☠︎︎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ teeth‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ .

it feels nearly impossible that he would brush past lyanna and not know her by touch. they had known each other in the way of siblings when he had spent those months in the eyrie — thirteen and gangly, still sweet - faced but buried beneath the weight of his secret. he had told them, then, his secret turning covenant once it had reached the ears of the arryn twins. jacks puts his ignorance this night down to a deadening of his animal instincts, sitting by amaya's bedside acting an iron tether to his humanity. " lyanna, " he heaves a sigh, the lady arryn's name exiting his lips with it, a boat helplessly caught in the rapids. " you look well. " it was not true. she looked dulled, her dinner plate eyes not so sharp as they were the last time he'd looked upon them, still set within her youthful features. but what else was there to say, when so many years separated you? so many leagues? an entire region and a feud between parents long gone? " better than your sister, anyhow. "

he  makes  his  way  through  the  keep,  wracking  his  brain  for  what  he  might  be  able  to  do  to  assist.  that  is  when  he  stumbles  upon  her  –  mela  redwyne.  gods,  it  has  been  some  time  since  he  had  last  seen  her.  many  years  yet,  too  many  in  fact.

the  sight  of  her  tugs  at  his  heart.

“mela,”  he  speaks  her  name  plainly,  no  trace  of  formality  in  his  tone.  “do  you  think  they  will  recover?”

when it is harlon's voice that comes, mela's eyes flutter shut. she no longer pushes back the images that float to the forefront of her mind —  not like she might have in her youth. their backs pressed together as they woke, how fat, warm, arbor raindrops on her shoulders would have once reminded her of the pads of his fingers in the same place —  she lets them come in vivid technicolour, and lets them leave as well. he had sharpened her like a blade, his absence taking a whetstone to her personality. his marriage had been him twisting the knife to the right, and his wife's death had been mela's angry, youthful prayers twisting it back to the left. " i do not know. " she is reluctant to speak his name aloud. " your father's health wavers back and forth, " petulantly, mela pokes at his most tender spot, mentioning the grandmaester. a small revenge.

mela's thoughts swirl like leaves caught in a riptide of wind, circling, circling, circling only to be plopped back down unceremoniously. never has her knowledge in botany come with such unbelievably high stakes. the grapevine speaks of her house's involvement, claims that it is they who poisoned their own wine —  poisoned their own blood, vaiora laying limp in a sickbed with the rest. mela's fist clenches at the thought, and she loosens it with some effort. she hums slightly at aiysha's query, looking over her shoulder at the other woman, tearing her eyes from her work. " no, " she answers after a moment of silence. " if it does not work, i would not subject her to any ill effects without knowing of their possibility first. "

FOUND  IN  …  the  sick  rooms.

the  lady  of  redwyne  had  died  long  ago,  but  these  days,  her  presence  seemed  to  be  stuck  to  her  youngest  daughter  like  a  shadow  seamed  to  her  spine.  her  voice  soft  against  her  ear,  a  hand  pressed  to  her  head  —  sela  was  with  her,  sitting  there  on  the  stool  next  to  her  bed,  eyes  warm  in  a  way  that  mela  never  looked  at  her.  her  head  turns,  slowly,  like  retreating  prey  on  low  haunches;  backing  away  from  the  stranger's  beckon.  she  cannot  say  for  certain  if  the  mela  she  looks  at  now  is  real,  or  if  she  as  has  conjured  her  too.  but  it  is  easier  to  look  at  someone  she  knows  is  still  breathing.

