when the sun has set...

Lord Arryn's words elicited the smallest chuckle from Argella, humorless though it was. Were she in his shoes, she'd likely think more than thrice about hosting all the realm. She had heard that Liege Arryn and his lady wife had found a new heir, and she wondered for a moment if Ser Hugo was this new heir. Gods be good to him, she thought, for court life will not be. She could sense the bit of greenness to him, someone who'd only explored the shallows now being tossed into the depths. "That they have. And that it is. Especially when keeping up with the feuds that pop up between houses great and lesser because someone sneezed the wrong way."

She shook her head, though she appreciated the asking in some small way. "No, my house was spared in losses from the fire. My mother died two years ago. A lingering illness she never managed to shake." Not that she didn't fight. Argella's mother had been of a determined sort, and the maester at Felwood had thought that a good sign. But for all the fight and all the poultices, Argella had still been woken by the servants and her step-father with news that she was the new Liege Fell. "You have my condolences as well, my lord. House Arryn has suffered many losses to the flames."

the mathematics of a highborn feast are incredibly delicate, especially when the hosts are bleeding gold to buy the room's goodwill. the rykkers have undoubtedly spent agonizing days arranging the long wooden tables in the belly of the dun fort, balancing rivalries and fresh griefs like a man walking a tightrope. the ruling lords, those who have bent the knee and sworn their swords to the boy king, are seated in places of honor close to the royal dais. this, by the rigid laws of court hierarchy, includes the man who currently calls himself the lord of the tides. for lady aelina, this separation is a profound, secret mercy. relegated to one of the lower tables amidst the sprawling sea of lesser nobility, she is granted a physical reprieve from the suffocating proximity of her new husband. she does not have to endure his ambient body heat, the wine-laced scent of his breath, or the paralyzing possibility of his hand settling on her thigh beneath the linen tablecloth. the storm outside is howling, a dark and violent entity rattling the high windows of the fort, but here, swallowed by the crowd, she is safe, she can breathe.

the lady settles into her assigned chair, ensuring saera and daeron are comfortable on the bench beside her, their small frames acting as a grounding weight in the shifting anxiety of the hall. the air is thick with the smell nervous sweat and the extravagant, savory aroma of roasted meat. she reaches for her silver goblet, the aged dornish wine catching the hearth-light like dark blood. turning her gaze to the noble seated to her right, she offers a perfectly calibrated, polite smile that doesn't quite reach the heavy exhaustion in her eyes. "house rykker is nothing if not generous tonight," she murmurs, hoping her words are carried to her immediate neighbors over the ceaseless roar of the rain. she nods elegantly toward the massive platters being hauled from the kitchens, but noticed the person sitting beside her, glaring at the windows instead. "forgive me… but you seem to be listening more to the storm than to the music. does it trouble you?"

He looked up at being spoken to, eyes meeting the lady's dully. "I imagine the Rykkers' generosity will be... tested, if this rain does not cease. But yes, thus far," he said, eyeing the platters being brought towards them. It was not their granaries he doubted, but their ability to provide shelter. A trifling storm would have meant nothing, were they in King's Landing. It would have meant nothing to everybody but Philip. "It ought to bother all of us," he said dryly, looking out at the windows, which were so thickly fogged he could not so much as make out the castle's outer walls from the sky. “The Crownlands are no stranger to rain, but I have never before heard guards run screaming away from it, nor maesters warn us to stay within. It strikes me as odd, that this one has.” And odder yet that the music played on, uninterrupted. The Rykkers' attempt to keep their guests calm was likely to fail, and soon.

She schooled her face back to the politeness that was now expected of her. Willow was supposed to be mourning the deaths of those she barely knew. Now was not the time to get into petty fights about events in the past.

Or maybe it was. Who was she to deny herself a chance to air her complaints now that she possessed the power to do so?

"Willow. It was foolish of me to think you would recall me" She murmured with a bit of resignation. "Do you remember that pretty chestnut mare I sold you? You paid a quarter of what she was worth" Willow thought back to the sale day that quickly turned into a sale fortnight, she was stranded in the Westerlands for days trying to make back her money.

He doubted it. More likely some fool second or third son with a tight-fisted father and a fondness for wine or women had made her a lady. There was little more irritating than an upjumped merchant who had learned nothing of tact in their elevation.

