and we remember.

it was then that graham spoke to him directly, in words that almost sounded like a joke if not for the fact that his eyes remained devoid of any humour. and younes, smiling, mocking, sardonic younes, who was usually all too quick to default to humour, never quite serious, met his words with a steady gaze that displayed no amusement. he could feel the weight of runestone on him, the greenboy freshly arrived from fostering in white harbor who had worked in the training yard until he ached and polished mail until his knuckles bled, who thought graham bright and bold and unassailable and would have lit up from the inside at such words.

"had to," he said, simply. he was a green boy no longer, and had long since learned that the weight of house corbray was easier to carry if you kept your back straight. "easiest way to keep the horse surefooted." he spoke none of that to graham, though. whatever younes was, whatever he had become, he still had his pride, though he did not know if graham saw that, saw the man who had risen and been beaten back and had no choice but to rise again, bloodied and battered, or simply saw the memory of a squire who hung on his every word.

he tugged gently on the reins to slow his horse to a stop, shifting slightly in his saddle as graham surveyed the rock. he was not looking at the mountain, but at graham himself, studying the angles of his face out of the corner of his eye, and he let out a quiet snort. "hardly tells the truth, either. never gives me any warning when it's about to give way. terribly rude." and there it was, the cynical mockery younes was known for creeping through, even as he felt unsettled, especially because he felt unsettled.

"as lovely as wine sounds right now, i don't have a squire, anyway." he shrugged. it would be another mouth to feed in a house that had enough trouble with that as it was. "so if there is dirt to be crawled through, i do it myself. you taught me that was what being a knight meant." he looked back on the narrowing path ahead, the wind-battered stone and what lay beyond, and urged his horse to walk again. if there was accusation in his words, he left it behind with the stones.

he would have been content to ride in silence, but graham's next words caught him off guard. the praise sat strangely on his shoulders in a way that forced him to hold back a laugh, purely because he did not believe them. it confirmed the suspicions, the utter disillusionment he had when it came to graham royce, that he still thought younes to be a decent knight when he had long since abandoned all the principles that had brought him to knighthood in the first place. "you said that after i took that beating in gulltown," he pointed out. "had my nose broken when lord donniger sent me flying in the joust and still tried to get back on for the next tilt. was sure you only said it to make me feel better for losing." and yet, younes had believed that if he fought clean and held to his oaths, he would prove graham right, and it would mean something.

the words of a second son seemed to haunt him more than any other as he trailed slightly behind him, the cruel wind of the vale's altitude seeming to cause neither of them to even react despite it being utterly bone chilling - and it were entirely due to the air of sickening nostalgia that surrounded them. for a man that had all but accepted many moons ago he would never be one to embrace the very point of being human, he was also a man who was wholly stuck in a past that no longer existed; past versions of himself, and the people and the world around him.

a war within his own mind silently seemed to tear at it, wondering which step he took somewhere along the mountain that was his life that had caused him to fall from the edge and continue to descend into such an abyss. in the tracks of his own mind, he did not notice the slight changes of expression on the features of younes corbray - the royce would have noted his internal disillusionment was being met directly with what was opposite him. in the grand scheme of things, he was just another man - and he no longer had the capacity to care for a once squire when it felt as though all the positions he played on the board were being scattered.

"i never thought to try make you feel better for losing, corbray. we always said you feel better by getting up and winning the next time." he uttered, his voice as familiar and comforting as the sound of boulders tumbling upon you, or the feeling of cave walls closing in. he had not noticed once that younes corbray had not had a squire; and when he said it, it only made sense. squires were another mouth to feed, another responsibility in a house that was heaving through corrupted lungs and old seams that were close to ripping. there were many instances where younes corbray had lost tourney after tourney; it silently perplexed him, considering he had seen the man's talent first hand.

how was it they had everything as boys, and nothing as men?

for a moment he thought himself a heartless fool to reference such a thing as the corbray's financial situation, and there was a time where graham royce's morality would have perhaps taken the moment to offer some sort other reassurance and pride to his fellow peer. but that time had come and gone, died under the weight of a new reign that he too spun the puppets of. the threads wound around his hands as much as it wound around the necks and actions of others; but the quiet window, the quiet insignificant reference to younes corbray not having what other men in the vale would so casually and normally have was something he could not simply ignore.

the misfortune of others could easily end up being to the benefit of him, and his own - and was that not the true responsibility of being a man? to protect one's own; as much as they sung praises and songs of brotherhood, each of those knights had their own they needed to go home to. to protect, and to a realisation graham royce had felt many times before, he knew he would still do the very same thing. there was a deal he could make here - a deal that would infuriate domeric, but a deal he would do nonetheless. he would take the hit, he would take the icing out and the numbness.

He wanted one thing, and perhaps this was his greatest weakness, the desire for his brother to love him and approve of him and protect him. The chance to have someone to turn to but that was never going to be Graham. Nor would it ever be Axell. Men were utterly and thoroughly alone. They were born alone and they would die alone and the people who loved them would love them more when no one was around to hear it.

Domeric was uncertain of how to describe this unfamiliar pain that settled in his chest. Graham did not see a brother. He saw a bastard that burdened him. A bastard who should be grateful to sit in his court of self righteous cunts that were no better than anyone else in the realm.

"I expected Valemen to be civilized." He answered plainly, then something happened. Something in his head audibly clicked and he looked at the King. "Yes, curse our whoring parents. My whore of a mother and your less than honorable father." Another fact edged with something else, his voice far more detached as he spoke to the King. "What did you expect, your highness?" He wanted to know if Graham was really so stupid that he thought Domeric would let men mock and belittle him into submission? That he would smile and take their slights as another scar to bare?

