

but it was the way he said his—his hunt, his land, his kingdom—that finally made her pull the reins hard and draw to a stop. the forest pressed in around them, green and gold and watchful. she didn’t speak for a long moment. then, her voice came, quiet but sharp as flint. “it’s not yours,” she said. “none of it is. not really. you ride through it like a god, thinking it all bends to your will just ’cause someone put a crown on your head. but trees don’t kneel. rivers don’t swear fealty. the land’s not yours, jaehaerys.” her gaze rose to the boughs above, where shafts of late afternoon light pierced the leaves like stained glass.

“not like you think. and you'll be wanting to show more care for your words before the land turns on you.” again. the valyrians had already exploded once - she would not put it beyond the abilities of the ancient landscape to be able to conjure something to punish the targaryens again. and then came the creeping realisation tha she too would be swept up in that, because here she was. queen. wife. before he could muster a response—something cutting, no doubt, some twisted echo of her own words laced in bitter mockery—niamh saw it.

the stag.

a flicker of white through the trees, quick as a ghost and twice as proud, its antlers catching the light like spears of bone. it stood poised at the ridge for only a heartbeat, the air around it stilling, reverent. niamh’s breath caught. instinct overtook pride. she spurred her mare hard with a sharp jerk of her reins, the beast lurching forward with a thundering snap of hooves against the underbrush. bark tore loose as they barreled through the trees, branches clawing at her cheeks, at her cloak, at her hair that flew wild behind her like a banner of flame. “yours, is it?” she shouted over her shoulder, a breathless bark of laughter swallowed by the wind. “we’ll see about that, won’t we?” she ducked low beneath an overhang of branches, the rush of air biting at her face, a smear of blood blooming where a bramble tore her skin—but she barely felt it. summerhall, the stormlands, the bloodied edge of nightsong— none of it mattered now. the only thing that mattered was that she had seen the stag first, she had made it run. not him. not his guards. not the crown.

her.

As they walked, Hugo’s gaze softened at her playful inquiry about the paintings. He chuckled lightly when she mentioned the depiction of babies as fat, balding men, nodding in amused agreement. “I’ve often wondered the same,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “I’m sure the painter is here, ready to weave tales of inspiration and gods before he offers to make you one of his own. Such is his style—taking liberties with nature and propriety alike.” His tone was both affectionate and lightly mocking, a subtle jab at the Reachmen’s flair for the extravagant, yet hiding a note of sincere admiration for their bold artistic expressions.

He paused beside the tapestry, looking up at its chaotic, vibrant display. “How many gardeners do you think he has? Not even a rose of place,” Hugo mused, his voice carrying a hint of disbelief and dry humor. “Truly jarring, isn’t it? But then, one must admire the audacity of it all—even if I suspect there’s more artifice than cultivation behind these works.”

niamh tilted her head as she listened, though she did not look at him. not for too long. her gaze swept the hall instead, alighting on lords and ladies she recognised and acknowledging them with that warm smile of hers, that soft lift of chin which suggested poise and attentiveness. her husband was across the room, deep in talk with the king of the reach - she nodded toward him as well, just enough, though found herself wondering why she were feeling the need to do such a hting. nothing about her posture betrayed the quiet thrum beneath her skin, the very particular sort of warmth that accompanied hughie vance.

“i do think you take rather too much pleasure in the ire of others, hughie, be it of swords or syllables,” she murmured, tilting her head the other way now as though inspecting the tapestry from a new perspective, though truthfully she still could not make heads or tails of it. “and i daresay you’d be the first to call a rose a symbol of fleeting beauty, and the second to turn around and write three verses about it which you hide below your pillow.” she tapped the tip of her gloved finger against the woven mess of colour before them. then, with the faintest glance his way, she added,

“though you would no doubt tell me that’s precisely the point.” she resisted the urge to mimic his voice.

she let that linger, but only for a moment. then she straightened and folded her hands with practiced grace. “now, tell me which part of this mess i’m supposed to pretend to admire. i assume it’s not the bit that looks like a wilted turnip.” he was standing just close enough that she could hear the lightness in his voice, the way he still said things as if they had been only moments apart. her expression did not soften—niamh tully was not one for such things in public—but there was a particular stillness to her that suggested familiarity.

