what is this selfishness of yours?

that sensation of invincibility was all but gone. what was left was an ache in his bones, the feeling that his head was suddenly too large for his neck to hold up. he did not know how cedric still had the energy to rifle through his belongings, looking for god knows what like a man on a mission, when aemon barely had the drive to walk himself to a chair and throw himself in it. he briefly contemplated lowering himself to the floor, as though lying directly on the marble would help wick the sheen of sweat from his skin.

in the end, he stayed standing, swaying slightly, but he still had enough about him to snort at cedric's protest, and then clarification. "only by technicality, then," he pointed out, a roll of eyes that were more pupil than iris to punctuate. "if you got it wet, it still counts." he might have continued, but the sound of whatever it was that cedric had just dropped clattering across the floor causing aemon to startle, and whatever thoughts were in his mind slipped away. "careful, man." his hand flew to his chest, the rabbit-beat of his heart thumping under his palm.

he had not noticed himself doing it, but whilst cedric pulled his chambers apart, aemon had slowly inched forward, footstep at a time, until he was suddenly standing nose to nose with the man. there was something owlish in the way he blinked in the face of cedric's laughter, though he himself had just been laughing too, as though the sound utterly confused him. aemon spread his arms wide, gesturing around the darkened room. "where else am i supposed to stand?" he asked, not having to wait long before cedric herded him elsewhere, away from tapestries that any other time aemon would have found fascinating, perhaps pressing him on exactly what he meant by old, and towards a bowl of clean water he seemed to have pulled from nowhere.

aemon took his time to dip the cloth thrown upon him in the water, wringing it out in a tightened fist, and slowly dragged it over his forehead, his movements careful and deliberate. he had to admit that the cool touch of it was refreshing against his skin. he dipped it in the bowl again, this time pressing the cloth to his neck, and then, finally, his eyes fell upon a chair. he slung the cloth around the back of his neck, and folded himself into the seat.

"she isn't, but maximus celtigar isn't handing over duskendale until it's done," his eyes rolled, for cedric was well aware that the second son of driftmark had his eyes upon a lordship of his own, and had to swerve from his hope of inheriting rather than buying one when parchments had been taken from his betrothed's hands and placed into those of her brother. "anyway, not like it's rushing. been on the cards for ages, hasn't it?"

duskendale, duskendale; how so many of their recent conversations seemed to creep themselves back to duskendale and how aemon velaryon was on a mission to ensure he had a keep of his own by the time he was on his deathbed. to have his own independence and legacy, of course; it had nothing to do with the fact that house velaryon's primary keep was located on an island.

"the wooden floorboards, anywhere that you don't see colours under your boots." the man retorted, all whilst cedric could not fully grasp the link of how maximus celtigar had a say in anything, at least in his blurry state of mind when the lingering effects of vibrancy itself began to feel all too overwhelming.

"maximus celtigar?" cedric repeated, his tone perhaps louder than he had expected it to be when it carried over the length of his chambers. the man had never personally come into contact with the ruling lord of claw isle, though he had heard a swirl of rumours that made him sound like quite the unpleasant person to come across - it appeared as though he had whispers of just about everything and anything referring to him.

"why's he got any say in what you get?" cedric asked, and whilst he was entirely challenging the matter, he was also disgruntled with the sudden waves of energy and then the lack thereof. jaehaerys targaryen was an odd fellow, and so was his court, but he could swear that maximus celtigar was not the hand. it was that lanky fellow from the stormlands that was often seen at the court of kings landing looking like a fish out of water, though held some strange sense of respect from the man that he called king.

"hold on, he ain't the hand." he asked, his hands moving to the back of his head as he stretched out in his chair, trying to find a way to ensure the room kept from spinning. "it's that spectacled one. what's his name..." he trailed off for a moment to try and think about it; for some reason he could remember stonehelm, but he could not remember the house associated with it. it was on the tip of his tongue when aemon velaryon's next words caused a current of laughter to slip from the bottom of his stomach, his hand moving to his jaw to stifle a yawn.

