under & below

it’s real. everything is real and she wants to bury her nose into his skin. to breathe him in, to see if everything is still the same and she ends up running her fingers through his hair instead. gently, to tangle herself into him one way or another. through one patient kiss, and the need for another. she feels like trembling.  the more he speaks, the more tension rolls off her skin. like she’s one with the river again, leaning into him. ”my jael,” she says, stripped of any other type of endearment. the fact that no other word can really take away that she needs to ensure to herself that it is him. 

him only. ”no,” her nose is close to his. her hand touching over the rough stubble of his cheek. she’s collecting all her touches she can’t get later. the subtle ones she can’t dare to do in front of anyone else. a gentle sigh escapes her. ”fickle bird must have fallen into the water,” she frowns. she can’t take her hands off him. 

he kisses her, tastes her teeth and tongue, holds her close to himself, as selfish as he can manage. he mirrors her frown for only a fraction of a second, unable to truly feel anything but elated. he soon presses his lips to her lips again, to the corner of her lips, and smiles.

“i’m sorry i worried you,” he says sorrowful, down to a whisper, cradling her lovely face in his rough hands. “i have dreamed day and night of seeing you.” his thumb traces her cheek, admiring breathlessly. “my memory is such a poor thing… a terrible thing…” his mind fills with every beautiful, terrible thing they could do.

a patrol every few hours would inspire wakefulness, their lord commander had decided. some would notice and some would not, but a while ago, there was a different face behind this helm.

jael welcomes the conversation with a grin. he glances the floors lined with spare sheets and uncomfortable nobles. “with these conditions, doubtless soon. this is the closest many have come to sleeping in a ditch, i’d wager.” he glances the voice. trademark features of a stark. typical look of grief. lord edric, comes the name to his memory. “the gates are well-manned, rest assured. do you know of any starks feeling particularly homesick or adventurous tonight?”

Cool night air enveloped Argella as she stepped out of the pavillion for House Fell. Within, her family and their meager guard - the only knights that could be spared from Felwood - supped and chatted, each more anxious than the last. Argella had found herself unable to be around them, unable to pretend at cheer for even a moment. She had lost no one in the great fire, and yet the air of Duskendale hung heavy with ghosts. It was enough to choke the life from her as she walked through the gardens, invisible eyes watching her every step.

It is with a sigh that she stops at the one quiet spot in the gardens, or at least, quiet enough. She recognizes the white cloak of the kingsguard, but does not dare to break the silence. The very notion of quiet had become an unheard of novelty, a treasure to be hoarded. So when the kingsguard speaks, she startles the slightest bit. "I fear this entire event has soured me from crowds." And Argella truly meant that. It would be many moons before she was willing to be submersed in a crowd to this degree again. "And you, ser? What brings you away from the crush?"

“you could choke on all this grief.” it’s a joke. maybe he sounds too tired. the whiter his cloak gets, the more seriously everyone seems to take what he says. he doesn’t want her to think he’s about to bring her in for treason. 

he lowers his voice to sincerity. “no place but a crypt is meant to hold this much grief,” he concurs, nodding slowly. “or a godswood. leave all that sadness out to dry in the sun and swelter in overcrowded tents and… the air becomes hard to breathe. then you need to find small pockets of air like this.” he motions vaguely to their small space.

“i’m on break,” he answers, with a small smile. “seeing a kingsguard at rest is like watching a dog sleep on hind legs, isn’t it?”

a deep breath. the lights reveal to her his presence, the ones she follows up the stairs. she walks slowly. she forces herself to calm down, to ease the beating of her heart and she presses her lips into a thin line. she pulls her coat warmer around her to prevent the night chill from biting her too hard.

she’s calm. trying.

no, she doesn’t care. she hurries the final steps and with a turn, she sees him on the floor. her light. a sight to behold. he’s waited for her. she rushes over, into his arms – she hasn’t been in them since months ago. the fire brought her no news on his survival, but seeing him across duskendale.

he breathes in deep, the scent of her skin sheathing his brain like silk. for the first time in a long time, tension leaves his shoulders. he presses a long kiss into her neck.

“my love,” he whispers, the insistent tug of a smile at his cheeks. the pain of pulling away soothed by his perfect view of her, too close and not close enough. he drags a knuckle gentle along her cheek, once, then again. he’d happily lose his hand for one last touch, happily lose his life for one last look. “my life…” he speaks softly, leaning in to press a patient kiss onto her perfect lips. 

