⸻ #OFSEALEDFATES , a dependent mumu blog for 𝐜𝐨𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐡𝐪 ; adoringly dictated by nova , they + she , twenty7 . will frequently feature mature / triggering topics ⸻

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@ofsealedfates
⸻ #OFSEALEDFATES , a dependent mumu blog for 𝐜𝐨𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐡𝐪 ; adoringly dictated by nova , they + she , twenty7 . will frequently feature mature / triggering topics ⸻

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"do not." decisive and sharp. rarely did she ever wield the authority her position gave her. but they are supposedly equals now --- prince and princess, even if one screams of false declaration. "do not speak to me as if you are truly here to celebrate lord lewys and his son. you lost the privilege of levity the moment you donned a mask and waltzed in here, maron."
and still, she did not raise her voice. the power sat on her tongue, pressing against the jail of her teeth. but by the seven, curiosity stayed her voice; she could direct maron to satisfy it. the whys and the hows, all hidden behind his sharpened smile. she could do it --- she would do it.
"and what rematch is worth risking exposure?" he stood taller, but she didn't step back; no, she lifted her chin, lavender eyes burning behind her golden mask. "if i am your goal this night, maron, then certainly it's a good one --- unless you aim to disappoint."
A low laugh slipped from him at her command—soft, unbothered, the sound of a man who had never been particularly troubled by authority, no matter how brightly it burned. He dipped his head just enough to acknowledge it, though the curve of his mouth suggested obedience had never truly been on offer.
He leaned a fraction closer, not enough to touch, but enough that the noise of the hall dimmed between them, his voice dropping into something meant for her alone. “You give me too much credit if you think I came with any grand design beyond boredom and curiosity,” he murmured. “Though I’ll admit… you improve the evening considerably.”
At the question of risk, his brow lifted, amused. “Exposure is only dangerous if someone cares to look too closely. Tonight, everyone’s too busy admiring themselves, and keeping secrets.” A crooked smile followed. “Besides, you’ve already decided not to expose me. If you meant to, I’d be bleeding on the marble by now.”
Her final words earned a flash of teeth—pleased, challenged.
“A good goal,” he repeated softly. “You always were.”
His hand lifted then, palm open in invitation rather than demand, storm-grey eyes glinting behind the mask. “The wager was a race, if you recall. Dawn. Horses. Pride wounded on both sides.” A beat, deliberate. “Unless you’d prefer a different sort of rematch now.”
setting: pyke — the outer walk of the sea tower, closed starter w fariha martell @irnsbld
The sea was ugly that morning—churned and dark, the sort that gnawed at the rocks like it meant to take Pyke piece by piece. Maron found it fitting. He stood on the outer walk of the keep, salt spray catching in his hair, jaw tight as a knotted rope. A few days had passed since Casterly Rock, since masks and blood and dragon fire and the taste of things gone wrong. Enough time for whispers to crawl faster than ravens ever could. Enough time for the word abducted to settle where rescued or protected might once have sat. Enough time for the Tyrells—soft-handed, soft-spoken Tyrells, to reconsider what they had so proudly offered.
He scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair before turning as footsteps approached.
“So,” he began, rough and without preamble, “you steal a woman from under half the realm’s nose, paint a target on her back big enough for every vulture from Oldtown to the Twins, and now they’re saying the engagement’s ash besides.” His storm-grey eyes cut sharp as broken glass. “Tell me, brother—what was the point?”
He stepped closer, voice dropping but losing none of its edge. “You love her. Fine. I won’t fault you for that.” A beat, then a snort. “But love doesn’t stop blades. Doesn’t stop poison. Doesn’t stop some ambitious cunt from deciding she’s the quickest way to gut House Greyjoy from the inside.”
The wind howled between them, carrying the salt and iron smell of home. Maron spread his hands, palms up, a rare gesture of frustration rather than challenge. “You brought her here, Aeron. To Pyke. To us. And now we’re meant to guard her like a living promise the rest of Westeros would happily see broken.”