Domeric actually laughed. It was a true laugh, a rare sound that left him suddenly. The glorified house of poor knights with armor worth more than their keep needed to be satiated. Pay them? No. He would give them nothing but the fight they wanted. "No." His brother King did not know or understand him at all. He would not duel because he thought men would respect him. Domeric Stone would duel because deep down he was still a Northman.

And Northmen did not kneel without fire over their heads. There were no dragons here. Only men in armor.

it felt unnatural to watch the slight cracks of expression which appeared on the features of domeric stone stood across from him, as though it were something he should have looked the other way for and allow the man a moment of respite to recover and fix back the stone that was supposed to make their faces. there was a sad tint of pain and hurt in orbs that were usually either void or manic with something or the other, but instead all he saw was the face of the man that felt utterly broken. he had seen that face given to him before, by eyes that were much softer and with locks that were tinted with fire; graham royce was not a good man for anyone who wished to remain close with him, whether it be as a brother, husband and even now, father.

a part of him wished to open up and speak with domeric about how he felt no pull toward the princess in the cradle, how he was happy to go weeks without paying visit and when he did, it was only so the court did not believe the girl to be some seedling of a bastard. coming from?

she was legitimate, and was the only heir he had right now - so why could he not bring himself to even look upon her, or hold her? it did not fall in line with what he wanted, and so he did not do it. whilst graham royce would not truly recognise or fathom his true nature of control, he was a man who needed everything done exactly how he liked it: and the moment that was threatened, he began to feel himself unravelling at the seams and felt as though he could feel his jaw crack with how much he hardened it. if he were more of a man, perhaps he would have taken the time to take a moment to diffuse a situation that was clearly driven by emotions - to walk away and ask his brother to do nothing until they had both calmed down and talked about it. "part of their civilisation is not accepting you." graham spoke, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "that does not mean they are uncivilised."

"you cannot pull a strop because they will never truly accept you. why do you suddenly care so much? you sound like a woman." graham demanded, his tone judgemental - his voice even rose for a moment, as though he could not believe he was wasting his time having to talk this through. why did he care how they treated him? it didn't change the fact he had the title, and they did not.

the issue was, graham royce refused to acknowledge he felt anything more than what was appropriate - instead, it was domeric's irrationality fuelled by his feelings that was causing an issue where there need be none. all domeric had to do was speak to graham before deciding on ambush the knight of ninestars, on trying to have the man killed; and instead, it was emotion he had fixated upon. gotten himself engulfed in it, and now, he would allow himself to drown in it. the realisation shocked graham, who had always thought that axell was the one who thought with anything but his mind, that axell was the one who needed to be chided and schooled and brought into line. watched. it was with confusion and disappointment did he realise that domeric, was only thinking with whatever he felt in his delusional heart. emotions were not reality.

Domeric agreed that it was the right thing to do, in the North when men rose from the dead you killed them again and burned the body if the legends were to be believed. And Domeric believed them. "I know you are a great king just like the men and women who bend the knee to you and our queen. You make the best choices, and as unpopular as I am none will realm suffers." Because when the realm suffered it was easier to blame the Hand than risk treason.

Then, as Domeric's fingers moved through his thick beard he looked at his brother thoughtfully. "Am I to swallow the disrespect of those around me, beneath my title because I am a bastard? I am meant to be a push around hand of the queen because my last name is Stone and a lord might take offense that he cannot disrespect me? Not just me but the station? The pin? The position? Is it up to lords to decide if they have to respect the Hand? If that is the case then I have been mistaken at my position here."

And his curiosity was genuine. Was he meant to allow a lord from a poor house and historical glory spit on him and his office because Graham's father fucked his mother and didn't marry her? After all, he'd argue it was a burden they shared. Domeric would never be able to tell anyone about who his father was because he would never want to add shame to his brothers house when they had so much to deal with already.

The Vale was a traditional, conservative in the way they made their choices even if they were not a court of conventional courtiers and their council did not meet what one may call standard but they were practical and effective in their choices. When they looked around Westeros they were second the Westerlands in terms of stability and security and as soon as they had a male heir the Vale would continue it's upward trend, it's pace to success.

"Then I suppose I will have to duel him."

he would not deny he felt his jaw harden in response to the words that were uttered so casually from the mouth of domeric stone, words that the oldest son of runestone knew to be nothing short but the truth, and yet still for some striking reason it sounded, and felt different coming from domeric of all people. as though there had been some bolt of lightening, with a momentous crack, and for a solid moment graham stood silently within the dimly lit room considering his options. how he could finish this conversation and return to his chambers and stew until he no longer cared; as much as he would wish to admit he never cared to begin with, that would be a lie.

for graham had always cared what domeric thought, of him especially; it was a part of him he thought weak, and childish. and yet, what was not a brother but one who would make you weak? a piercing gap in your side, never able to be shielded by any armour plate?

so he were a kingslayer. and domeric was a bastard - a bastard that was all wrong in some ways, and yet still did not feel anywhere near as wrong as that of his youngest brother. his one dynamic and responsibility, before all else, was to ensure the men that followed after him in his family tree grew up with a sense of honour - and yet, how could he nurture honour within them when his own had been a sham all along? "it is different." he uttered indignantly, as though he knew domeric spoke the truth. and still, it did not always matter - for this felt, strangely unlike domeric. like something he too was being pulled at the seams, and now they saw the cracks all too clearly. "it's just different."

he resisted the urge to roll his dark orbs as the other began to spoke of the respect that was owed to him because of his title, mirroring the other's actions in putting his hand over his bearded jaw as the other continued to speak, and speak. the amount of questions all at once was almost as though graham was under inquisition, and he did not like it - not one bit. "i don't have the answer for you, considering a bastard has never reached the heights you have." he retorted, tired of the man trying to rationalise how he were feeling through speaking of respect and titles. he shook his head slightly, pulling a chair and sinking into it comfortably - they were going to be here a long while.