“lyla," his lips brush hers, the taste in his mouth so sweet with the syllables of her name that he hopes it lasts forever. this, it, them. "i missed you. terribly." he leans away a measly inch, holding her flush to him still. his eyes walk porcelain skin, sliding smoothly like blades over winter river. it always feels like he can never look at her long enough. he touches with his hand what he touches with his eyes, the rough, calloused pad of his thumb ghosting over the bridge of her nose, her cheek, her jaw, the line of her lips. 

a sudden gust from the bay sweeps through the garden, carrying the brine of home. it chills the skin of her exposed neck and collarbones, teasing the stray tendrils of an elaborate updo that has begun to surrender to the hour. the wind catches the single, striking streak of silver-gold that frames her face, and carries the faint, sweet scent of her hair oils across the small space between them. hearing the lord commander of the kingsguard speak her son’s name with such deference feels like a lungful of air after drowning. "young lord daeron," she repeats, testing the weight of the words, letting them hang in the cool night air. a sad, bitter smile touches her lips. "it soothes a specific ache to hear you call him that. there are voices in driftmark... voices currently sitting on the high seat... that have chosen to forget the respect that name commands." she uses the plural form loosely, not to explicitly say his name. and lets the implication settle—that her marriage is a cage, not a comfort—before she answers his question.

"they are hale, yes," she allows, though her eyes drift toward the distant, flickering torchlights of the streets of duskendale. towards the road the carriage rode on to take them back to the manse. "and bright, though the fire dimmed them. saera shields her heart with sharp words sometimes, much like her mother. and daeron... daeron has his father’s quiet. they are confused, ser. it is hard to explain to a seven-year-old why the world burned, and harder still to explain why the safety of their home has changed so drastically. why their uncle sits where their father sat, and why he does not stand when they enter the room." she looks back at him, searching his face for the ally she prays is still there beneath the white cloak."they need friends, lord commander. powerful friends. for i fear their mother’s charm is a flimsy shield against the ambition of men."

she pauses, the silence between them hangs heavy with the things she cannot say aloud about the man she now calls husband. her gaze searches his, desperate to find the cousin victor loved beneath the kingsguard’s resolve. "you are family," she whispers, the words fragile, as if she is breaking a rule just by saying them. "i know the white cloak is meant to sever such ties, to bleach the memory of driftmark from your blood, but... somewhere there, in the oldest halls of your heart, you remember. so you must know, i... i am doing what i can to keep them safe. whatever the cost."

her eyes glittering like thin shafts of seaglass catching the sun of faraway torches, the weight of her stare pushing that sharp edge down, slicing at the thin flesh of his gaze—it almost hurts to look at her. but he looks. as he has been trying to do for weeks now, he searches for truth.

i believe you, sits on the tip of his tongue. he weighs it against the pull of his teeth, tries to figure out if it feels right. almost, not quite. not yet.

“driftmark belongs to your son,” he speaks plain, hard lines around soft eyes. he lets the words sit a while.

“the old. the true. the brave. simple words. easy to follow,” he says. “how can we expect anyone to respect our house if we can’t respect our own words?” he sighs. it’s a lesson he’s been learning his entire life. that, and: dwelling does nothing. all the thinking and head-shaking in the world won’t change the simple fact that his cousin has taken what isn’t his; an opportunist sitting on a pile of pretense.

“i’m no politician, aelina,” he tells her. “but i will do what must be done to protect the house. our house. our traditions." it bears repeating, "whatever the cost.” he blinks slow. breathes a laugh with no sound. “you have every reason to doubt a kingsguard who speaks this way. i'm meant to have left all my wants and sentiments behind for my sworn duty to the crown, aren't i?" his gaze steadies, scarred and hard on the surface. "but… your children—i will not see them harmed any further.”

                     ⸻       they  muddy  the  water  to  make  it  seem  deep.

SER JAEL VELARYON of DRIFTMARK attends the season within the capital! before the court, they are BOLD and SINCERE. but every man has his shadows, and when darkness descends, they are PROUD and TACTLESS. another face appears in duskendale, reminiscent of a muddy horse-trodden road after rain, muscle straining under a heavy weight, a crease in the fabric of a face, sun-dried tears, and shifting dust. but what can they possibly hope to achieve in the aftermath of the flames? to do his job, protect the remnants of house targaryen… and see to the recovery, prosperity and continuity of house velaryon at any cost.  gods protect them from these dark winds. — SEBASTIAN STAN, 43, CIS MALE & HE/HIM