His mouth twisted, bitter and sharp. “There is no clean ending to this. There never will be now was it worth it? Was it worth giving them another reason to come for our throats?”
aeron knew that when he returned home with elinor, there would be questions. he knew there would be arguing and he was ready for it. he had a plan, he didn't think he could fix this alone but he knew that what he would say could help everyone's thoughts about this. "maron, i know. the gravity of the situation is huge, i am aware." aeron started. he ran his hand over his face and looked out of the tower. the salt smelt good, calming for him. aeron wanted to approach this with a level head and once the idea came to him, he knew that this could work in his favour. "the point is that those lannisters thought they could go behind our backs to take what they wanted, when we both know it was a grave mistake." he told his brother calmly. "especially after what happened after the masquerade." he sighed and shook his head. "would it help if i told you that she came willingly..." he said with a laugh. "before everything, her and i... we..." he paused. "it doesn't matter." aeron told his brother. "you want answers. i have some..." aeron shook his head. "there is no clean ending, you're right brother... but there is a crack in the system." he told him. "with all their money in the world, we still attacked them... we still made our way into their homes, into the rock... they live up there, with all their power and connections to the crown but we were able to slip away and leave." he continued. "they had everything at their disposal and we still beat them." aeron told him with a smile. "their people might start to think that they are not as safe as they claim they are. their reputation has been sullied. house tyrell just aligned themselves with the lannisters but then one of their family members runs away with an ironborn. it seems like the cracks have begun to show and we will be able to use this." he told his brother. "this can work for us, for the islands." aeron glanced out towards the ocean, making sure he took a moment to admire the view from the tower. he loved it here, even if right now he had to have difficult conversations, even looking at the sea brought him more calm than he realized.
The wind snapped his cloak hard against his legs as Aeron spoke, salt spray needling his face, but Maron barely seemed to notice. He listened actually listened jaw working slow, eyes narrowed not in anger now but in thought, like a blade being tested for flaws.
When his brother finished, a low breath left him, half scoff, half reluctant acknowledgment.
“A crack,” he repeated, voice roughened by the sea air. “Gods, you always did have a talent for dressing chaos up as strategy.”
He dragged a hand over his mouth, pacing once along the stone before turning back. “Aye… we slipped into their gilded den and slipped out again. Made lions look like housecats in their own halls. That part I won’t argue.” His mouth twitched, pride and irritation warring in equal measure. “And the Reach losing their precious rose to an ironborn—” he huffed a short laugh. “That’s a wound to their pride deeper than any blade we could’ve driven.” But then his gaze cut back, sharp again.
“Don’t pretend that makes her safer,” he said quietly. “If anything, it makes her the most valuable piece on the board. To us. To them. To anyone with half a brain and ambition enough to try.” A beat. “You didn’t just steal a woman, Aeron. You stole leverage. And leverage gets people killed when it’s not guarded right.”
He stepped closer, voice dropping, rough but no longer biting. “I’m not saying you were wrong,” he admitted, the words clearly costing him. “I’m saying you’d better be ready to bleed for it. Because you won’t be the only one.”
His shoulder bumped Aeron’s, familiar and solid.
“Still,” he added after a moment, a crooked edge returning, “running off with a Tyrell bride under the noses of half the realm?” A low chuckle rumbled from his chest. “That’s the most ironborn thing you’ve ever done. I almost feel proud.”
Then, quieter—honest in the way he rarely allowed himself to be:
“Just don’t make me bury you for it, brother.”
setting: kingsroad—a few day from harrenhal , open starter
The road to Harrenhal had not been kind. Though the maesters and septas alike had urged rest—had spoken in grave tones of bleeding, of weakness, of the body’s need to mend—Princess Rhaenys had not been made to linger behind walls while the realm shifted beneath her family’s feet. Her brother would stand before kings and rebels alike. The lions would bury their dead. The dragon would be spoken of again in whispers and oaths. She would be there.
So she rode.And yet the journey had carved its toll quietly into her bones.
By the time they reached the roadside inn along the kingsroad, scarcely a few days’ ride from Harrenhal’s blackened towers, the world had begun to tilt at its edges. Food would not settle. Sleep came shallow and broken. Her limbs felt heavy in ways she did not confess aloud as she handed the child into the careful arms of a septa.
“I only need a moment,” she assured them, voice steady though her stomach churned like stormwater.
She stepped outside, drawing in deep breaths of autumn air, hoping the coolness might steady the rolling nausea. The world beyond the inn spread wide fields brushed in gold and green, hedgerows tangled with late-blooming flowers, trees already beginning to surrender their leaves to the coming season.