"can't you just ask jaehaerys directly for a wedding present?" he asked, shifting in his seat as he became increasingly aware that there was something he was leaning on.

moving his hand, he realised he was sat upon one of the books he had been reading earlier in the morning - flipping it to the side, he leaned forwards now as he looked upon aemon directly. "hold on, how the fuck are you getting married before me?" he asked, half serious, half joking - for he knew the man had always been similar to him in the belief that marriage was something that was socially expected, but not something that was actually natural for humans. it was so intensely wrapped up in the notion of religion and devotion, or in economics and money and titles.

context: the morning after ced and aemon's night of fun (oop)

the morning sun had climbed far higher than the hour they had agreed upon for breakfast on the terrace. laena was not unused to delays, court life thrived on them especially for the king of the reach himself, but not even a page had been sent with apology or explanation, and that unsettled her more than his absence itself. silver-blonde curls fell in a soft cascade down her back as she rose from her seat, smoothing her hands over the pale blue silk of her skirts. it was a simpler gown, one of her own favorite designs, chosen for ease and the promise of an intimate meal. after a brief hesitation, she turned toward the king’s chambers.

the walk was a familiar one, intimately so, and yet today each step felt louder beneath her feet. her pulse beat a little too quickly, a restless rhythm she could not quite soothe. it was worry, certainly. but there was something else threaded through it, something unnamed and sharper. she told herself not to think of trouble before she had reason. still, when she reached his door, she knocked herself rather than sending word ahead. when permission came, she stepped inside.

the room bore the marks of a hurried attempt at order. bedding straightened but not smoothed, a chair nudged back into place without care for its angle, garments gathered yet not folded. her lavender gaze drifted, meaning only to take in the whole, and caught instead on the seating area, on a scatter of items that did not belong to any neat arrangement. and then the end table. beside a jug she assumed to be arbor wine sat a faint, unmistakable dusting of white powder. her breath hitched so subtly it might have been mistaken for a sigh. she schooled her features at once, closing the door gently behind her.

she could see he was already rummaging for fresh garments, movements brisk in a way that felt just short of composed. laena clasped her hands lightly before her, willing them not to fidget. “sorry,” she began, her tone touched with a careful brightness, “i suppose i could have waited longer, but i was beginning to wonder if you’d been swept away into some urgent council meeting without so much as a warning.” a small smile curved her lips, practiced and soft.

through the illuminated stained glass, hues of red and green seemed to seep through the scene of what appeared to be a windswept bedchamber of a king - who, through the tumbled bedsheets and silks, who could be seen through unkept chestnut coloured curls remaining on his pillow. the night before had stretched long, far longer than he had expected into the early hours and how his head hated him for it now - there was a constant sway between feeling far sharper than he had before, and feeling as though he had leaned his head down in the starry sept for the high septon to swing some statue over his head time and time again.

he may as well. it was not as though he were entirely awake, but he was also not entirely asleep; only in some groggy half state, when he heard a sharp knocking from the open door.

a part of him swore if it was tirius rowan again, he would fling him from the very window that seemed to allow far too much sunlight onto his face than he would like and ensure he landed in a pile of pig shit. there was no council meeting, he had made sure to send word it had been delayed for the next day and if there were any emergency matters, to forward them to the hand of the king. he slowly sat up, letting out a loud groan from his mouth as he stretched - before he realised the sound of the woman that was within his chambers. he had told laena he would meet her to break fast earlier than the hour he had risen, and whilst it were usual for him to have to run late from time to time, he did always send forward word.

of course she came herself, knowing her knack for worrying. worrying too much, and worrying quietly most of the time. no matter how much he tried to tell her to worry less, a part of him knew it was a futile attempt - some's minds were wired to think that way. there were so many in his life he could think of that were the same. "in here!" he called out, finding himself suddenly out of bed and splashing his face with some water to try and make himself feel more awake.

there was no point, she would know he had slept n far longer than expected - it was only when he rose to his feet did he realise how badly his head was pounding. as she crossed into the threshold of his bedchamber, the colours illuminated his own torso and back muscles as he leaned downward to slip a shirt on. as he did so, he took in her visage before taking rose water in his own mouth before sitting it back into the bowl, knowing he was not entirely dry as some of his curls remained wet by the water that trickled to his forehead.