The air is as heavy as the raindrops that fall, and yet Argella still stands with the door to the balcony open. Most were asleep, either in warm beds or makeshift pallets on the floor. And yet, she could not sleep, mind refusing to rest. So, she had stalked the halls, now at the most bare they had been since the feast had both begun and ended. She reached out a hand into the rain, allowing the falling water to pound against the delicate bone within. She sighed, then, an almost wistful thing. "Strange, the things that make you miss home." Argella speaks to the silence, staring in fascination at her now drenched hand, at the rivulets of water that snake down to her elbow. "My mother used to always speak of how she could barely keep me indoors when a storm came to Felwood. I loved nothing more than running and dancing in the rain, as if I were Jenny of Oldstones."

Sybelle had told herself she would not look, but she cannot help it. The pitter patter of the rain against the windows of the dun fort is almost deafening for the foreboding feelings it carries. The darkness swallows as port town outside, though the torches lining the walls behind her provide an eerie glow to thousands, tens of thousands of raindrops making beelines for the ground. She looks on, countenance forlorn, lips drooping into the frown she has been trying to move past for the last week. "My tent stands no chance out there." She says, to herself more than anything, as one finger swipes across the glass pane, a chill apparent across her shoulders and running down her spine at its cool feel. The finger pulls back to trace the pendant lying across her neck, a seven pointed star fashioned for her long, long ago. "Brave warrior, give Robb and Ilyn the strength to reach shelter, and to protect Holly in their endeavor. She is but a small handmaid. And they can be bumbling fools."

duskendale feels… 

lyla refrains from letting the thought wander too far. it’s not what she’s interested in. if her mind travels too far, she might let it lead her somewhere she isn’t ready to admit. lyla wanders quietly. there’s an agenda on her mind, something that she has not yet done and something that is long overdue. she hasn’t made her appearance in front cyrena yet. it’s not long overdue, if you ask lyla. she thinks there’s still a window where she can respectfully return to the company of the dowager queen without seeming neglectful of her… well, duties. her feet are steady as she passes through the crowds, towards the one place she knows she can find cyrenna. 

on the tip of her tongue sits several words. worries. daemon, a brat. she doesn’t say that but at the news, she had simply closed her eyes. it makes sense. what a shame what happened, what a shame a child is taking the spot. she’s quiet. so quiet. she’s guided through the passages until she’s finally given an audience with cyrenna, the dowager queen. 

they’re similar in a way. 

”at last,” lyla speaks gently. politely, to an old friend almost. ”i’m glad to return to your company, your grace.” 

She was not certain yet if Lyla Frey was one of them. The future Lady of the Crossing stood before her, with a gentle smile and a title that was Cyrenna's yet but only by courtesy; she could not say if she meant it, or not. 

And yet: she was her queen, as she had ever been. Perhaps she might even be her friend. She wanted to be; she had a sore lack of true friends just now. "Lady Lyla," Cyrenna said with a small smile. "It gladdens me as well, and to know you are well. It has been a long time." Had it? Cyrenna could hardly remember the last time they had met. So many of her memories before the fire had taken on a distant, far-off quality, all but her most precious and cherished memories. She may have seen Lady Lyla six moons ago or six years ago. "How has court treated you these past days?" 

It was all Willow could manage slipping into the halls after the vigil. Lord Hightower surely would not prefer her to wander too far from the Keep, but Willow did not care. If he wanted her to be a proper noble he should have claimed her long before he actually did.

The most uncanny thing about all this was coming face to face with nobles who would not even spare Willow a second glance before, now treating her like a living being.

She leaned against the dark walls of the hall then heard footsteps. Willow turned slowly to acknowledge the approaching noble before turning sour. Willow did well to not remember all her past clientele as it was safer that way, but she did remember those that cut her short on a deal. "Lord Marbrand, I was not expecting to see you so soon after the vigil"

He was apparently not the only one to have left as soon as possible. He cleared his throat as he came across a lady whose politeness failed in the instant she saw him. A poor face for dissembling... but try as he might, Philip could neither place her, nor place whatever imagined slight had brought forth the dry as dust tone. Who is she? It was rare for Philip to outright forget someone he had been introduced to.

“I did not know I was to remain concealed away. What has the vigil to do with me, Lady...?”