Gods, she had forgotten how green the world beyond Dorne could be.
“I did not know I would miss foliage this much,” she murmured softly, more to herself than to anyone near enough to hear. For a moment she simply stood there, breathing. Then the ground shifted.
Not truly only within her but the sensation came sudden and treacherous. The edges of her vision blurred. Light fractured into white and gold. Her balance faltered as though the earth itself had slipped half a step away from her feet.
Her hand reached blindly for purchase, finding only empty air.The last thing she registered was the strange, distant thought that she must not fall that she had only just brought life into the world and could not possibly meet the ground like some fainting court maiden and then the world lurched sideways, spinning, as her knees began to give beneath her.
serenelle did not slow her pace when she heard his boot shift in the sand. her head remained high as her gaze fixed on what was in front of her, but her shoulders eased by a fraction. the sound of him following settled behind her like a familiar weight. one she had carried before, back in maidenpool. ❝ the sea aches because it is never still, ❞ she replied over her shoulder. ❝ it is always reaching for something it cannot keep. ❞ her gaze drifted toward the dark water, moonlight scattering across its surface. maybe that's why she listened. just remind herself to hold tighter to what she can. his words about the guards pulled a humorless chuckle out of her. she stopped walking to turn to him fully. ❝ if i wished you to be dragged away in chains, you would already be done, ❞ she said simply. ❝ my kindness is not out of my wish to see you, maron. ❞ you always knew that. she could strike him across his face. rolling her eyes, she continued walking, letting silence fill the air between them. she wouldn't give him the satisfaction, as if he knew her like the palm of his hand. thoughts swarmed her head as she replayed the time they had spent. it was only broken when they got closer to casterly rock. when she wrapped a hand around his arm, smiling softly at the guards as they came into view. she lifted her chin when she met his gaze again. ❝ i knew you would never stay, ❞ she corrected gently. most people in maidenpool did not. ❝ i only thought i would at least get a farewell. ❞ she turned her attention to what was in front of her, not wanting her guard to slip more than it already has. ❝ you should have missed it, ❞ she murmured. ❝ it is dangerous for you and for me for even helping you. ❞ after a brief pause, her voice was threaded with honesty, one that she knew would come back to bite her. ❝ i am glad you did not. ❞
His arm went still beneath her hand for the barest heartbeat when she took it—surprise flickering through him before it smoothed into something quieter, something almost careful. Maron Greyjoy was not a man easily unsettled, yet the warmth of her fingers there felt more dangerous than any blade drawn in the Rock.
“A farewell,” he repeated softly, tasting the words like something unfamiliar. His gaze slid to her profile, moonlight catching the curve of her cheek. “Aye… that I should have given you.” No jest in it, no easy deflection—just truth, rough-edged and late.
They walked a few steps in silence before his mouth curved again, though the mischief returned gentler than before. “You know why I didn’t,” he added, voice low. “Goodbyes make things real. Harder to leave when someone’s looking at you like you might stay.”
At her warning, he huffed a quiet laugh. “Danger’s never stopped me,” he murmured. “You of all people know that.” His shoulder brushed hers deliberately, fleeting, grounding. “And you’re stronger than you pretend. You’ll survive helping one troublesome ironborn through a doorway.”
Then her final admission landed.
I am glad you did not.
For once, he had no clever answer waiting.
His head tilted slightly toward hers, voice dropping to something warm and private. “So am I,” he said, simpler than he ever allowed himself to be. A beat passed before the crooked smile returned, familiar armor sliding back into place. “Besides… if I’d missed tonight, who would have escorted you? Certainly not some dull greenlander who thinks salt is only for seasoning.”
His thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles where they rested on his arm, brief and almost absent-minded. “Come on, fairy,” he murmured. “Let’s see if the lions notice a serpent slipping through their gates.”

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time: during the timeskip. location: dock near seagard, shore in ironman's bay. status: for maron greyjoy ( @ofsealedfates )
feet in the sea, the riverlander takes a moment before she dips her bloodied hands in the salty water. elyana is casually humming a song ( that they are not entirely sure where they heard it ) as they scrub away a man's blood who thought himself too smart for her. when the blackwood stands up and wipes their hands on their clothes, that's when their gaze falls on a familiar face. "look who it is." elyana tilts their head, looking at maron up and down. a lopsided smile grows on her lips. "are you here to spread some chaos as you did back at the lion's home?" as if she hadn't just gotten blood on her hands.