"uh, yeah. wasn't expecting to, but ended up catching up with aemon velaryon later than i expected." cedric replied, his tone sounding shorter than he expected; he indicated toward the state of his bed as though it were the scene of a crime. "you know how it is once we start talking." it was less the talking, and more the hours long chess games that became more blurred with the more substance they put in their systems.

to her, it probably was. when she apologised he only waved a hand, as though to dismiss the idea of her needing to apologise for such a thing. whilst their time in holywell had been interrupted by something he did not think he would hear, she had found herself back at court. when the shirt he had slipped on was over him, he crossed the room to make his way over to laena, his hands moving to the lower part of her hips to pull her closer to him. "you already eaten?" he asked, ensuring she knew that his orbs visually moved over her figure and her visage; there was something about her in pale blue that always seemed to speak to him, and it was only further evidenced by the fact he leaned down to plant a slow kiss on her collarbone and up on her neck again.

their exit was not quick nor easy, nothing ever was in their positions. but she learned ages ago the charms she carried and how to ease in and out of just the right amount of small talk before making excuses. rhaena found it easy to say they wanted to go see this presentation or hear that person speak and they must go now or miss it, letting those that approached feel seen by whichever of the pair they wanted to draw away. when the throng thinned and the air was filled with softer sounds and the smell of nature, something in rhaena’s body relaxed. she thrived around people, but even the most outwardly charming needed time away, space to breathe. the rigidity of her spine, the gentleness of her steps, every careful thing relaxed like a muscle. she was less the illusion and more the mortal.

he was open with his words, and she’d slouched off what may tempered her own back with the crowds, shrugging at his question. “i have words for anyone willing to listen, really. and not all of them are for absent gods…” the wind shifted and she knew it before needing to see it that there was a godswood beyond that arch somewhere. there was a sort of feeling in being somewhere ancient, a stillness she felt settling in the soul. she felt something like it on dragonstone by the dragonmount, in the caves of driftmark, places that stood strong in the face of time. but nothing was like a godswood. the praying masses were undisturbed by them, rhaena almost floating through on the balls of her feet to keep her heels from making too much noise on the stone. her eyes never fell to the floor in reverence, instead observing how nature was reclaiming each brick and board, inches at a time. the reach was all fertile earth and greenery, it seemed, and refused to allow something to exist without its influence. “more like the trees are set on making themselves known. i can appreciate the stubbornness.”

all reference to any small talk and discussion they had with one another of anything seemed to slow wist away, the same way those rumoured spirits that once hid within these very trees soon too evaporated - he had been multitasking for some amount of time now, effortlessly winding himself in and out of conversation whilst being all too painfully aware of the growing feeling of tension that stretched between the two. there was nothing a man wanted more than what he knew he should not want, nor something he did not have; and whilst cedric tyrell was entirely a paradox, there was one matter he was not so mysterious regarding - and that was the wants of the body, the flesh.

there was a slight hum of acknowledgement after she spoke, though words were not something he was clearly rushing to say. rushing to get out there. there was a strange sense of tension wrapped up in the quiet, in the silence between words - as though they were sat on opposite sides of a chessboard, watching for the other to make a move. "then we can get to fixing that, soon enough." he uttered, hearing the sounds of a twig crunch beneath his boot as he pulled a final canopy behind him, closing all view - only momentarily. he remained stood in place as he looked round at her, watching the way she seemed to glide and slither around him; brushing his shoulder, then moving away.

"i mean, you've already been vocal enough, rhaena. there's little use in stopping now." his words were all but a challenge, to put openly - she had already put aside the boundaries and expectations of being a woman of her station. of what was seen as socially acceptable, and adequate. now, he wanted to see how much he could get her talking about what she wanted. he would find pleasure in it, wholly aware of the expectations they were subverting and the lines they were blurring. he also intended to ensure even driftmark could hear their lady. "keep going."

vivid ocean hues trailed not on the brief exposure of skin as she climbed over a rambling root, but rather on the figure of the small of her waist and the way her neckline seemed to dance around what he could see, and what he could not. it took a large amount of self control to resist the urge to reach out and allow a hand to rest along that very exposed part of her neckline, slowly pushing the silk from her shoulders and watching the rest fall away; there was something almost magnetic about the very valyrian lure, and whilst cedric wholly knew it existed, he did not entirely feel the intensity of the pull until this moment.