He gave her an askance look. He couldn't quite believe it; the first lady who had asked him for aid, and so kindly at that pinned her hopes at making it inside and offering her oaths, upon him, and Hugo could not do it. He would have to improve his knowledge of those here at once! "Truth be told, I have not yet met many of them. I believe I might be able to recognise Lord Lannister if I saw him? I hear he is quite young, and most Lannisters should be known by their hair, but... aside from the Arryns, I am also here with nearly nobody." He cleared his throat. "But I would hate to concern your people! Please be assured that I should not abandon you in the crowd; you will be returned to your guards safe and sound, having made your swears."

She pats his arm with her free hand, and thinks a prayer to the Crone, so that She may grant the both of them some much needed wisdom. Though, it is quite peculiar why the knight is also here alone...The crowd is too noisy, too ready to swallow them within it for her to ask about what led him to this point, so Sybelle writes down the oddity in the back of her mind, to ask at a later date; she is determined to find him again, and maybe then, he will have learned more information and thus had more to offer her. "Let us be on our way then, good ser. His grace waits for no one."

"keep your purse strings tight, my lord," she said, forcing a lightness she did not feel, waving a manicured hand as if the very idea of coin were a bore. "gambling with gold is for sellswords and desperate men. it lacks... imagination." she tapped her chin, the picture of a thoughtful strategist, while her insides churned with the effort of denial. she was clever enough to spin this, to turn her penance into a game. "no, if we are to play, we shall wager something far more valuable. dignity. the loser must confess their most embarrassing childhood mishap. or perhaps..." she flashed a grin that felt held together by spit and prayer, "the loser owes the winner a dance at the next feast, regardless of how tired their feet may be. high stakes indeed."

For the moment, however, Lady Nerissa's words rang poetic, all sorts of meanings he wasn't entirely able to draw from them, but perhaps that was simply her way. The honeyed speaking of Tyrells. Or ought that be... the gilded speaking? 

If all at court spoke as she did, Hugo would certainly have to grow better practiced at coating his own words. "Ah! Do not let me keep you, my lady. I bid you fare well, and hope your own are not too... dulled?" And he dipped into a bow; when in doubt, courtesy could certainly not fail.

Willow hesitated at Hugo's kind offer. There was only so much she could get away with at this time, and staying out late may have been making her father worry. "If you insist. But truly, I don't usually expect such kindness from Lords like you" She shifted on her feet "I do not believe that he is overtly worried about my location, my lord" Still, better than to keep gossip running wild about Lord Hightower's bastard.

“My lady is being modest or attempting to assuage any guilt I may face of a scolding directed your way… but I am certain your lord father has reasons to take concern, as do we all here. After the fire, I mean. Lord Arryn tends to keep me close as well.”

"the  words  are  sharp  too,"  carlys  adds,  thinking  of  the  complaints  she  had  fielded  as  she  greeted  —  near  as  popular  as  the  queen  dowager  these  days.  although  her  husband  was  not  king,  she  enjoyed  the  attention  given  as  the  regent's  wife.  "though  they  do  not  break  skin."  let  the  curmudgeons  whine.  they  could  bear  it  until  they  built  taller  walls.  "we  are  no  strangers  to  attention,  nor  whispers."  eyes  had  always  followed.  critique  too.  one  always  believed  themselves  better  to  handle  a  situation  when  it  was  not  within  their  hands.  "his  grace  will  learn  well  as  he  ages,"  a  truth  and  unassuming  flattery  in  one  fell  swoop.  she  would  smooth  her  husband's  rough  edges,  snipping  the  edge  of  loose  threads  in  their  tapestry,  "guided  by  your  capable  hand."

"I am glad," she said, though she did not know if she was. It was well enough for the Regent's wife to go unphased by sharp words, and another entirely for such a young rule to be questioned for not listening. “Words are but wind. Duskendale will grow the stronger for it.” Though it was too soon to speculate yet, if this was to be a lasting arrangement. A fleeting smile, there and gone, as she could not quite hold it up. Her guidance. Her capable hand. Did Carlys mean what she said? Her features were smooth and opaque as marble. She may have meant false flattery just as much as true recognition of who Cyrenna was. "His Grace," she said instead, with a huff of almost-laughter. “I keep forgetting. But you are right; he has much to learn... but he has the guidance and support of so many.”

he presses quick, firm kisses to the tops of each of the children's heads and then kneels so he's closer to eye-level with both of them.