"what did you expect, domeric? you know this place. you know how we think. that, with what you done in the north, did you think people would host balls for you?" he asked, his tone not sarcastic or incredulous, but serious as he stared at his brother. "so they hate you. so they will disrespect you, and find new ways to. they see the position as one that should be held by one of their own, not a northman with a whore mother from gulltown." he knocked the royce ring against the wooden table with force there, as though trying to hit some sense back into domerics mind. pride, was the death of him.

and when he spoke his next words, the man's eyes widened in disbelief. he wished to let out an exasperated yell, if he were not a man grown. "duel him?" graham demanded, leaning forward across the table, his arm remaining in front of him on the wooden desk. "what, you wish to die by templeton's blade to prove a point? who will respect you when you are a corpse? none of them will. do yourself the favour and find a way to settle. use money, they do not have much." he knew domeric would not be able to find a trustworthy man to fight to represent him in the vale; he were an island, a man isolated. who would represent him? axell? the thought almost made him freeze.

She didn't reply immediately. Those eyes of ice bore into him before she finally spoke. “I’ve spoken it in the only way it can be spoken,” she said in a cold, steady way, “Time will carry it now. It will settle. It will take root. And it will happen”.

His disdain was both sword and shield, she noticed. He was well-armed in that regard. Every shrug, every idle insult, every refusal to acknowledge sins as something important was a way to disarm her, and those around him in general, she imagined. And when that dawned on her, it suddenly stopped being an effective way of provoking her. He said he didn't remember the name Harclay, and rather than offend her and lead her to clarify, Vilde stared at him with quiet intensity. She didn't give him Asger's name, nor did she bother to give her own. Instead, she chose to let the uncertainty of it all remain with him.

Then Graham Royce spoke of a reckoning, and the Northern sálþyrja smiled. It wasn't a warm gesture. It wasn't kind. It came slow and quiet, as she looked at him without blinking. “I did not come to this place for you,” Vilde said. “But I am satisfied that fate set you in my path”. Because she didn't seek justice on her terms, or his. Time and death would do their work, as steadily as they always did. And her prayer, her curse, was that he departed burdened and bitter.

a man of the vale understood that there were two truths in life; that one needed to focus on the reality of the present and weigh up his duties, his priorities - all whilst acknowledging and understanding there was some otherworldly ability in a world beyond his understanding. perhaps beyond any of their understandings. most men of the further south would not fully be able to wrap their minds around the concept of a knight of the vale believing in the supernatural, in the spirits of things that could cast you harm and cause wrong upon you. he knew it was possible, knew that any haggard witch who was ushered from the great western road to stop them from begging at the sides of mighty steeds and travelling carriages alike could send something his way.

"then that is a kindness you grant me, my lady. it warms me to know you take satisfaction in my presence." the cold snark, was unlike him; not just arrogance, but cutting, as though he sought to cut down and belittle.

only, graham royce had already seen and done the worst thing a man like him could do - and perhaps it said a lot of him, to genuinely and truly believe that betrayal was the worst thing a man like him could do, above all other things. "then it will happen." he spoke, his tone remaining dismissive, as though he were looking down upon the other. for even whilst he thought the worst of himself, still, he would find someone else to look down upon.

"tell me, do you intend for us to stand here together and wait until it does?"

and yet, kingslaying was the thing he would consider the worst; he was a kingslayer. he had no choice. he was a kingslayer. and somewhere, as his dark grey orbs stared back at the woman, he knew something deep within him that suggested she would one day be his undoing. his downfall, the beginning of an end. his end. at the end of the day, she was just another witch that dabbled in darker practices; and if it meant she would send another curse upon him, perhaps the curse would find itself out of depth in the shadow court. what ever more could happen at this point?

he wanted to know how they were associated. how did she know him - why did she know him? there was never a time he associated with the likes of the scum in front of him, they were a mere shadow above the usual mountain clans within the mountains of the moon. so how was it that his family had anything to do with the clans of the north, especially that of harclay? if he had to guess it would be something to do with. battle, some skirmish or conflict. such things were never personal, and should never be taken personally. he did not know when the clouds had parted and it had started to rain whilst the men in the distance continued with their archery. he heard them calling for him, and still, he found himself staring at the woman.

Yes, it was true that it was in him. And it was true that he was a bastard that none would see as a son of the Vale, even though his mother and father were of the Vale. A bastard was meant to accept what was given to him, must accept his place and accept all that came with it quietly.

When Graham’s voice fell silent, Domeric let the quiet linger. He let his brother’s anger settle around them like snow. Then he leaned forward slightly, enough for the dim firelight to catch the edges of his face. “You’ve always spoken as though the weight of the Vale was something only you could bear,” he said, his tone low, even. “And yet it staggers you every time one of us acts without your hand guiding the motion. You call that betrayal, but it’s only what happens when men begin to think for themselves.”

He shifted his gaze briefly toward the hearth, the faint glow flickering across his eyes. “Templeton was no ambush,” he said at last. “He was warned. He chose not to listen. And I am not in the habit of begging for understanding from men who fancy themselves indispensable.”

There was no heat behind the words, no rise or edge only the calm that came from a man who had long since found peace in the ugliness of what he was. When he finally looked back at Graham, his expression was unreadable, distant. “You think I would hurt your daughter.” It was not a question, but an acknowledgment. It was the thing that struck him, the thing that cracked the mask. The weakness of a man loved his brother, a man who did not know what it was but would swear to old Gods and new it were true.