ser jael of house velaryon. only child of lord ███ and lady mera of driftmark. squired for ser ardrian celtigar, then traveling the seven kingdoms. knighted in his 27th year by ser ardrian for valor on the frozen marshes beyond white harbor, where he pursued raiders and recovered stolen treasure and escaped prisoners. victor in the melee at silver bridge; maidenpool; driftmark; king’s landing; storm’s end; oldtown. named ‘the unbound,’ as he was frequently entrusted to bear another’s cause in trial by combat, undefeated. during a collapse at the grain market, rode into the chaos alone, pulling dozens from beneath fallen stalls and preventing a stampede from reaching the royal carriage. chosen for the kingsguard in his 29th year by king maekar i targaryen. thereafter noted for deeds which brought him renown, though not without question as to their prudence: riding alone into a bandit ambush on the roseroad to rescue a royal envoy; confronting rogues threatening a merchant procession in oldtown, unarmored; saved dozens from the street of silk's most destructive fire yet recorded; frequently first chosen to represent the royal family and related parties in trial by combat. appointed lord commander of the kingsguard in the 365th year after conquest, following the death of ser ███. (  the  next  page  lays  waiting  . . .  )

rhys had always considered the kingsguard his true family. even the new faces were growing on him. there had been so much death. he could not afford to be picky with his friendship.

but he did not have to be so with jael. that was a comfort at least.

"are you all right?" when rhys shifts, his armor can be heard shifting too. his helm is easily removed as well, sat beside him as he comforts his new lord commander.

"we haven't had time to talk much since... well, since the fires. if you wish to talk, we are brothers in arms. i am willing to lend my ear."

he smiles to say the jape was well-received. thank you for asking. i hope you’re alright. you have my ear, too. he communicates with a look, trusting years of reading each other’s eyes through thick helms from across huge rooms.

“things are… worse than i hoped for, but better than i dared to hope for. d’you know what i mean, rhys?” he looks over. “you look well. don’t you worry. i’ll work you into the dirt yet.” he makes light, knowing full well that work has ground them all close to ash. he shifts slightly, armor clinking quiet as glass.

“i’m glad you made it out. what's that thing all the lords in king's landing love to say ... the realm is better for it.”

the docks reeked of sun - baked entrails and human excrement. it wrinkled rosalei's nose to the point that she had ceased using it, but so too was she determined to enjoy it. breathing only through parted lips, she cannot smell the scene around her, but she feels as if she can taste it instead. what glory, to be free of the perfumed halls of highgarden! what fun! “ duskendale  is  quite  …  illustrious, ”  she  notes,  more  to  herself  than  to  any  company  that  may  have  arrived  in  her  moment  of  stench  -  surrounded  silence.  she  leans  over  a  stall  whose  minder  boasts  the  freshest  fish  in  the  seven  kingdoms,  admiring  the  prismatic  refractions  of  light  off  of  the  scales  of  fish  who  had  long  had  their  eyes  unceremoniously  poked  out  with  fishhooks.  “ don't  you  think? ”  she  leans  back,  but  the  briny smell of the sea  is  no  less  strong.  “ it  is  no  surprise  that  they  wish  to  dub  it  the  shiny,  new  capital city.  like  king's  landing  is  simply  a  lucky  coin  misplaced, rather than a metropolis.  no matter, we  shall  find  a  new  one — i imagine that is how the conversation transpired. ” no matter that the ruins of the former keep were a gravesite for so many beloved nobles. for her own brother.

a breath of laughter knocks against armored chest, like a gust of wind carrying the smell of roses to a rusted iron door. “a fresh perspective, lady rosalei. much-needed in this time when grief seems… a black pit for many.”

he glances at the sky, the water. he wouldn’t want this to be the capital. too difficult to defend. a land too often seized. the targaryens would need to put the master of ships to work raising a stronger navy, and jael himself would have to burn barrels of midnight oil devising too many road blocks and escape routes. okay. bad analogy. it's a challenge not to let the mind wander back to the fire. for a moment, he shares in the thought that her version of the great lordly lords' conversation really is what transpired.

“do you like it better here?”

She nearly collided with him as she stepped out of the sept, slowing at the last moment as another figure crossed her path. olynna paused, adjusting her pace rather than retreating. the press of the crowd thinned around them, candle smoke still drifting out through the open doors behind her. “ser jael,” she greeted, inclining her head in a brief, proper motion. she glanced briefly back toward the sept doors, where candles still burned and prayers still murmured. “a somber gathering,” she added, carefully neutral. “i imagine you’ve seen many such ceremonies, but, this one feels heavier than most.” there was no accusation in the words, only observation. grief sat on her shoulders as plainly as the black she wore, a quiet contrast to the stark greys she usually favored. “the north does not often mark its dead with incense and stone,” she continued after a beat, as if offering context rather than critique. “but loss has its own language everywhere, i suppose.”

her gaze returned to him, steady and composed, expression open rather than expectant. “i hope the vigil brought some measure of peace,” she said, voice low enough that it did not compete with the lingering prayers behind them, “even if only briefly.” there was a pause after the words, intentional, as though she were allowing them to settle. the moment stretched. she did not rush to fill it, nor did she step aside, remaining where she was as the crowd continued to thin around them, soft footfalls passing, quiet murmurs dissolving into the mist. olynna drew a slow breath, the scent of incense still clinging faintly to her cloak. “grief has a way of resurfacing when it’s least expected,” she added, not unkindly, not insistently. “sometimes even the smallest pause can help, if only to remind us that we’re still standing.” she let her hands rest calmly before her, posture relaxed but attentive, offering no demand beyond courtesy. if he wished to speak, she would listen. if not, she would take no offense. for now, she simply shared the space with him, allowing the vigil, and its weight, to linger a moment longer before the world inevitably moved on.