he did not think about why he did not feel that same intense pull considering there was another with amethyst orbs that often found herself within his bed; only knew all too well that urge was going to end up resulting in behaviours he ought not to demonstrate toward his friend's own sister. he did not want her half clothed, beneath some canopy presented to them by a canopy of trees, holding by her hips as she used the bark behind them to steady herself. no. the image of pushing away the silks of her dress remained burned at the very front of his mind, more than any other - but as their eyes remained transfixed on one another, he knew he wanted to see all of her, in the way a man wanted to see every part of a woman. slowly, with instruction; piece by piece put aside, threw over the shoulder.

there was a dance of mischief on his smile, pearly whites on show for a moment in the moonlight and the darkness the way one expected a wolf to look upon looking at what it would soon consume; she wanted him. and he, wanted to wind her up. "what, did you want me to speak to you all along?" he asked, all tense of formality dropping from his voice and his tone when speaking with her; he knew his question was taunting, wholly irrelevant to this situation, but considering he felt as though he were hanging on by a single thread, he would use it to bind them both if he needed to. "i'd had no idea." he muttered, a slight laugh slipping from him. he did not move until he asked the question, and when he did, he suddenly found himself directly before her; he looked down at her when he asked the question. she would see the amusement in his orbs, if only they were not momentarily clouded by lust.

"i'm not dying," he said, though there was something in his voice that made it plain he wasn't sure that was strictly true. aemon cracked an eye open, pupil blown wide and ringed with only the thinnest sliver of violet, and pushed himself from the wall, taking a moment longer than necessarily to steady himself, arms remaining comically outstretched for a few seconds before dropping to his sides. "so you can keep your cock in your trousers, for a change." if any looked closely at aemon, they would see his jaw shifting from left to right as he spoke.

his head felt like it was full of water, his skull a tide-battered rock. too much like when the world had gone blue and silent and endless and he had kicked and thrashed to no avail. cold sweat trickled down his temples, and it felt too heavy, too wet, the walls too close and the ceiling too high, everything too loud and too quiet all at once. he let out a sudden gasp, and was almost surprised that it was air that filled his lungs.

the slow comedown of that which had been inhaled through the nose and rubbed into the gums was burning a grim, writhing path through his veins, what just a few hours ago had granted the highest of highs leaving aemon's body in a slow, agonising funeral march. he gave a breathless sort of laugh, scrubbing at his face with the back of his hand and not noticing the smear of red on his palm when he lowered it. "my sister would have my head for lesser things. 's'about the speeches, not the sin," he said, as though it was something profound and not complete and utter nonsense.

"no, she won't catch me." he said after a beat. "i'm to be married before the month is out. nothing left to catch." he had taken an entirely different meaning to cedric's words, and if he had more of his wits about him, aemon would know it.

the key clattered against his chest, then to the floor. aemon bent to pick it up, slowly, carefully, and it promptly slipped through his fingers again. "you're the one who called for the fourth," he pointed out, though it would be a lie to say he had done much in the way of protest. "you always say that," he muttered. "never turn it down when it's in front of you, though."

he couldn't help it - aemon's laughter started as a small sound, a breath caught wrong in his throat, then all at once broke free, a hoarse, manic sound that peeled out of him, sharp and sudden. it made his head throb, but in that moment it felt like it didn't matter, his own laugh mingling with cedric's untamed cackle. the sheer stupidity of the moment was too much. "i remember bits of it," he spoke in a rasp, the back of his throat dry. "we thought we were something, didn't we?" the amount they'd consumed that night wouldn't have touched the sides had that been all they had today, and yet, it had been a golden, glorious high he wasn't sure he'd ever feel again.

vivd ocean hues tried to find their way through what felt like utter darkness within the king's chambers; though judging by the sound he made in accidentally causing multiple expensive items to fall crashing to the floor as he sought for something specifically, it were as though a rat had scurried in and caused mayhem in its wake. "nothing hits the same when its time to bring the planning out." his mind continued to seem fuzzy, blurred - and when aemon spoke, it was like he heard multiple voices. saw multiple faces of his. there was one flickering candlelight in the corner of the room which let out some ominous levels of light, truthfully with the way it flickered it may as well have been completely put out for all it done was making things look like strange shapes, such as brief reflections in the mirror and the smell of smoke in the very back of his mind.