"come now. i've traveled very far and fast to be here and i'm so hungry i could gobble down a whole warhorse on my own. please tell me the cooks here have laid out something delicious for supper. who am i sitting by tonight?"

he laughs again as the siblings start squabbling, each one taking one of his hands to drag him towards the table. he looks back at his own sibling, recalling the days when the two of them did the same thing to their favorite family members and friends during their visits.

"i fear i've set them off. my apologies," he says, completely unrepentant.

She might speak of her troubles later, but the last thing Daemon and Naerys needed was this last bit of normalcy stripped away from them, from something as simple as a meal with a rarely visiting uncle.

If she thought of why this normalcy would be all too rare now, she would not last. So Cyrenna kept her smile in place, forced if it was so, and joined them. "You're not apologetic at all," she said, her laugh somewhat more watery than it ought to be. "I wouldn't be so smug; when you have children of your own who think I am the most wonderful aunt in the realm, and certainly the best Baratheon, you will understand."

And then, lower, "Thank you; it is good to see them so exuberant." Exuberance that had been sorely lacking, these last few weeks.

Sybelle blinks sweetly up at the knight, gently places a hand upon the crook of his proffered arm. Is she doing it? Is she playing the part of the sweet maiden? She is neither a maiden, nor particularly sweet, but perhaps if Ser Hugo can vouch for her....Especially to the Lord Lannister, whom she has yet to meet despite her inheriting two moons ago. "I shall put my full trust in you then, ser." She looks upon the crowd, the sea of faces she can barely discern, and then raises her head up, up, up to gaze upon him..."If you please, ser, it would be most kind of you to tell me of any you recognize. I would loathe to speak a fellow nobleman, only for them to realize I haven't the slightest who they are."

He gave her an askance look. He couldn't quite believe it; the first lady who had asked him for aid, and so kindly at that pinned her hopes at making it inside and offering her oaths, upon him, and Hugo could not do it. He would have to improve his knowledge of those here at once! "Truth be told, I have not yet met many of them. I believe I might be able to recognise Lord Lannister if I saw him? I hear he is quite young, and most Lannisters should be known by their hair, but... aside from the Arryns, I am also here with nearly nobody." He cleared his throat. "But I would hate to concern your people! Please be assured that I should not abandon you in the crowd; you will be returned to your guards safe and sound, having made your swears."

"Honor so long as those nobles are fed and entertained, which is no easy feat. We nobles can be a rather vain lot." Some more than others, though Argella does not mention that. She could only imagine how many noble houses felt slighted at the current conditions of Duskendale. For all the current faults, the old port city was holding up rather tremendously. In that, she could not fault neither House Rykker nor the crown. And yet, Argella could not fight off the sting of envy. Would that her own keep and lands were doing so well in the wake of such abhorrent loss.

She simply gave a nod of her head at his bow, noting the awkwardness but not speaking on it. "A pleasure to meet you, Ser Hugo." She knew, if only idly, that House Arryn was one of the many houses so affected by the flames that had swallowed King's Landing. Thus, Argella couldn't help but wonder if the man before her would now be serving as Lord and Lady Arryn's heir. At his mention of Felwood, she smiled softly. "Then I would be remiss to not extend an invitation to visit Felwood once more. You would have rode through when my lady mother was the ruling liege. Gods be good, it should not be much changed."

Oh, he'd done it, put his foot in his mouth again. He needed to be careful what he said: everywhere he turned, there was someone who had died only a moon ago, and everything he said accidentally reminded their kin of the loss. At least Lady Fell wasn't crying. "I'll—be certain to remember, my lady, and visit when I can. But I'm very sorry," Hugo said, rubbing the back of his head. “Gods keep your mother well. Was she—that is... in the fire?”