He rose from the chair then, slow and measured, the sound of his boots soft against the stone. “I would sooner cut the rot from my own flesh than lay a hand on what is yours,” he said, it not lost on him that his hands did often lie on what was his brothers and not his own but it was different. He would never harm a child, it was the sort of work men out sourced and this was not that work. The princess and her life were of paramount importance.

graham did not answer at once, and the pause was deliberate rather than stunned, the sort of silence he had learned to wield as king and as the eldest long before the crown ever touched his brow. he regarded domeric steadily, hands clasped behind his back, feeling the familiar strain settle across his shoulders like an old injury. “you mistake restraint for blindness,” he said at last, his voice even, unhurried. “i have never believed the weight of the vale mine alone. i believe only that someone must be willing to carry it without flinching, and i have yet to see many volunteer for that burden without seeking to twist it to their liking.”

he moved a step closer, boots scraping faintly against the stone, his gaze fixed and assessing as he rested a hand upon his jaw, lightly stubbled beneath his fingertips as he gave the man opposite him a knowing look - not exasperated, but knowing. “do not dress this as independence,” graham continued, tone clipped. “men who think for themselves still answer to the laws they serve. here, an ambush is a stain, regardless of warning or wounded pride. you may tell yourself it would pass for normal north of the neck, but this is the vale, and we abide by face, by name, by steel met honestly.” he inclined his head slightly, a gesture more judgment than respect.

“if percival templeton calls for a duel, he has every right, and i will not be able to deny him simply because it proves inconvenient to you.” graham turned then, crossing toward the narrow window, the cold light cutting across his features.

“as if matters were not already knotted enough,” he said quietly, “you know templeton is kin to axell through his mother and the gods seem determined to remind me that every decision here bleeds outward.” his eyes lingered briefly in the direction of the royal apartments, and something in him tightened. for a heartbeat, he nearly spoke again, nearly named the hollow feeling that had taken him when he first looked upon princess avalon and felt nothing stir. he swallowed it instead, crushing the thought down with the same discipline he applied to every weakness. he turned back, expression smoothed into stone.

he felt nothing when he thought of the possibility of avalon being harmed; and it was something that quietly unsettled him. nothing but concern for thoughts of stability, and succesion; was this fatherhood? was this truly it? “it's not about her,” graham said flatly, meeting domeric’s gaze as though to make something clear - even if he he had started the conversation about avalon, he was finished with it. he would not talk of her. of it. “it is about the fact that i have already shattered enough tradition by placing you where you stand.” his jaw tightened imperceptibly.

“to them, you are still a bastard who wandered south and climbed too high. only i know how much blood binds us, and only i bear the cost of that knowledge.” he paused, letting the words settle. “every step you take wrong confirms their whispers that i have lost my judgement.” and he would not have that; his name was already stained enough, and he was not yet enough of a wretched creature to see it as impossible to clean. he had a purpose, that was to serve; he knew his place and he would not have it be dragged through the mud by the actions of others.

Percy Templeton was a thorn in his side. An irritation at best and a constant reminder in sea of them that wished to make sure he didn't forget his place. And how could he, from where he sat above most of the court that looked down on the man over them.

"Yes." Domeric confirmed the suspicions of the man across from him. He did not have it in him to lie to his brother. He assumed he could put forth the effort and craft a story but there was no use, it was treason to lie to a king and in poor taste to lie to a brother.

"I think my way is much more effective. I don't wish to deal with the messiness behind bodies and succession and accusations. A sound beating is a great way to deal out consequences." And just maybe, maybe, the Hand of the Queen spoke so freely because the piece that chipped, and cracked away in the queen's chambers still lay shattered on the floor. The important pieces of the mask. But, but he didn't need one with Graham did he?

"Yes. You protected me. You are my brother, the oldest brother, and you have always made sure of my safety. Though, brother, there are some things a man must deal with on his own. And that includes when a man thinks of you as a soft target." A reputation such as his was one forged in the power of rumor and truth melding together in dark corners and nightmares.

graham stood in the solar, boots planted firmly on the cold stone, and let the silence stretch for a moment, the smouldering ash of the fire at his back doing little to warm him. domeric sat there, calm as ever, like a serpent waiting in the grass, and graham studied him without a word, the edges of his mind sharpening. years of carrying the weight of roydom and the vale had made him patient, but this… this was a test of patience he would not fail. he could smell the faint sweat of nerves on domeric, or perhaps his own. it didn’t matter. the air between them was taut, ready to snap, as though something in this moment was about to splinter. crack, and fracture.

“so it was you,” graham said finally, voice low, flat, clipped. “ambushed templeton. men waiting. blades drawn. no chance for talk.” he didn’t look at domeric, eyes scanning the hearth as if he expected the fire to flare back to life, to cast a judgment on the hand he’d raised. “do ye ken what that makes ye? clever, aye, and dangerous. but it also makes ye an enemy in the eyes of every man who thought you a bastard who has overreached already.” and for a brief moment, dark orbs of grey seemed to stare deeply into the man stood opposite him - and that was what graham saw in his brother. a bastard offshoot of a noble lineage, entirely rotten; cunning, but rotten - and he had used his brains to climb his way to a position that should never have belonged to him.

he took a step forward, boots scraping stone. “i brought ye from the north myself,” he said, voice tightening, clipped with anger. “made sure no man in the vale could touch ye. gave ye place, power, standing, and what? ye think that grants ye licence to spill blood like it’s coin?” graham’s hand struck the table, the echo sharp, hard, ringing like steel - most unlike him, as though something tight and finally snapped. and when it did snap, it shattered all too loudly. he let his gaze cut over domeric fully, taking in the taut line of jaw, the shadow under his eyes, the quiet that spoke of patience and guile both.