"i'll have you know it's been in my breeches all night, yeah?" cedric seemed to casually snap back from across the room, still looking through shelf after shelf for something specifically - he heard the sounds of aemon's dramatic sigh from behind him, a sudden sound before there came the sound of manic laughter that stretched from here all the way across the sunset sea. the king of thorns did not even react to such a sudden noise, even the wheezing, for he continued on his mission of finding what it was he was looking for - a mission that was more difficult than he assumed under this cover of darkness.

"don't even need to get it properly out with these..." his hand patted down upon his breeches as he accidentally dropped another object, clearing his throat as he fought his mind not to trail back to whatever heaven he had experienced some hours earlier, and instead continue with his quest of finding the mystery object. what was the name of that knight from the stormlands that was good with quests? where was he when he needed him? "whatever her name was...she was one talented woman, i'll tell you that. talented mouth."

it was then cedric realised he was far closer to aemon than he had realised, as the man had emerged from the shadows like some phantom - it was enough to make golden laughter slip with aemon's own manic one, lower than aemon's but it wheezed slightly more. "seven hells, why the fuck you standing there like that man?" cedric all but managed to yell through his laughter, reaching forward to shove the man from the shoulder for a moment before he saw, through the reflective moonlight, the drips of blood on the marble below. he all but exclaimed when he realised it was going to go onto the rarest of rhoynish tapestries, so rare there was disagreement on what year it had originated from.

"no, no, no - move," cedric suddenly exclaimed, and in that moment, his spare hand had finally found his secret weapon. a bowl of water. and whilst his instinct was to dunk aemon velaryon's head into it, even in this state, he knew better than to do such a thing - that would be cruel. as funny as it would be. he did not need the man dropping dead from his heart stopping; no doubt their heart was already working overdrive. "here, here. move from the tapestry, it's...old." cedric placed the bowl down before aemon velaryon with some force, to the point where some water ended up splashing over the edge and onto his shoes. "did you just spit on my floor? that's disgusting. fucking valyrian." he reached for a spare cloth and threw it over the back of aemon's head, lowered to splash himself hesitantly with the water.

"what? before the month is out?" cedric finally realised what it was had been said; he blinked, as though his mind which always worked a million miles a minute had finally shit down - or been forced to shutdown, to restart. "what's the rush? it ain't like she's going anywhere - you're far more wealthy than her." cedric asked, almost incredulously - it was his bad habit during such periods of time. he did not realise what was a sensible volume to speak in. and so, it seemed as though the whole court of highgarden needed to hear his conversation. "did you cum in her?" he asked, his tone entirely serious as he realised there were stains on his shirt - he slipped it over his head, splashing his own face and mouth with water in an attempt to freshen up. it had worked; the cold water had always revitalised cedric - it was why he bathed in cold water each morning.

There were many things that stressed out the hand of the king but nothing bothered him more than the lack of legitimate heirs. The Hand would not even consider looking for bastards because if he did then he would have to do something unseemly and the seven hells already burned hot waiting for his arrival. Failed marriages that produced nothing but headaches, two Tyrell brothers and neither could spill their seed to land true with a wife, but it was a gift from the Gods there wasn't some child of the mad rose king floating around. That was something he kept his eyes and ears out for just in case.

So, he would be taking matters into his own hand. He researched what the duties were for a Hand of the King and most of the words from the smallfolk were true; the king ate and the hand shit. And there was something he wanted to do, something he needed to do and that was to ensure that the goddamn king did not cause the realm to fall into civil fucking war at his death because every house in the reach with a drop of Tyrell or Gardener blood would declare themselves king and the lions would pick them off one by one.

"I want the room empty. No guards. The King has his kingsguard and they will make do. Do not fill those cups. I will do it myself or the king and our guest will fill their cups." Tirius directed those as they started to move around the solar and set up the table with breads, fruits, meats, and cheeses. Others moved to open windows while arranged the chairs and lit candles. He crossed his arms behind his back, eyes drifting to the sand timer. "Leave."