“you’re right about one thing,” she said, keeping her voice quiet but not conspiratorial, “the reach is fond of audacity. i am wondering where you have found this audacity yourself, to stand there and speak to me of flowers and paintings.” as if i were a mere stranger, was what she wished to add; only, she said nothing as she caught the gaze of her cousin lord ben blackwood - she briefly waved, her smile still bright upon her face. "you feel nervous. don't be nervous. it' fine." she reached out to touch the part of the tapestry she likened to a turnip, as though to make it appear as though she were talking about that.

The smell of the Reach was unpleasant to him, artificial. The event pulsed with the promise of progress and quiet power as scholars and nobility mingled beneath the soft glow of lantern light. Amid the elegant chaos, a familiar presence caught his eye—a figure whose grace and measured bearing commanded respect.

There she stood, poised near a silken forum. Raising his chin, Lord Hugo Vance approached with an easy stride, his dark green tunic and embroidered accents catching the light. He paused a respectful distance away before greeting her in a tone both casual and sincere. “Your grace,” he said, his clover accent softening the formal address, “it is a pleasure to see you again.” His smile was warm, tempered by a quiet confidence. “The Reach certainly knows how to gather its finest minds and spirits.”

Hugo’s gaze held a hint of unspoken camaraderie as he continued, “I don't take much pleasure in debate but I've always enjoyed art of the Reach, what do you think?” His words were measured, inviting conversation without delving into territory best left for quieter moments.

niamh was doing her best to appear engaged, though the art surrounding her seemed as little more than a parade of shapes and colours that blended into an overwhelming blur - what was any of this meant to be? the people around her whispered in reverence, their voices hushed as if they feared disturbing the air itself. it wasn’t that she disliked art, per se—she simply couldn’t see the grandeur in it that others did. she was more of a practical woman, grounded in the daily routines of her life rather than in the dreamlike worlds people tried to paint.

still, she knew the importance of these events. her husband, king jaehaerys, was trying to make their court into a beacon of culture and progress, and she was here to lend her presence, her grace—her appearance, really- the reach truly did it best and there were matters they needed to handle with king cedric tyrell. the scent of freshly lit lanterns and rich oils in the air tickled her nose as she paused before a display of abstract patterns. she didn’t understand them. didn’t feel them. perhaps others did, but she felt herself growing weary of the effort to feign interest.

her fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of a tapestry nearby, the bright colours reflecting a world she couldn’t connect with. she frowned, only slightly, as she looked closer at the brushstrokes and the intricate details that were supposed to invoke some sense of beauty in her. to her, it was all so much meaningless noise, the kind of thing she could never quite bring herself to appreciate. her lips pulled into a wry smile, and she did not immediately look at him—didn’t need to.

“lord hugo vance,” she replied, her voice a mix of affectionate exasperation and fondness, “always there with your timing and circumstance. you’re still using words that mean the same thing just to sound clever, i see.” she finally turned to face him, her gaze softening with the sight of him. certainly, him. hughie vance. such affection was only present in the eyes, yet her words remained quiet. “i should’ve known you'd find joy in this… chaos of opinions, my lord." she raised an eyebrow and shook her head, her lips pulling into a half-smile as she allowed herself a moment to soften, just a little.

“you may join me, though. i may not be much of a critic, but you’re always good at making people look at things from a different angle. even if i still think it’s all just shapes and paint.” she sighed, looking over the chaotic patterns of the tapestry again. what tapestry? her eyes glanced toward what he referred to, noted it quietly; and she decided it was too much of a risk to go wandering over with him to some corner. they were hiding nothing; there was no need for them to appear so. besides, he would always be seen considering his height; overgrown, still. "what exactly are we looking at here?" she asked, a slight expression upon her face.