Boots crunched over wet sand before he answered, the tide tugging lazy at the shoreline as though it meant to drag the whole dock back into the sea. He took in the sight without surprise blood on her hands, salt on her skin, that crooked smile still sharp as any blade and a low laugh rolled from his chest.
“Well,” he drawled, spreading his hands as if presenting her to the waves themselves, “if it isn’t my favorite honorary reaver.” Storm-grey eyes dropped briefly to the red still clinging to her fingers before lifting again, amused approval plain. “Gods, Elyana… I leave you alone for a few months and you start washing men off in the shallows like driftwood.”
He stepped closer, easy as a man who had never learned caution around her, boots nearly brushing the foam. “And here I was worried the greenlands might have dulled you.” His grin cut wider. “Clearly I underestimated Riverrun’s finest export.”
At her question he huffed, mock offense flashing across his features. “Chaos?” he echoed. “I resent that. I prefer to think of it as… enthusiastic participation in local events.” A beat, then softer, conspiratorial. “Though the lions did screech rather prettily, I’ll grant you.”
His gaze lingered on her—assessing, approving, fond in that crooked ironborn way he rarely offered mainlanders. “What about you?” he countered. “This yours?” A tilt of his chin toward the blood she’d been scrubbing away. “Or have you started collecting trophies without inviting me along? I thought we agreed I got first pick of trouble when we crossed paths.”
"is it so surprising?" karlon drank long from his goblet. the wine was watered down --- purposeful on his part --- but gods, it tasted disgusting. none of that showed on his face, however, not even with the mask. he merely swallowed, licking lips like he could ever be satisfied.
"what better way to observe your guests than to keep them all in one place? besides, easier to catch whomever slips away and tries seeking for what sins this place hides."
another long drag, and he tossed the empty goblet on the table. the clang of metal barely made a sound over the bards starting another song. "i'm sure come sunrise morrow, we'll learn about whatever happens outside these doors." only then did dark eyes swing back to the lady beside. "doesn't that bring you comfort?"
gaze lingers on him a moment before drifting back toward the floor below, where laughter still rose too easily for a night that felt so wrong beneath the surface. “Comfort?” she repeats softly, almost tasting the word.
Her fingers tighten slightly around the stem of her cup. “Not particularly,” she admits, voice warm but honest. “I find ignorance rarely offers comfort — only delay.” A faint smile curves her lips, polite but edged with quiet awareness. “And delay, more often than not, makes whatever truth waits on the other side… worse.”
She tilts her head just enough to glance at him again. “Still, you are right about one thing. Someone wishes us exactly where we are.” A pause. “The question is whether it is for our safety… or theirs.”
serenelle did not look up at first, her hands still working with careful precision as she tied off the last knot of a bandage. it was only when alys's voice thinned did her attention snapped to her as the cloth in her hands stilled. she would like to think what was going through her notherner friend's head. what they thought they would gain from this. a kin back in their arms in exchange for what? a war? a battle? one they surely would not win. when she agreed with arnolf that alarra being in the hands of the south meant being in a cage, she didn't think that would mean breaking her out in such a cruel way. " cruelty often borrows the language of necessity, " she murmured in quiet agreement. " it makes it easier for people to live with what they have done. " there was no judgment in her tone. only tired certainty shaped by too many nights like this one. and the ones to come when the crown decides to use the same excuse for their retaliation. when alys swayed, serenelle rushed to be at her side, a hand coming to steady her while the other hovered near her back without crowding her. her brows knotted together as she studied alys's face. " you are not all right, " the riverwoman stated gently, her voice low but firm. " and if you fall, you will become another bedridden patient, and i would rather avoid that. " and she knew the woman would rather avoid that too. she guided her with small steps closer to a chair that was near the wall. " sit, please. only if it's for a moment, " her thumb pressed lightly to alys's wrist, counting her pulse.
She exhales softly when Serenelle steadies her, the touch grounding rather than suffocating. There is no protest in her at first only the quiet frustration of a body unwilling to obey a mind still set on service.
“You are right,” she concedes after a breath, allowing herself to be guided the few steps toward the chair. “Cruelty does make liars of necessity.” Her gaze drifts briefly to the cots beyond them, to the bandaged limbs and shallow breaths.