The Hand of the King sat down, his thoughts running as stared off into the distance putting his thoughts together. It mattered to him to make sure he was understood in what he was going to say that day and how he was going to say it. Tirius thought it would be an uphill battle to get his point across but they would have to come to an agreement or a promise would need to be made of some sort of effort, true effort to do some more than dip one's cock in wanting ladies until some father and his daughter appeared at court with a babe and complaints. Yes you could marry them off but you would have to kill them all, fucking problems for the future.

when the summons came, quiet but unmistakable, relief flickered through her before she smoothed it away. matilda excused herself with a flourish of grace, offering apologies and promises to return, her smile never faltering until she was safely beyond the room. only then did her shoulders loosen a fraction. she told herself she welcomed the change of pace, the brief escape from so many curious eyes, even if what awaited her may carry its own importance.

she followed the attendant through the halls with composed steps, smoothing her skirts once before stilling her hands as she was shown inside. the solar felt different from the sitting room she had left, sharper and more deliberate. matilda inclined her head at tirius as he rose, her expression polite and attentive, her smile warm. “my lord hand,” she said evenly. “you need not worry. i was only enjoying pleasant company, nothing i will sorely miss.” there was a teasing lilt to her voice as she scrunched her nose with a small smile.

she took the chair he offered, posture perfect, chin lifted just so. whatever bundles of nerves stirred were tucked neatly away, overshadowed by curiosity and a quiet readiness. if she had been called, she would answer with care. “what, or who, are we waiting on?” matilda asked, hands folding together as one brow lifted in mild, inquisitive amusement.

there was a slight step to the walk of the king of thorns as he made his way through the marbled corridors beneath the familiar ceilings of highgarden's majesty; ornate paintings that had been commissioned by cedric recently filled the skies above them, more detailed and ornate than any other painting upon the ceiling in any other location through the entirety of the continent - all because he had paid particular focus to a new technique of brush which had allowed for such precision quicker, stemming from the bay of mereen. not a place he would like to visit, but a place he'd be more than willing to welcome some patrons from - he did not think much of the morals and ethics behind their choices in how they ran the day to day arrangements of their lives, but that were not his issue. especially not now, whilst he continued to feel the effects of what he and aemon velaryon had smoked over just some hours before - the urgency in which the page had insisted the hand's meeting had made him think of some emergency.

or better, some stroke of genius. or best, the high septon had flung himself from the window in a scene oddly similar to his own brother - and so, he found himself here, in stranger spirits than usual that the hand would not usually see him in.

in his defence, it was far later in the evening than he would ever have expected something as mundane as a council meeting with tirius rowan, but here he was. outside of the usual council chamber, pushing it forward almost brazenly with little care to the sound it made as it swung open and then swung shut - he moved to fix the collar which had been all but slightly ripped by some woman whose name he could not remember, before he had been rudely interrupted. arrogantly interrupted. still, he barely noticed the figure sat in skirts upon one of the chairs, half expecting it were lady redwyne or lady merryweather and he suddenly had the realisation, by the look on the hand's face, that this was some sort of intervention. did lord rowan not realise he were not one of the man's endless children? he took a moment to look upon the man, his arms crossed in clear unamusement - his face, was enough to tell him nobody had died. that this could have easily waited until the morrow.

"was the lord hand's bed empty this night, so you decide to call upon me and thus empty mine?" cedric asked, stepping further into the light in the middle of the room - his voice was accusing, wondering what his hand wanted at this time. truthfully, it was then one would be able to tell his vivid hues were far more striking than usual, slightly larger. some did not believe in a life beyond duty, some being tirius rowan by the looks of it - no, he knew he did not. it had its strengths, but right now, he wished to curse the man for it. "who has died now?" cedric enquired, his boots echoing across the marble as he rounded the table to the seat that was usually for tirius. small things irritated the man. "not mathis again, surely?" it was only then, when the light from the moon fell upon the features of one of the faces opposite him, did he realise who was there. his cousin. matilda.

his face twisted in confusion, before he looked at tirius, and then back at matilda, a slight expression of disbelief crossing his features. he did not like the look of this; no, if tirius rowan had put a hand upon a tyrell woman he would have the hand of the king in the stocks, with his bare arse on display until a friday, when he would ship him to a sept and make him become a septon. "hold on, what are you doing here?" he asked his cousin directly; it were not often the two spoke in great detail, as cedric had never been close with his own family. it was no true surprise they had remained distant, but still - she was a king's relative. the highest lady in highgarden in lineage.

and her desire for knowledge, one could argue and rhaena did –internally, of course–, led her to a similar realization that the king had. “it depends.” the words came assured from her, not a yes or no like what the king of the reach expected or asked for. rhaena was hardly what someone tended to ask for. her eyes, so dark purple they could be almost voids in this light, did not falter as they looked up to the king’s. “i’m not saying that to be contrarian or obstinate, but… for example, the seven? no.” she switched to the tongue of valyria not knowing or caring if he understood, as her tone and the way she ever so gently shook her head was translation enough. in a hall filled with andal descendants and she of valyrian blood, it was just a smart idea to keep from someone getting mad at her and therefore mad at house velaryon. as if they needed further rivals.