@niamhtullys

the capital had never felt particularly welcoming to mellara, with its high walls and higher expectations. the times she had been there she had never found herself settling into a comfort like she did in some of the other kingdoms. something about it felt…strange. something she could not name. the red keep was a different kind of beautiful—imposing and austere, with crimson banners fluttering in the warm breeze and polished stone corridors that whispered of secrets. her carriage bounced up the stone path towards the castle's entrance.

and then there she was. the other half of her. her twin.

“niamh!” she called, not caring how it echoed off the stone or drew the attention of the nearby guards. she didn’t wait for ceremony or permission—her feet carried her forward before she could think, the silks of her skirts whispering with each hurried step.

and then she was there, wrapping her arms around her twin as if they hadn’t spent every week exchanging letters, as if her heart hadn’t ached with the quiet ache of distance since the wedding.

the hug was tight, desperate in its own way, and mel buried her face against her sister’s shoulder. her arms wrapped around her twin in a fierce, breathless hug. she felt a tear slide down her cheek and blinked rapidly, laughing as she pulled back just enough to wipe it away.

“foolish thing,” she said, voice catching. “it’s just… gods, i missed you.”

she took niamh in then, eyes scanning her face, memorizing every familiar line, looking for anything new. a new expression or emotion. something she could not read in a letter. “you look beautiful,” mel said linking arms with her, voice warm and light. “do you have many things this afternoon or am i allowed to have kidnapped you for the day. gods we have so much to talk about i couldn't write in my letters”

niamh had intended to be composed. she had stood at the top of the steps, spine held taut like a drawn bow, hands folded neatly before her despite the fluttering in her chest. her gown—stormland silk in a cool ash-grey, the colour of distant thunder—was chosen for severity rather than celebration, and her expression had been practiced in the mirror that morning: soft, regal, unreadable. not fragile. not eager. and certainly not girlish.

but the moment she heard her name—“niamh!”—thrown like a stone into the air, loud and bright and completely improper, her composure buckled at the edges. the guards straightened, unsure if they should bow or smile. her ladies-in-waiting tensed with well-bred uncertainty. she could not move at first. she only watched, frozen, as the carriage door swung open and mel came spilling out—red curls wild from the wind, skirts caught in one hand, running, not walking, towards her.

and suddenly she was no longer queen of anything. no longer niamh of the stormlands. she was simply a girl with her heart sprinting from her ribs, and her twin flying down the path like some glorious summerbird. “mel!” niamh’s voice broke free in a giddy rush, escaping her mouth before she could command it otherwise. her feet carried her forward, ignoring the weight of her crown, the eyes watching from the courtyard, the fine hem of her gown dragging against the dusty stone.

when her sister collided into her arms, niamh let out a breathless laugh, half-strangled by the force of the embrace, and then gave in completely. her arms curled tight around mellara’s back, pulling her close with the fierceness of longing finally given shape. she squealed, girlish and high, then did it again—quieter, but with the same breathless wonder—and even jumped, as if the joy had nowhere else to go but up.

“you little wretch,” niamh whispered, her voice catching at the edges, “you absolute plague. how dare you look at me like that, you know i’ll cry—look at you!” she mirrored mellara’s gaze, scanning her face with a hunger that felt ancient and raw; it was an ungodly thing to separate twins, she quietly decided. absolutely ungodly. “you’ve gone and got prettier, haven’t you? i’m sure of it. did you do something to your lashes? is it castor oil again.”

"I'm sure they would rather I hunt here," he replied absently, his voice edged with a distracted petulance. "A king in their lands after they lost." He didn't even glance at her, the words leaving him sharply, his jaw tightening slightly. The Dornish victory at Nightsong still rankled. He blamed the Stormlords for their failures, resented them for their wounded pride and bitter murmurs—but even these frustrations faded beneath his obsession with the stag.