“And it is always the innocent who pay the interest.”
She lowers herself into the seat with care, back straight even in concession. When Serenelle’s thumb presses to her wrist, Alys offers the faintest, rueful smile. “You sound very much like I did an hour ago.” A pause, softer now. “I will sit. Only for a moment. But do not mistake it for surrender.”
Her eyes lift again toward the wounded. “When we are done here, they will speak of justice. Of retaliation.” A breath. “I would settle for wisdom.”
skipped to after the ball & alys getting hurt
Erryk hadn't left Alys' side for hours. Even when Vaeron asked for him he sent another in his place. When he was sure his wife was okay, that was when he'd leave. Not before that. The King had his own issues to worry about, eventually he'd find answers for the man, in his own time.
Brushing hair out of her face he closed his eyes, "I'm so sorry my love." If he'd been able to do more, if he'd caught on to what he should have. This wouldn't have happened. He didn't care about anyone but his own family, whatever happened tot he rest of them was between they and the gods.
Slender blister-covered fingers curl weakly around his sleeve as he brushes her hair back, her head still heavy from the fall, the world not quite settled beneath her yet. The ache throbs behind her eyes, but when she hears the apology in his voice, she shakes her head slowly, careful, stubborn even in pain.
“No,” she murmurs, voice rough but certain. “No, you will not carry this.” Her gaze finds his, soft but unwavering. “You are here. Lia is safe. That is all that matters to me.”
Her thumb shifts against his wrist, grounding herself in the steady pulse there. “It was chaos,” she continues quietly. “Steel and shouting and fear no one could have prevented every blow.” A faint breath escapes her, something almost like a tired laugh. “I would rather fall a hundred times than lose either of you once.”
Her eyes drift briefly, remembering flashes the roar, the crush of bodies, stone rushing up too quickly before settling back on him. “We are alive,” Alys says softly. “How is everyone else , did we lose anyone?.”
to my dearest rhaenys, @ofsealedfates
the rock still smells of salt and blood, though the courtyards have been scrubbed clean and the banners rehung as if silk alone might mend what was broken here. i remain at casterly rock for now, though my thoughts have flown south to you more times than i can count.
tell me first — how do you fare? and the child… how do they stir within you? i trust the maesters attend you properly, and that the heat has not grown too cruel. i find myself counting the weeks despite myself, wondering when i might be permitted to steal a glance at my newest niece or nephew. though i will confess this to you alone , i have been quietly hoping for a girl. the women of our house have ever been its truest strength. one need only look to you… to daera… to our dearly departed mother to know how much wiser we have been for it.
much has transpired here, and i will not dress it prettily for you. the north has proven, once again, that their word bends when it suits them. ironborn stirred like hornets, loud and stubborn, more nuisance than threat — though they have a talent for making enemies where allies might have stood. lewys bears his grief like armor: his father is dead, his son sickly, and yet he does not bend. i worry for him more than he will ever allow me to say aloud. perhaps i see too much of myself in that kind of stubborn silence.
and yet — all of this, every betrayal and blustering oath, dimmed in an instant when the sky itself was torn open.
a dragon, nys.
alive. real.
it crossed the night like a living omen, fire and shadow and ancient promise given wings once more. the court screamed, men fled, faith wavered — but i could not look away. i felt no fear. only awe. vindication. as if some long-silent part of the world had remembered us.
i know the questions it raises. who rides it. who dares command such a thing. what it may yet cost us. but in that moment, none of it mattered.
i was… happy.
a happiness i can only place beside that which my queen and my children give me — and now, the thought of yours. i could think of only one soul who would understand that feeling as i did. only one who would look upon such a sight and feel wonder before dread.
i wished you there beside me. wished you could have seen it with your own eyes, if only for a heartbeat.
keep your strength. i will come to you as soon as the realm allows me to breathe without a blade at its throat.
until then — know that you are never far from my thoughts.
your brother, always, vaeron
To my beloved brother,
The heat has shown me an uncharacteristic mercy, as Dorne is wont to do when a woman nears her reckoning. The child within me stirs with unmistakable intent—restless, insistent, as though already impatient with the world he has yet to see. You confess a hope for a daughter, and I understand it well; the women of our House have ever been its truest spine. Yet I fear you are mistaken. In my dreams—and you know how rarely such visions err—it is always a son I am given, warm and certain in my arms. Dreams cling stubbornly to our blood. Still, I pray that whatever form this life takes, it will carry both flame and wisdom in equal measure.