“i’ve carried you, i’ve protected you, fed you, trained you, and yet here ye sit, ready to take from men of our blood. templeton is kin. templeton is vale. and ye? ye are a bastard with too much ambition.”

graham leaned closer, voice dropping to a hiss. “i’ve made men kneel to me with blade and threat, but ye… you test me, domeric. you test the king and the older brother both.” he straightened then, cold, deliberate. he let the words hang in the solar, stepping back, shadow stretching over domeric like a mantle. the fire was ash, the room cold, yet graham’s presence filled it with weight. every line of him, every scar and lean muscle, was a warning. he would protect the blood he chose to, destroy the rest without hesitation. and domeric, clever, calculating, would have to learn this now. no sentiment, no hesitation—just the authority of a royce, oldest and unflinching, standing above the bastard he had raised.

more like their father than any of them could ever possibly admit. he had been playing pretend, for too long; it had all but swallowed him and spat him back out.

graham’s eyes narrowed, the cold light from the tall windows slicing across his face, casting hard shadows on the sharp planes of his jaw. he stepped closer, boots scraping against the stone, and let his words drop heavy and deliberate. “i’ve turned a blind eye to ye long enough,” he said, voice low, almost a growl. “i’ve let ye stretch your claws, run your schemes, take positions at court, because it suited the vale… because it suited me. i gave ye latitude, domeric, latitude to grow, to plot, to take power without interference. aye, i watched. i knew the way ye fixated, the way ye set your mind and would not let it rest. it’s in your blood, that hunger, that obsession. a man like me… i can spot it a mile off.”

he paused, hands clenching at his sides, feeling the weight of every choice he’d made in keeping domeric close, shielding him, letting him crawl up the ladder of court while others whispered their venom. “i saw it in the way ye stared at what ye wanted,” graham continued, stepping even closer, voice hard, measured. “i saw it in the way ye lingered on things, on people… and gods help me, i knew it would lead to folly,” his lips twisted in disgust, “i knew it even as ye schemed, even as ye whispered and reached. i turned my eyes, domeric, i let it happen, thinking… thinking i could contain the damage. thinking i could guide it, shape it, use it to keep ye alive in a court that would eat a nobody like ye whole.”

he drew a long breath, shoulders tight with the tension of unspoken rage, and the thin light made his eyes glint with something dark and deliberate. “but ye’ve overstepped now,” he said, voice low, deadly. “templeton… that was too far. blood and ambition have limits, and ye’ve walked right over mine. i have tolerated, i have bent, i have masked the disdain and the warning, but this—this crosses the line between ambition and betrayal. the vale does not forgive such as that, domeric, and neither do i. you'll get in line, or you'll crawl back in the snow and i'll be the one to cast you out.”

THOSE OF THE LAST RITE

The People of the Last Rite, or Los del último rito, as they are called in their shared tongue, is a cultural group that was born many centuries before Aegon's conquest. It is said they hail from the coasts of the Stormlands, but their beliefs and customs spread into the Marches and even into some regions of Dorne. Those of the Last Rite are known that way because of one of their oldest and most enduring beliefs: that death is not an end, but a journey that begins when the last breath leaves the body. To them, the Stranger is not a figure to be feared, but a guardian, the final companion they will all have. They believe he was once an older god by another name, long before he became part of the Seven, and those of the Last Rite pray so he will welcome the souls of their loved ones into his realm. Each year, during the season known as the Gallows Days, the living pay tribute to the dead. Families tend to their dead with devotion, building personal altares with ofrendas: food, drink, tokens of memory, candles, and flowers. These offerings are not merely gestures of remembrance, but gifts meant to nourish the departed as they continue their journey, and to allow them to return and dwell among the living once more, if only briefly. The heart of this ancient culture beats strong in Gallowsgrey, the seat of House Trant, which is one of the locations where ancient ruins of these people still exist. Most notably, a massive stone calendar wheel can be found there, intricately carved with numerous symbols that track what is known as the Storm Cycle. Other houses that of the Last Rite, who can trace their heritage within this culture that has endured, are House Caron, House Belmore, House Egen, House Dondarrion, House Uller, and House Selmy.

Under the cut, you'll find more details cultural elements about those of the Last Rite.

Seeing her brother's killer made her stop in her tracks. For a moment, it almost felt like the world drew quiet in her ears, and the only sound that existed was the echo of her own heartbeat. Vilde Harclay stood there, her posture tense, her jaw steady. And the consort king of the Vale turned to her unburdened, disdain laced in every word he uttered.

He spoke, and she did not flinch. Gods, how she wanted to scream, to weep, to bloody her knuckles until his face was broken and her rage burned out. But Vilde only exhaled, and her voice came low and steady when she finally spoke. “Må du og dem, du holder af, være forbandet til at bære dine byrder selv efter døden,” she said, her words eerie, as they were something plucked from a cold, bitter land deep in the North. May you and those you hold dear be cursed to carry your burdens even after death. It was the curse she'd held close to her chest when Asger died, and she was finally able to release it.

he squinted at her as the words left her mouth—foreign, raw, guttural. they sat ill on his ears, like something clawed out from an old wound. the sound of it stirred something faint and half-formed in his chest, like the ghost of recognition, but nothing he could grasp. her voice had weight, yes, but to his mind it was all theatre. like so many of the northfolk—full of ritual and riddles, convinced that curses meant more than consequence. he didn’t flinch.

instead, his lip curled faintly, and he tilted his head, brows lifted in faint disdain, as though watching a wild thing try to speak like a person. "oh aye," he said, voice low and thick with the cadence of the vale, whiskey-laced and weather-worn. "that’ll be some northern curse, then. say it like ye mean it, at least. might even work better." he drew a breath in through his nose and cast a glance past her shoulder, as though already losing interest. but he didn’t move away. not yet.