But she was surprised, nonetheless, when Aelina continued with an appeal to some emotion Cyrenna did not expect to see from her. She could not meet her gaze then; she looked away. "Nor I," she said instead, dully. She saw visions of flame for hours and hours, or thought of court, or the weight of the crown upon her son's fragile head... and just when she'd fall into short, fitful rest, she'd wake having forgotten, and reaching for Viserys. And what would Viserys say of this, if asked? She had no answer to that. Were he alive to say anything about it, Aemon would never have been so bold to push her aside. Were he alive to say anything about it, Cyrenna would not have been so weak as to be pushed. "No living whisper can tip the Father's scales. If you have nothing to be judged for, Lady Velaryon, the Gods see enough to know it. So do the dead, one hopes. If they see at all... they must see all. Lord Velaryon..." she began, then, correcting, "Lord Victor was not a man known for severity." And he had adored her; she had seen it, well past all courtly facades. She almost wondered—

Aelina knew the court's favour meant. What her favour meant. If her defence was merely an attempt to claw, crab-like, for both her position and her good repute... A woman who lies with her husband's kin has nothing to fear from lying in a sept. One sin outweighed the other so deeply the danger of falsehood might cease to matter entirely. And yet: nobody knew what had happened on Driftmark's shores when that black word arrived, that had turned Lady Velaryon from a widow into a bride so quickly. She hardly expected she would tell her—but then, was she not her queen yet? The regent may be the regent, but Carlys was no more queen now than she ever had been, and until Daemon was of age, there would not be one to whom the ladies of the court could turn.

But—this was not the place, nor the time.

"You should join me again in the sept," she said instead, stepping away from the makeshift altar and tucking her hands into her skirts. “We both have much to pray for; who knows, we may even find something in common to speak of that we've never had before.”

aelina was made for the crown. she had been polished by her father like a gemstone, sent to riverrun at twelve to learn the southern graces of her mother's kin, to forge alliances, to become the perfect vessel for power. she and her golden girls—ryella, melinsa, carlys, shaera—they had set the tempo of the court. they had competed with cyrenna’s coterie not just in feats, but in perfection; in who danced best, who curtsied lowest, who behaved best, who had the most suitors. aelina had been the masterpiece. but while she had studied grace, cyrenna simply was. it is a petty, rotting thought, a sting that a woman of three-and-thirty should have outgrown by now, but it is there, pulsing hot under her ribs. she stares at the queen mother's face and feels a confused, tangled knot of resentment. she wants to find a flaw. she wants to see a gray hair, a wrinkle, a smudge of fatigue. but she can’t. she just sees the woman viserys chose, the woman who makes grief look like high art, and it makes aelina want to scream and stare in equal measure. why did greatness choose you? the question lingers, childish and bitter, even though she knows the answer. even though she loved victor. even though she had been happy. looking at cyrenna now, she feels the unfairness of it all over again: that even in suffering, the queen wins the contest of beauty.

the redhead swallows the bitterness, forcing the memory of the girl who wanted to be queen of the seven kingdoms back into the dark. she tears her gaze away from the pull of cyrenna’s face, focusing on the cold stone floor to steady herself. "no," she agrees, her voice soft, bordering on reverent, choosing to honor the man who loved her rather than the rivalry that shaped her. "he was a rare man. a great man," she adds on. and he is gone all the same. lady velaryon watches the brunette retreat from the altar, tucking her hands into her skirts. the invitation that follows is unexpected, a white flag unfurled in the smoky gloom. you should join me again. it is not a command, nor a dismissal, but an opening. aelina understands the currency being offered; in a court where they are both being discarded—one as decoration, the other as a broodmare for a usurper—an alliance is the only shield left. and perhaps... perhaps she just wants to see if, up close, she can finally find the flaw that proves queen cyrenna is mortal.

aelina dips her head, a slow, graceful acceptance that bridges the distance between them without closing it entirely. "i would welcome that, your grace," she says, her eyes lifting to meet that piercing blue once more. but behind the facade of gratitude, her mind is a riot of warning bells. is this a gambit? does she seek to lure me close only to slide the knife between my ribs with a smile? minutes ago, the judgment in those eyes was a physical weight; now, an invitation? it smells of a trap. she thinks of saera and the betrothal she is so desperate to secure to the boy king. she has pinned her hopes on aemon and carlys to broker the match, but cyrenna is the mother, the gatekeeper. surely she does not invite aelina into her confidence to bless the union; surely this is a way to learn aelina’s hand so she may crush it. yet, as she stares into the queen mother’s face, searching for the venom that has always defined them, she finds she cannot turn away. the command is implicit, woven into the very fabric of cyrenna’s being. she is the queen. she is my queen. one does not deny the sun when it demands you stand in its light. "i shall look for you when the bells ring next."