mela remembers their mother dying. she remembers nearly every second of sela's last few moments. she remembers her hand, fading cold despite it being clasped between both of her own. she remembers how the gods did nothing, heard none of her prayers. she remembers it so well that she cannot think of it these days, cannot speak of it —  but now, she relives it. it is so like vaiora to fall ill, to put herself at the centre of a great tragedy. mela is as frustrated as she is terrified, the cold hand of fear grasped tightly around her throat. she had brought obsidian stones, had placed them beneath the corners of vaiora's sickbed such that she would not have nightmares while she faded in and out of feverish consciousness. she had spent time hoping, wishing that her sister's health would improve. she had applied poultices to her forehead to draw out the heat. none of it had been enough. at the croak of vaiora's voice, mela exhales a breath she hadn't intended to hold. " you are overly sentimental, " she chides, but the backs of her eyes burn incessantly. she picks up vaiora's hand in both of hers, holding it close to her stomach. " how do you fare? are you comfortable? "

the taste of wine lingers on the back of willas's tongue as he surveys the board, but he does not swallow it down. mineral and steely, astringent and bitter. the haziness of wine drunkeness does not yet touch him, but his thoughts still manage to find things to stumble over on their way to forseeing taliesen's ensuing moves. he so disliked carrying a heavy heart onto the cyvasse board. the tip of a long finger rests on the back of an elephant for a pregnant moment, stalled. he drags dark eyes from its minuscule stone trunk at the sound of his companion's voice, cutting his dwelling quite short. he takes a long swig of his replenished goblet, sighing his satisfaction, imagining the swirl of tannins in his mouth to be the bite of poison. " do you think we're ever truly forgiven, taliesen? " he questions, the melodrama dripping from his words like melted butter from fresh bread, still hot from the stone. it was a worthy question, nonetheless. discussion swirled of blame, of withholding, of death and who bore responsibility for it. the gods were surely angered, surely stirred from their peace. willas wonders if he should be in the sept rather than here. he wonders if candles truly could do more than repentance of the self-flagellant kind. he moves his elephant to answer one of taliesen's light horses at the other's beckon nonetheless, sitting back in his chair. it creaks beneath his weight, adjusting to the shift.

" you'll do what, steffon? " jacks's voice is as shadowy as the door he emerges from, curtains drawn and candles snuffed such that no fearful next of kin would have to lay eyes on the truth of the sickly pallor of their loved ones. their symptoms spelled death, even to jacks's untrained eye. he had not been present when his mother had died, but in between the dreams in which he was a hound, in which he was his gyrfalcon — when he dreamed of his mother's death, it looked much like this. it had been long, since he had seen the arryn twins. it had been long since he had felt a part of a pack. " you will do nothing. leave them to the hounds, " he insists, the sun glinting off of his single iron canine as he grins, stalking forward to place a steady palm on their shoulder. the contact is unfamiliar, the wish to reassure even less so. it would be easier, jacks thinks, if they were in the eyrie. if they could go back to when they were children, when he had only just confessed to steffon and their sister the weight of his dreams. no matter the nerves he had endured then, they would not stand up to this, the red keep a mess of premature grief and fear. " amaya fares the same. i have been in to see her. "

this   is   not   a   happy   reunion   of   familiar   faces   to   be   shared   in   the   night   ,       this   clandestine   meeting   held   within   the   cover   of   the   kingswoods.   this   is   a   confrontation   ,       a   clashing.   the   unexpected   run   -   in   of   two   strangers   ,       both   cruelly   ripped   from   their   corners   of   the   realm   and   dragged   towards   a   collision   that   feels   ⸻   important   ,     if   not   necessary.   but   trapped   in   his   dark   gaze   ,       there   is   something   within   her   that   feels   almost   content   to   play   hostage   to   this   recognition   that   feels   far   more   instinctual   than   comfortable.   a   soul   -   deep   calling   that   begs   to   sink   her   claws   in   and   dig.   to   know   they   have   never   met   ,       but   still   be   flooded   with   a   desperation   that   hungers   to   crawl   into   each   and   every   crevice. 

