#gael 002

Well, there was a lot of things that Darcy expected - it was easy to say that this was not one of them.

A woman, Maria - she seemed really nice, the little Darcy talked to her while she got a few bites to eat in the evening -, actually blew up. No joke, no magic trick (as far as anyone could tell), no fake effects revealed later.

No, she fully blown up into pieces and Darcy was sitting a couple of feet away from where it happened, where she spent the entire night just watching the water and the night sky, unable to sleep.

She knew that something would happen, if she was being honest. Them just waking up and figuring things out on their own couldn't have been just it. But she figured there would be some new messages coming from the speakers, informing them of the next job. Maybe even a couple of days of silence, so that they could acclimate to everything on the island before the next steps would come.

Somebody blowing up? It was not on Darcy's list of things she assumed would happen sooner or later.

Most people were openly, clearly upset over what happened, and don't get her wrong, she also was extremely upset, but her ear was ringing, she was half-disassociating, her mind racing trying to make sense of it. If they were meant to be here, if all of this was meant to happen, how could one of them just-- blow up in so many pieces?

Unless...

But before she could really think through the possibility that this woman was nothing more than planted among them for some reason, she noticed a more familiar figure (at this point, those she talked to before and it didn't result in disaster, she more easily picked out of everyone - the disasterous ends too, but for a whole different reason, really) heading towards the last remains of Maria.

Gael.

There, somebody she could talk to. If he didn't fear going near, that said something of him, in her eyes. "Crazy morning start, yeah?" she said as a way of greeting when she stopped next to him. "I don't think any of us really had casualties coming from random self-combustions on their bingo cards for this island."

the words etched upon the parchment were immediately in a hand he recognised was not the hand of his master of coin; a cerulean gaze sweeping briefly over the parchment before noting the correspondence from the hightower was from another, another that was not the ruling lord. the sounds of the celebrations continued, a celebratory flute that seemed to fill the room with a sense of mirth, a flurry of colours upon the dance floor with each spin that was taken.

and if one looked closely within the coloured spins, they would have seen the hightower page speaking with the thirdborn son of the hightower, before both ventured towards one of the quieter exits of the hall.

on the other end, one would have saw the way in which cedric tyrell remained comfortably within his chair, a hand resting upon his jaw as it always done when he was deep in thought: and he read. and he continued to read. cedric tyrell felt no sense of loss to hear the ruling lord of oldtown had been murdered within his own tower; there was no sense of harrowing numbness that seemed to creep from the depths of his gut and engulf each vein in his body, until the blood itself ran deathly cold.

where else would garland hightower have died, if not in the tower that burned green; in the tower the man chose to make his prison, rather than his seat of power. a cunt, whose core memory to cedric tyrell would be dying the edgy contrarian. screaming about chamberpots.

and yet, despite literally being so high above the entirety of the realm, garland hightower had ended on his knees: as bad as the one was. a failure, in more ways than one: and he thought not of the morality of the man in question, but in regards to his essence of duty. his practicality. what it meant to have such immense influence over not just the rolling fields of the reach, but each corner of the realm if the cards were dealt with well. garland hightower did not know how to truly play cards.

keeping alicent hightower alive, in his attic of all places: as though he had made it his life's mission to continue the shame she had brought upon her own house. if he were alone, he would have found his expression changing to one of disbelief: and yet, the strings remained loose. he read the words. he read them again. the lady herself was being held by the guards of the hightower, who now needed an heir. omer florent and lucrezia redwyne had the heir. the heir's braavosi mother was no longer a subject in his realm.

cedric had never needed braavos. he had never need the trade of the braavosi. and as he moved to rip the paper over the sound of laughter and singing casually, he turned towards the queen, muttering something about them needing to return home soon. before their could be any further questions asked, the king had taken to his feet, climbing down from the steps to make his way through the marble floor towards the master of arts. house hightower had definitely mastered the art of pointless cunning. of dealing the wrong hand. of not knowing how to play cards. the doors opened, and lord gael hightower found himself approached by the king.

"with me." cedric spoke, his tone detached; it was clear to see gael had just received the news of the death of his brother. his mother too. cedric tyrell found his patience had run out with the hightowers some weeks prior, when three brothers seemed unable to do the task allocated to them. now, he found himself distrusting them. what position was more dangerous? the beacon had burned green too long, and if he needed to snuff it out and scald himself in the process, let it be done.