I mourn those lost at the Rock. Stone may be scoured and banners rehung, but blood leaves an echo no water can wash away. The realm seems determined to relearn that truth, again and again. Give Lewys my quiet regard, if he will accept it. Grief worn as armor may preserve a man, but it also weighs upon him, and I fear he bears more than most.
Your words of the dragon set my heart at war with itself. I would have felt as you did—wonder first, dread only after. To see such a creature living once more must have been both wound and benediction, a reminder of a power the world has not forgotten, only buried. And yet I must speak plainly, as your sister if not as your subject: there was wisdom in our father’s resolve, and in our cousin’s, when they set themselves against such beasts. Dragons remember only fire. They do not distinguish between crown and kindling. If one now darkens the sky again, even in the hands of an enemy, it will demand a price the realm has long ceased to know how to pay.
Still… for that single heartbeat, I would have stood beside you without hesitation. I would have wished to see it with my own eyes.
I find myself troubled by a fear I never knew during the war—not for my own flesh, but for the world that will greet my son when he first draws breath. Did you feel the same when your children were born? I am, by any honest measure, ill-prepared and wholly unqualified, yet my thoughts return often to our mother. I can only hope to be a pale echo of what she was to us. Perhaps that is enough to begin.
Come to me when you are able, when the realm loosens its grip upon your throat. Until then, know that you are never distant from me—in thought, in prayer, or in love.
Your sister, always, Rhaenys

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namedays, how many times must she set out and visit lords, ladies, and lieges due to the very day they were born into this world. the lavishly decorated mask that sits on her face, which did nothing to hide her identity. she can find enjoyment in these social events but only long enough before a migraine is bound to happen, or her willingness to interact ceases making her a rather useless dinner partner. she approached the other woman carefully, not to appear to be foe, she never is unless pushed to be. “such is life, containment comes with the lives that we live.”
her head turns slightly at the voice beside her, recognition flickering behind the gilded mask even before her smile settles into place. “It does,” she agrees softly, gaze drifting back toward the crowded floor below. “Though tonight it feels less like courtesy… and more like caution.”
Her fingers trace the rim of her untouched cup, thoughtful rather than idle. “Containment I understand,” she adds after a beat, voice warm but edged with quiet perception. “But it is the reason for it that troubles me. Doors close for many reasons in halls like these rarely for anything simple.”
She glances back to the woman, composure intact but curiosity alive beneath it. “Have you noticed it as well? Or am I merely letting the shadows play tricks on me?”
mercy was never promised.
a statement that still struck deep. if muttered a decade before, they would have left the room. the fury, the bitterness, all of it would have overwhelmed and drive him further from rhaenys. and it had before, again and again, as the two of them battled with what their futures now meant.
even now, that anger stirred. but it belonged to vaeron, not to the woman sitting beside them. vaeron's choices were not hers --- not anymore.
"then hear this proclamation: mercy can still be gifted. and i hope it is one i will receive from our child."
our. the word still felt foreign on their tongue. like molasses sticking to the roof of their mouth; sweet yet difficult to work. but it was only on their tongue because of chance. one that, for a night, they had trusted in each other.
her hand on theirs. her expression shifting ever so slightly before she swallowed. her ghosting her lips along their cheek. a dragon's touch --- it should burn. but it hasn't for years.
"i'll allow this space to be the one place where truth always reigns." eyes narrowed in humorous squint. "if only so i can stitch myself back together after the lords tear me apart."
slowly, they brushed their knuckles against her cheek. a few heartbeats. "hmm. a tempting offer."
a beat. another. and then they slowly laid back upon the bed, relaxing into the movement. after a few moments, they draw their gaze from ceiling to rhaenys.
"well?"
An answer did not come at once. She moved slowly as their eyes met, an unspoken expectancy passing between them in the narrow space between breath and thought. The steady rise of her chest matched the unfamiliar ease that had settled there. For some time now—most often in the quiet hours when sleep eluded her and her fingers wandered idly across the strings of her harp—she had wondered what they truly thought of her when doors were shut and the court fell away. Duty had a way of blurring truth until even sincerity wore a mask. Tonight, she allowed herself to believe that the tenderness of a knuckle against her cheek was no illusion, even if the eyes behind it remained guarded.