His grip tightened on the reins as he leaned forward, scanning deeper into the woods, his words growing sharper, more childish in their certainty. "I am the king," he stated flatly, as though it settled every question, every doubt. "The woods are mine. Here. The Crownlands. If there were woods on the Steps, then I would own those as well." His voice lowered, almost a growl of defiance, "Therefore, it is my stag. Mine."

Finally, he looked toward Niamh, though his attention still wavered, half caught in the whispering shadows beyond. "We are hunting, not worrying about salt in their wounds," he declared impatiently. His eyes narrowed, a flicker of the brat prince surfacing plainly now, raw and reckless beneath the royal poise. "They are of salt and sea. It only stings so much."

the petulance in his voice cut through her, hot and stinging, sharper than a thorned bramble snaring her cloak which she tugged at momentarily irritated. "you are, the king." niamh's jaw tightened, the corners of her mouth curving downward as her teeth ground together behind closed lips. a king in their lands after they lost. was that all he saw in it? not the strain, not the wound still weeping from the loss of nightsong? just the spoils of a game—his, always his, no matter whose blood had wet the earth to win or lose it.

she could have throttled him then and there, as he barely bothered to even look at her - like she was a bothersome insect, something buzzing near his ear while he hunted his precious stag. his. the word clanged in her skull, mocking. it took all of her strength not to bite back with something sharp and unforgivable. she would have once—before the crown, before the weight of it, before she had learned what it meant to be a queen instead of a girl who spat fire because it was all she had. but gods, how she wanted to. her fingers curled tightly around the hunting crossbow resting at her side, the smooth, polished wood biting into her palm. the stag may be his, in his mind at least, but she would see the arrow loosed by her own hand.

it was decided - she would take the shot from him, if she could. the thought stewed in her, bitter and childish. she straightened her back and set her gaze forward, her chin lifting defiantly. "they lost?" she asked, her eyes blinking in his direction, fiery locks briefly coming into contact with her lips in the wind as she pushed it aside. "did they really lose you nightsong?" her voice feigned confusion, and yet, she she was confused. how was it their fault? they were one realm.

"you know, i don't think i was expecting your eager return, considering you were happy to leave the stormlands." summerhall, was her true home in this realm. the thought surfaced unbidden, as if conjured by her own treacherous tongue. for a heartbeat, the woods fell away—the tangled roots and shadowed trunks dissolving into sunlit gardens, the scent of wild roses heavy in the summer air. they had lived there in those two years of uneasy peace, when daenaerys had gifted the old, sun-drenched palace to jaehaerys in a gesture of trust, of love.

the only year that felt like it had belonged to them, untouched by the weight of crowns or the cloying whispers of courtiers. a castle of their own—his home, her home—uncomplicated by the pretensions of court or the bitter ache of conquest. but it had not been enough. it was never enough. the memory soured as quickly as it came, curling inward like a leaf scorched by fire. summerhall was a gift—a sanctuary from the politics of king's landing, a chance for them to live as they were before the crown. but jaehaerys had seen insult in it. insult that he had not been given the red keep, insult that his cousin had not seen him fit to rule beyond the confines of that crumbling summer palace. he had looked at summerhall and seen a cage.

and here they were, in a forest that did not welcome them, chasing a stag that would not be caught, each step sinking further into the mire of what had been left behind.

her fingers toyed with the crossbow string, testing its pull, imagining the taut release of it, the whistle of a bolt through the still air. she listened to him continue, and sucked the air in her cheeks as they momentarily hollowed as he spoke of being king. of it being his. all his. "right, then," she muttered under her breath, half to herself, half to the whispering woods. "all yours, of course. every bloody leaf and branch." her mare shifted beneath her, restless, the weight of the moment hanging heavy between them. when jaehaerys looked at her again, brief and impatient, she did not bother to hide the irritated glower etched into her face. she had never been good at hiding herself—her heart had always been a wild, untamed thing, worn on her sleeve whether she willed it or not. the urge to defy him prickled through her veins, hot and insistent.