“aye,” he responds, meeting her eyes, a tired but true smile passing his face like a curved line in the sand. “well spoken, lady olynna. it always does us good to take a moment and remember the dead’s humanity.” i’m sorry for your loss seems to underscore every word spoken and every look returned within the cramped confines of duskendale, so jael saves his breath.

the prayers might help with some heaviness in the chest, but the candles do nothing to shorten the darkness between blinks. every heartbeat stretches on towards infinity.

he says it gently, “misery loves company.”

a lord born to historied coffers overflowing with gold and greatness, jael’s never been known to be frugal—least of all with his vulgar honesty. ocean-blue eyes take on a sheen of concern and curiosity.

“i imagine the stranger’s stony eyes are colder comfort than the walls of the winterfell crypt, but… did this help you?” 

yet, she is truly glad he is alive. he had been lucky to be away from the capital when the green flames took the king and the court, though she knows the vipers of the realm likely whisper about his survival. but how could a sword protect anyone from a fire that ate the sky? no, she does not begrudge him his life. victor had loved him—his troublesome, spirited cousin who grew into an honorable man—and his voice had always been thick with pride when he spoke of jael. if he was important to victor, he is important to her. she is alone now, having finally sent the twins back to the rented manse in a carriage with their nursemaids and a heavy guard. grief is exhausting work, and sleeping children care little for protocol; daeron had been yawning wide enough to swallow a fly, and saera had begun to droop against her skirts. they are safe in their beds, leaving aelina free to wander the quiet corners of the dun fort, seeking the same respite ser jael seems to have found.

"crowds require a mask, lord commander," aelina answers, her voice a quiet ripple in the dark, stepping fully into the moonlight so he can see she brings no demands, no petitions. "but... yes, i suppose i needed a breather. the children are asleep at the manse we rented. they were tired from the day. children can be early birds, i am sure you’ve seen them out and about during the event." the mention of the twins hangs in the air, and she wonders, suddenly, how proper it is to speak of them to him. when he donned the white cloak, he forsook it all. the title, the warmth of the high tide hearth, the hulls of the ships that brought his family's wealth ashore. is it vulgar to remind him of the blood he left behind? does he want to know of them, or does it matter at all to him at this point, after years serving the royal family? she looks at him and wonders if he is more a dragon's shadow than a seahorse now.

the question burns in her chest: where would he stand? her current husband, jael's own cousin, sat on the driftwood throne the moment news of the burning of king's landing arrived by raven, usurping her youngest son daeron’s birthright. ser jael protects the right of the young king daemon to rule, a child of six. would he vouch for her son, a boy of the same age, or would he support the adult usurper? she does not know. she does not know him that well; victor always did the talking when it came to his cousin. did he weep when he heard the news? did he weep more for his king, or for his own flesh and blood? she pushes the thoughts away, respecting the silence of the garden. she moves closer, but keeps a respectful distance, leaning against the stone wall a few feet from him. "victor used to say that the only thing heavy enough to break a velaryon back was the sea itself. looking at you now, unburdened by your helm but bent by everything else… i fear the current circumstances are doing a far better job of it than the tides ever could."

it must be the faint scent of salt that’s clung to her skin, or his worry for a home he’s missing, that warms him. despite the night. there’s sun in his blue eyes like gold in the water, and a truth to the small smile he gives her.

“is that concern, or have i lost your confidence?” he ribs, humor blunt as his sword is sharp. he sobers slowly, eyes falling to the ground. “i am sorry.” he looks at her when he says it. “he was a good man. a better man...” the water deepen as he wades. “i wasn’t there. i would have gone into the fire if it would have saved them. … cold comfort, i know.”

he looks at her a moment longer. though the light casts a beautiful halo around her, he can’t quite make out the shape of her. wedding your dead husband’s brother is common enough, and he can see the intricacies in her movements he might have been blind to in his youth, but he knows better than most that circumstance always calls character into question.

though he’s lived at rock bottom his entire life, he never liked breathing in mud for long.

“how are young lord daeron and lady saera?” he asks, softened by affection. “it’s good to see them..." even with his abysmal tact, lively sticks out as a very poor choice of word. "hale and bright."