She shifted closer, careful, one hand braced beneath the curve of her belly as she settled beside them. The bed was still strange—still theirs more in name than in habit—yet she fit there more easily than she would once have believed possible.
“I hope he gives us mercy,” she murmured, eyes drifting closed, her voice softened by sleep’s slow approach. “And grace. I suspect we will need both. I would have him know that strength need not always bare its teeth.”
Her lips curved faintly at their jest. “Do not fret, my liege. I am very good with needle and thread. I will see to your mending.”
Silence returned—not sharp, not heavy, but companionable. She inhaled slowly, their scent grounding her in the present, in this room where no banners hung and no crowns pressed down.
“They will pull at you,” she said at last, barely above a whisper. “The lords, the realm, even the past. But here…” Her fingers brushed their sleeve, a gentle claim. “Here, you are allowed to rest.”
She turned her head just enough for her temple to settle near their shoulder—a dragon choosing stillness over flame, a serpent choosing trust over the strike. She closed her eyes then, nestling closer, unafraid of the quiet.
“Sleep now, ” Rhaenys said, voice low and certain. “Tomorrow will demand much of you. Tonight need not.”
Rhaenenna lingered near the edge of the dance floor. Her previous emotions made it difficult to relax and enjoy the masquerade.
If that was not enough, Rhaenenna had the horrendous sinking feeling that something was horribly wrong. It could have been the quick glance of the maid, or perhaps the chef that scattered too quickly from the refreshments.
The liege next to her downed a glass of wine at a frankly concerning speed. Rhiannon mostly ignored this, there were enough drunkards tonight and the Ruling Lady did not need to deal with more chaos. She wondered if Maelor was behaving himself.
"False" Rhaenenna replied to the mysterious liege. "The best feasts are hosted with guests in mind, regardless if taking or giving" Her voice was curt. Serious.
Rhaenenna stared at the smile blankly. "I'm enjoying the Hand's hospitality, but it would be naive to assume I'm not making the most of what's available" This was her first event without her younger brother Aethan nearby. It was difficult to focus on much other than that.
A quiet chuckle escaped him at her answer, amused rather than chastened, as though her seriousness were another flavor of the night he meant to sample. He angled his body toward her, not intruding, merely present easy as tidewater, patient as hunger.
“a hostess’s heart, then. Ever mindful of who is fed, and who is left wanting.” His mask dipped in a courteous incline, more respectful than his earlier tone suggested. “A noble way to look at it. Rarer than you’d think.”
He studied her a moment longer, noting the tension she carried beneath her composure, the way her eyes tracked the room even as she spoke to him. “Still,” he went on, voice lowering just enough to feel conspiratorial, “even the most carefully laid table has its unguarded corners. Tonight is full of them.”
“You strike me as someone who knows the difference between indulgence and vigilance,” he said. “A wise balance, One I find myself appreciating more as the night wears on.”
setting: pyke — the outer walk of the sea tower, closed starter w fariha martell @irnsbld
The sea was ugly that morning—churned and dark, the sort that gnawed at the rocks like it meant to take Pyke piece by piece. Maron found it fitting. He stood on the outer walk of the keep, salt spray catching in his hair, jaw tight as a knotted rope. A few days had passed since Casterly Rock, since masks and blood and dragon fire and the taste of things gone wrong. Enough time for whispers to crawl faster than ravens ever could. Enough time for the word abducted to settle where rescued or protected might once have sat. Enough time for the Tyrells—soft-handed, soft-spoken Tyrells, to reconsider what they had so proudly offered.
He scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair before turning as footsteps approached.
“So,” he began, rough and without preamble, “you steal a woman from under half the realm’s nose, paint a target on her back big enough for every vulture from Oldtown to the Twins, and now they’re saying the engagement’s ash besides.” His storm-grey eyes cut sharp as broken glass. “Tell me, brother—what was the point?”
He stepped closer, voice dropping but losing none of its edge. “You love her. Fine. I won’t fault you for that.” A beat, then a snort. “But love doesn’t stop blades. Doesn’t stop poison. Doesn’t stop some ambitious cunt from deciding she’s the quickest way to gut House Greyjoy from the inside.”