she said harclay, and something in him pulled taut—not memory, not truly, but that familiar itch behind the ribs that came when danger was near and unspoken. he repeated the name under his breath, slow and unsure, like tasting bad wine. “harclay… harclay...” he narrowed his eyes at her now, proper, studying the line of her jaw, the northern bone in her brow. she wasn’t pretty in any usual sense, not in the way highgarden liked its women: soft-faced and sweet-mouthed. no, she had the look of stone and smoke. old blood, ill-tempered. "don't know the name," he muttered eventually, more to himself than to her, and with a shrug of his shoulder, he almost meant it.

yet her stillness irked him more than shouting ever could. she didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. he hated that. people were supposed to wither a little when he stared them down. especially those from the north, from the cold and the fringes, not tethered to courtly rot. she should’ve turned heel the moment he opened his mouth. instead, she stood like she’d been waiting for him all her life. and that bothered him.

“aye, well,” he said at length, adjusting the lay of his collar, the linen stuck to the line of his throat from the late summer heat. “if you’re waitin’ for some great reckoning, you’ll be waitin’ a good long while. i don’t remember you, and i certainly don’t remember any harclay worth the salt to stick in the teeth.” he let his gaze drag over her once more—long, slow, dismissive. “you come down here for your curses, or just to gawp like a bairn at the fair?” his tone was idle but edged, a blade dulled just enough to seem casual, filled with the usual air of arrogance that a valeman had - those who believed themselves untouchable.

she might not have gotten involved at all, had it not been for the man standing opposite the court. graham royce called across the net, reminding fiadh that she was not playing to win. she wasn't normally one to hold a grudge - forgiving to a fault, those who had wronged her personally granted understanding, even when they did not deserve it. here was the exception. she would never have forgiveness in her heart for graham royce after what he did to keira, gutting her heart and walking away with nothing more than the dust on his boots.

"i wasn't aiming where you'd been," she said, taking a moment to push her damp curls from her face. "i was aiming where i wanted you to be." there was no smile to match it, the normal twinkle in her eye replaced with a cold sort of fire. it was a lie. she was aiming there, not because she wanted him to return it over the net, but because she wanted the pleasure of seeing it bounce off the dome of his head. it was unlike her to wish hurt on another, but gods help her, she wished it anyway. she wished for the sound it would make as it smacked him in the face and the resulting lump it would leave behind - no blood, something she could claim she didn't mean, because she would never dream of causing harm to the king consort of the vale, but a good, honest, tender bruise all the same, something keira would hear about and they'd laugh together over back in the riverlands.

she wondered if he knew what she was thinking, as he sent a vicious serve her way that she had to sprint to even attempt to hit back. it was a surprise even to fiadh when she caught the ball on the racket, sending it back to him. it would be an easy shot for him to return, but it bought her enough time to get her balance back. had she been playing with hugo, or near enough any other man, there'd be a laugh on her lips right now, but she remained silent, save for her own breath.

he heard her before he truly saw her as she switched her positon on the court. not just the words, but the way they were thrown—casual, confident, but sharp beneath the surface, like a dart hidden in a fan’s flick, all masked in some form of a song. it made his brows furrow for a moment, wondering what strange nonsense warped riverlander he had found himself competing against in this tournament. her voice didn’t carry the tone of someone simply playing to pass the time. there was something flintier in it, something crafted. she wasn’t here for the sport, not truly. and gods, she had moved fast. too fast.

when he’d served low, he hadn’t expected her to reach it, much less strike it back with such precision. most lords he’d faced today had bumbled at that serve like they were chasing hens with gloves on.

but her? she’d turned her whole frame, legs steady beneath that cinched skirt, and caught the return like she’d known it was coming from the moment he wound his arm back. he narrowed his eyes, shifting his grip on the racket, watching the bounce of the ball as it spun back toward him. the shot wasn’t vicious—easy enough to recover—but it gave him pause. she didn’t look like the sort who should move so lightly. not in that borrowed belt and bunched skirt, sun-pink skin shining at the neck like she’d wrestled the sun itself and lost by half a breath. yet she’d danced across the stone with the force of someone used to striking.

there was no doubt about it. not a lady idling through an afternoon match. she had the spirit of a soldier in her bones, even if her voice lilted like a songbird’s. he caught the return with a calm, fluid sweep, less brutal than his last serve, more controlled, as though testing rather than punishing. he needed a second to think. he needed to ensure he did not send a ball straight into the face of this woman, regardless of how strange she was; it would be unbecoming of him, and the last thing he wanted to deal with was the sight of her running nose with crimson and trying to understand her hysteria through the thickness of her accent.

it picked at his mind, because there was something else now, tugging at him like a burr caught in the cuff of his thoughts. that face. her face. he knew it.

"i'm not tired, my lady" he answered, letting the ball fall with a dull thud against the stone as he caught it again with the edge of his boot, bouncing it once. “you don’t play like a lady of the court,” he said at last, stepping forward, catching the ball in his palm and weighing it. “and you’ve not got the carriage of a knight’s daughter either. you don’t flinch when the ball’s high, and you’ve no fear of running, which tells me you’ve done more chasing in life than you’ve let folk chase you.” he tilted his head, eyes narrowing further. “but i know that face. who exactly are you girl, and why do you seem to be aiming for my face rather than my racket?" he asked, his tone blunt, as inherently dismissive and judgmental as he always was.

his words sat between them like a stone in her palm—solid, heavy, and not quite what she had hoped for. she understood him well enough by now to know he wasn’t trying to be cruel, only distant. and yet, keira had never been the sort to leave things untouched just because they were difficult. if she had been, she’d have folded into herself long ago, let the world carry her where it willed rather than trying to carve a place in it.