the   northern   cadence   that   falls   from   his   lips   does   so   with   dangerous   appeal.   a   familiar   comfort   to   be   held   in   the   inflections   shared   with   the   memories   of   her   mother   ,       of   the   restraint   that   haunted   her   own   words   to   this   day.   so   long   had   it   been   since   she'd   heard   it   from   anywhere   but   her   own   mouth   ,       or   within   the   trappings   of   her   own   mind   ⸻   it   beckoned   her   onwards   ;       an   easy   invitation   to   further   engage.   doe   eyes   turning   sharp   ,       her   curiosity   corroded   into   that   of   a   knife's   edge.   a   predator   playing   at   prey   to   lure   it   closer   ,       and   with   the   wonderment   of   what   role   she   was   meant   to   play.   did   she   hunger   the   chase   ,       or   to   be   chased   herself   ?   anything   would   do   ,       if   it   meant   a   chance   to   pry   back   the   layers   of   skin   between   them   ,       and   reveal   to   her   some   modicum   of   reason. 

     ❝       …   do   you   offer   them   ?     ❞       the   words   come   wrapped   in   challenge   ,       but near   tongue - in - cheek   ;       a   canine   on   its   forelegs   and   inviting   in   its   play.   carefully   aware   of   the   distance   he   closes   step   by   step   ,       her   stance   remains   ⸻   not   welcoming   ,       but   not   so   tightly   coiled   in   a preparation   to   run.     ❝     this   poor   showing   ?    ❞       with   a   tilt   of   her   head,       she   allowed   their   eyes   to   find   the   other's   ,       her   neck   craned   upwards   to   make   up   for   the   difference   in   stature.   for   what   she   lacked   for   in   height   ,       she   promised   him   in   ferocity   through   the   narrowing   of   her   gaze. 

the night sky, only visible between the gaps of the kingswood's sparsely planted thickets, is bruised a garish purple. in the north, the shade would herald snow. here, just beyond the gates of the realm's undeserving capital, skies the colour of contusions could mean anything. when he steps close enough, a small body's length from the tips of his boots to the tips of hers, jacks begins to circle her. he finds his focal point in the sheen of the moonlight on her hair, and keeps his dark gaze there, footfalls deliberate. he does not silence them, gifting her with the security of knowing where it is he stalks. " do you long for them? " he questions in response, lobbing a query at the back of her skull as if it were an answer.

he would slay the great boar, if she said she wished it so —  he would plunge the blade of his flaying knife into the beast's neck until the hilt hindered its forward momentum. jacks would slay the great boar for his own amusement, truly — but he would gift her his spoils freely if she spoke the word. the feeling is sickly, roiling in his stomach, travelling upwards into his throat. attraction, and not simply in the way that would will him to lure her to his bed —  not even in the way that would will him to lure her to the marriage altar. women in the shape of beasts, beasts in the shape of women —  there were many, scattered throughout the realm. but none were like her. none of them took the same shape that he did, their insides part man, part beast, part vessel for the old gods.

finding his hand outstretched, jacks needs not step closer to curl a lock of her dark hair around his fingertips. he pauses, gaze heavy on the back of her head, measuring her response. he watches the dark lock slide over his roughened skin, as slick and smooth as the darkened churn of the weeping water that ran past the dreadfort. it is the familiar darkness in her that draws him, that renders them acquainted beyond the few moments that have passed since her appearance in the small clearing. he holds his breath, every muscle taut, still and silent save for the curl of his forefingers. he wishes not to spook her, to watch her back as she retreats deeper into unceded territory. " what gods do you pray to? "

jacks hums, a thoughtful silence follows. " you are too ugly, " he concludes, hands coming to clasp behind his back in a display of comfort. he leaves it at that, the implication that he would not even subject his bastard sister to the sight of the celtigar lord's body stripped a loud one. oh, how jacks loved to be taunted. it was akin to a game to him —  his play, even as a child, looked much like violence. " you may beg in the style you prefer, sweetling, " the term of endearment slides from his tongue coated in an acrid poison, the shrug of his shoulders loose and non-committal. such a performance, the lord celtigar gave. he might have found success with a band of mummers, if he were not born with the tiniest mite of valyrian blood — enough to blow his head to the size of a horse's arse. jacks found him peculiar — interesting, if not entertaining. if he were not who he was — not born into a house so dark and cruel, jacks imagines he would've found him unnerving.