The wind howled between them, carrying the salt and iron smell of home. Maron spread his hands, palms up, a rare gesture of frustration rather than challenge. “You brought her here, Aeron. To Pyke. To us. And now we’re meant to guard her like a living promise the rest of Westeros would happily see broken.”
His mouth twisted, bitter and sharp. “There is no clean ending to this. There never will be now was it worth it? Was it worth giving them another reason to come for our throats?”

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rhygar botley spends a low-key nameday with maron greyjoy ( @ofsealedfates ).
the axe hit the wood with a heavy thunk, biting deep enough to rattle the post. rhygar, though, did not look pleased. he rolled his shoulders and flexed his fingers before reaching for his cup instead. ale sloshed near the rim as he took a long drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand while the docks of lordsport roared behind them. ❝ how is pyke with the king? ❞ he asked as another axe pressed into his palm, weighing it thoughtfully as he eyed maron. he stepped back into position but didn't throw right away. ❝ must not be all that if you are here to get your ass kicked by me. ❞ he teased lightly before tossing the axe, harder than before. a big grin crossed his lips as it struck clean into the center. ❝ your turn, ❞ he said, handing the younger the next blade.
This was what he was used to—the roar of the port, voices loud and belligerent, ale sloshing and laughter spilling without shame. No whispering courtesies, no painted smiles like those favored by the greenlands and their gilded halls. This was honest noise. This was where he thrived. Men like Rhygar, blood warm, spirits high, living in the moment rather than choking on tomorrow.
Maron drained the last of his ale and set the cup aside without ceremony, fingers already closing around the haft of his axe.
“Enjoying himself and his queen,” he drawled, amusement thick in his voice. “Funny how a new moniker has him strutting like a seabird in mating season. Can’t decide if I’m disappointed… or proud.” A laugh followed, rough and genuine. Titles never meant much to him. Useful, perhaps something to fling in a lord’s face when needed but far too heavy with ego to be worth keeping. If he meant to take a lander down, he’d rather do it with steel than syllables.
His gaze slid back to the other man, grin widening. “You kicking my ass would be the least of my problems.”
He tested the axe in his hand, weighing it once, twice, then loosed it. The weapon flew true, biting into the wood beside Rhygar with a solid thunk that rang through the din. Maron moved forward to retrieve it, unbothered.
“Sounds like you don’t much like our newfound status,” he went on, tone easy but edged. “He took what he wanted. What’s more ironborn than that?” The axe came free with a tug, resting easy at his side.
He glanced over, brows lifting. “Or am I wrong?”
the voice caused her pause.
she didn't immediately look at him. no, she must remain calm. he must not have noticed the silver of her hair to dare speak to her. then again, maron cared not for dancing near the edge; he would teeter over it, confidence bleeding in ways it shouldn't.
it could be simple. just call her kingsguard over and have them take care of pushing maron out of this celebration. and yet --- and yet, the memories of thundering hooves and excited whoops as dawn painted the skies flooded her mind.
slowly, daera finally lifted her face to find the eyes of maron greyjoy.
"i am enjoying it, my lord." a pause. should she let maron believe her a fool? taking a deep breath, she leaned closer, gaze glinting dark. "will you take this feast as well, maron? or is it prince now?"
Clever girl. It wasn’t a surprise—not really. There was something about the dragon princess he understood too well: she saw far more than she ever let on, and only showed her hand when it suited her. A soft, approving hum slipped from him as she spoke his name, as though she’d confirmed a suspicion he’d been savoring all along. He turned fully toward her then, candlelight catching the edge of his mask, the curve of his smile slow and unmistakably pleased.
“Now why would I do such a thing?” he said lightly. “I’ve only come to enjoy the festivities. Offer well wishes. The sort of innocent courtesies one is meant to observe on a nameday.”
He didn’t step back, didn’t grant her the distance she might have expected—only took his time studying her features before offering a casual shrug, unhurried and bold.
“I suppose it is prince now,” he went on, unconcerned. “Though I’ve never cared much for formality. Royals seem to have far less fun and even less freedom don’t you think, princess?” His grin widened, sharp with mischief. “But perhaps I didn’t come to take the feast at all.”
A beat followed, deliberate. His voice dipped, warm and dangerous.
“Perhaps I came for you, I believe I’m owed a rematch from our last wager.”