“aye, i suppose they do,” she murmured in response, lifting her gaze toward the high, arched windows where only the faintest glimmers of starlight could be seen. “perhaps can be comfort found in that itself. no matter where you are, no matter what’s changed, they’ll always be there, shining just the same.”

she let the quiet stretch between them, the only sound the occasional pop from the fire, the distant murmur of the household settling for the night. then, she exhaled a breath, tilting her head slightly. “maybe that’s why i like ‘em. steady things are hard to come by in this world.”

the tension in the space between the two of them remained thick, but she caught the faintest flicker of something in his expression—thoughtfulness, perhaps, or an awareness of the weight in her words. keira didn’t expect him to answer, not really. he was a man built on silence and steel, on duty and unspoken burdens. but she hoped, at least, that he might hear her.

at his mention of rain, she let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. “always know before it comes, don’t you?” there was a quiet fondness in her tone, though she did not press it. “i’ll dress warm, then.”

her fingers brushed over the edge of the table as she turned slightly, hesitating before she took a step away. then, glancing back at him, she offered, just lightly, “you could come with me, y’know. you don’t have to find peace in it. just... company.”

graham didn’t stir. her voice hung behind him like the last thread of summer, delicate and quiet, but not enough to move him. he remained by the door, arms crossed over his chest, the weight of his maille still on him even though the war was over—at least, the kind fought on open fields. he stared at the wall, at the pattern of soot and time marking the stones, as if it could explain something he couldn’t. “aye, still - i’ve never much cared for company,” he said finally, his tone flat, deliberate. he had already made it abundantly clear he did not wish to be here in this moment; to sit opposite her and be wholly aware of her empty womb, and the fact they were both in this with little choice of their own. “not for the sake of it.”

he didn’t look at her. hadn’t properly in the days since he returned from the frontlines, if he was honest, though the thought didn’t bring guilt, only a dull sort of resignation. keira had always had the sort of voice that crept in softly, like the first cold wind before the frost. never demanding. never loud. and that was part of the trouble—he didn’t know what to do with softness. never had. she meant well. he knew that. she always had. and yet, it didn’t change the way her presence started to feel like another duty, another weight he couldn’t shift. she asked for so little, but in that asking, reminded him how little he gave.

“not much use in watching stars, lass.” he muttered, more to himself than her as he put down the napkin on the table. “men go out lookin’ for omens in them. answers. don’t tend to find much more than what they brought with them.”

he shifted slightly, his gaze still on the stones, as though they might crack open and swallow him whole. it was easier, thinking about weather or duty or the slow repairs to the outer wall. things he could measure, fix, make sense of. not whatever it was she wanted from him—connection, maybe. or warmth. “stars are just stars,” he muttered, jaw tightening - not because he was irritated, but rather because he too was uncomfortable. “folk like to pretend they mean something. but they don’t. they’re just there.” things he had no training in. there was a time he’d tried, briefly. a summer after their wedding, when the fields were golden and her smile hadn’t yet dimmed. but war had come too soon. and he’d changed on campaign, hardened in ways that didn’t peel off with armour. “i’ve enough to think on without chasing stars,” he added, adjusting his stance, the way a man does when he wants to signal the conversation ought to end. “you go. i’ll stay.” he didn’t say it unkindly, but there was no invitation in it either.

still, he glanced her way—not fully, not directly. just enough to see the outline of her in the firelight, her profile all quiet hope and soft defiance. she hadn’t stopped trying. that was her mistake. still, he silently unclasped his own cloak from around his shoulders and stepped forward, closing the distance between them when offering her his cloak. he put it loosely over her shoulders, his hands not lingering a moment longer than needed on her skin - something she would have noticed. it would not have taken long for her to notice that he were not attracted to his wife; that the sight of her did not cause his heart rate to raise, or make him feel that sense of restlessness which always resulted in him going on hunts rather than take to women that lingered on the ends of war camps.

he didn’t add anything more. he meant it practically—like a man advising a stablehand to close the gate—but her silence lingered like disappointment. he thought, not for the first time, about how this was meant to be easier. they were married. they shared a roof, a name. the war was behind them. and still, each word felt like hauling stone uphill. his fingers flexed briefly at his side. she hadn’t asked, not directly. but it hung there. not just the silence—but the shape of what was expected. they ought to be trying, by now. it had been long enough. too long. a child would settle matters. give her purpose that was more than just wafting around him like some creeping child. give their some union weight.

they ought to be doing their duty, plain and simple. the bedding act wasn’t just ceremony. not now. a child would put things right. or at least, make things simpler.

but he didn’t know how to bring it up. couldn’t imagine sitting down beside her, saying it like it was weather or supper. he couldn’t picture reaching for her in that way, not when they’d barely spoken, not when the distance between them felt like a gulf. so he didn’t. and a part of him grew irritated with himself for thinking too much on the matter; it were a duty between a man and his wife. it was expected of her, and surely she knew that when exchanging their vows. “don’t stay out long,” he said, and it came out gruff. too sharp, maybe, for what it meant. he turned, the door clicking shut behind him, and left her to the stars.

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

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

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

graham royce did not often feel unsure of his footing, but there was something in the presence of lady zialla antaryon that made him tread slower, speak more deliberately. not out of admiration, nor distrust, but because she reminded him of the sort of things that didn’t belong on a battlefield: patience, calculation, waiting for wind instead of charging through it. there was nothing stormy about her—she was still water, hiding depth beneath silence. and yet she stood here, in gulltown of all places, on the edge of the vale, pretending as though she had nowhere else to go. his inner instinct, that same instinct which knew more of wielding a blade than small councils, sought for her to be gone.

he found that difficult to believe. a woman like her did not simply end up somewhere. she chose her ground; and it was made abundantly clear to him by her returning across the narrow sea, regardless of her tensions with the reach - she chose her ground. even if she wore the air of one merely following a path.

his eyes did not leave her face as he spoke again, slower now. “it’s not just the men of the vale that want you here. it’s their ambitions.” the words were factual, almost detached as he spoke, his words wrapped in the natural highland ring of the runestone which he never bothered to try and strip down. “they want coin. they want the iron bank. they think your name and your presence will open doors faster than letters ever could.” he did not roll his eyes, but the weight behind his voice made his disdain clear. all of this, was what a king need focus on; need to understand and know of. he did not. “and they’re not wrong. even your silences speak of gold, or the hint of it.” he shifted his weight, a quiet exhale through his nose.

the idea of the vale being impenetrable no longer felt like truth. once, he had believed these mountains, these narrow passes and high keeps, made them unassailable. but the world had cracked open in his lifetime. dragons burned far-off valleys; men with foreign tongues whispered promises in gulltown’s taverns. even the weather felt less sure. nothing was impenetrable anymore. not even him. and so, he was not even sure of this woman who claimed to be here to just try and be closer to her daughter, and yet also claim she were not involved in the physical bloodshed which occurred on the narrow seas between the braavosi and the sailors of the reach. most would do anything for their child, would they not?

no true parent would willingly abandon their child, not at least trying to make a stand for when that child came of age. perhaps zialla hoped that, by being wed in gulltown, her daughter would grow to realise her mother tried her hardest. he heard the way zialla spoke of her daughter. not in fear. not even in mourning. but in consideration. like something to be returned to. as though the child was a puzzle piece waiting for the rest of the picture to take shape. “hmm,” graham said, voice low, almost a grumble of acknowledgement.

his jaw tightened as he remembered his father, malcom, that bastard-making lord who had thought himself untouchable, who had left domeric behind in the north like some forgotten blade in the snow. graham would never understand how a man could make a child and not carry the weight of them. that one act had undone the image of his father, entirely. graham had built himself in the gaps malcom left behind. fatherhood, when it came, did not make him soft—but it had made him true. everything he did now was through that lens. that duty. it was not something you paused for, not something you weighed against ambition or waited to consult with others over.

her history in highgarden still hung about her shoulders, light and silken, but heavy too. the garden snakes had turned on her. of course they had. it was the kind of court where poison and perfume were passed with the same fingers. yet she had survived that, and still she was cautious, speaking of fights and futures and birthrights with too much polish. zialla was not lying—but perhaps she was still holding back. perhaps that was her way. perhaps that was all she had ever known. he looked to the harbour, then back to her, something like resignation moving through his posture.

Her gaze followed his, still watching the stag, her amusement flickering as she replied, “I suppose the world I imagine is just a little too simple for you, Your Grace.” Her voice was smooth, though the edge of challenge slipped through. She considered his words, the weight of them settling uncomfortably between them. Innocence was a fleeting illusion, she knew. But to speak as though it could never exist in such a world... it stung in its finality.

“Perhaps,” she said, her smile returning with a practiced grace, “it’s because I have not been taught to view the world with as much certainty as you do. It is easier to imagine the world as simple when you see everything so clearly.”

Ginevra allowed a brief moment of silence to linger between them, feeling the drizzle soften against her skin. She considered his words carefully, knowing how deftly the King Consort wielded his bluntness. “My brother may ride true, but his path, like yours, is not without its own burdens,” she replied, her voice smooth, but not without a subtle firmness.

graham exhaled slowly, watching the stag disappear into the trees, its antlers a fleeting glint of pale gold against the rain-dampened green. lady ginevra’s words sat between them, poised, deliberate. she was smiling, but it did not reach her eyes, and he had seen that look before—the careful arrangement of pleasantness meant to conceal some small slight. he wondered whether she even realised it herself. “never dull,” he repeated, though there was no mirth in his voice. for a moment, his thoughts drifted back to the court of king rowan, and the phrase felt almost absurd. there had been nothing dull about those days, but neither had they been entertaining.

every few weeks, there had been some shadow slithering through the halls, some treachery to unearth, some fresh wound to salt. men had spoken in whispers, afraid of what might come crawling through the door next. and yet, she spoke of it as though it had been some great, lively spectacle. did she not know? or was it simply that she preferred her world framed in a more agreeable light?

his fingers tightened briefly around the reins before he forced himself to loosen them. “aye, there was always something to be dealt with,” he said at last, his voice level, though the weight of memory lingered beneath the words. “a knife in the dark, a friend turned foe. enemies in the halls. i suppose some might have found it... engaging.” his gaze flicked towards her then, measuring. did she seek such things? intrigue for intrigue’s sake? he had seen too many who did, people who treated the game as though it were merely that—a game. but court had never been a place for idle amusement. not for him.

he considered her more fully now, this half-relation of his brother, though to call her kin felt strange. axell’s mother was not his own, and the distinction had always been clear. she was not family to him, not truly. and yet, standing here, her presence was unavoidable, woven into the fabric of his court. he supposed it was only natural that she should be here, that she should wish to speak with him. but he had never given her much thought before. she was simply another lady of the vale—proper, poised, and, he imagined, intent on finding her place within these halls. was she married? he could not recall. perhaps there were plans in motion for such a thing, some match being arranged behind closed doors. court was no place for a woman, not in his mind. too many dangers, too much deception.

if he had a sister, he would not have let her linger in such a place, subject to its intrigues. better for her to be at home, tending to her own household, away from all this. but perhaps ginevra had other ambitions.