“but the valyrian gods? the northern trees and their seer princess? there is merit and proof.” the only two strong examples she could provide –between her own experiences and her family’s friendship with the northern royals– were ancient and half-dead. the great proof of her people’s gods existing were smoldering ruins of an empire and decaying flesh peeling off great bones. and the northern spirits? well she had enough of a mind in her head to know that the powers of the woods and wolves were best left to those who felt it in their blood. let them prove their gods, if they feel the need. “there are forces in this world that allow mortal men to tame fire incarnate, to see the future, and summon the dead back to their bodies. something exists and i won’t deny that. but i do not know which name is true, and i leave myself open to enlightenment in the matter.”

 “if i learn the truth of it one day in some spectacular moment of ecstasy,” rhaena shrugged nonchalantly, freckled shoulders rising just so and curls swishing against her back as she moved, the waterfall of deep brown so unlike the shining silver that framed her face. “well it’ll be another thing men write off coming from a woman.” a hollow amusement was in her voice as she spoke, well aware of how the hypothetical would end. either she’s a new daenys the dreamer or she’s written off as mad. or both, most likely. she had no desire to be either, in truth. “i have more worldly concerns to put my mind to in the meantime. i’ll let men who feel death’s breath on their necks use the last of their own to argue while i look to the future, to better what lay before us.” were she a man it would come off as almost altruistic, for a lord to care about building instead of maintaining the status quo was rare.

cedric felt the shift the moment she said it, felt the air tighten in that particular way it only ever did when a conversation tipped from polite exchange into something edged, something chosen. he watched her as she spoke, really watched her now, not merely as a velaryon, not merely as his friend’s sister, but as a woman who had decided not to shrink in his presence. her answer pleased him more than it should have. not because it aligned with his own, but because she refused the simplicity he had baited her with. it depends. gods, of course it did. he gave a low, thoughtful hum, eyes narrowing faintly with interest rather than irritation, his mouth curving with something that was not quite a smile. “that wasn’t the answer i asked for,” he said quietly, amusement threading his tone.

his gaze lingered as she shifted into high valyrian, and though the words themselves slipped past him, the meaning did not. he had learned long ago to read people rather than languages. the slight tilt of her head, the casual dismissal in the motion of her shoulder, it all spoke clearly enough. and yet it stirred something old and faintly bitter in him, the memory of lessons never pressed for, tutors never demanded. “my brother would’ve understood you,” he added after a beat, not accusing, merely reflective. as though he were not speaking of the same brother he had watched be hung from a window beneath a bloodthirsty, roaring crowd, whipped into a frenzy for the souls that had perished within the flames that crept up the statues of the seven in ashford. what a turning point it had been.

“he was given the language. i was given… other things. i never thought to resent it, not truly. didn't think it worthy to chase what wasn’t placed in my hands.” his tone was almost ironic, considering he was there - speaking of it. in a position that, depending on who one asked, he had killed for - or had been given. as she spoke of forces and proof and futures, he listened, though a part of him noted the familiar weight beneath her words. the way she spoke of men dismissing revelation when it came from women was not new, nor was it unearned, but it carried the cadence of a grievance revisited too often. he did not interrupt her, did not correct her, only watched as she circled herself with it, careful and practiced.

“lament long enough and you risk making it prophecy,” he said at last, not unkindly. “there’s a point in naming injustice, but there’s danger too, if you let it define you before the world has the chance to try.” sometimes the world didn't need fixing - only your orbit did.

her offer came then, light as silk and twice as deliberate, and cedric paused, genuinely paused, his attention finally flicking outward to the hall around them. aemon’s sister. gods, the optics alone should have stopped him. the tension was obvious, the kind that hummed just beneath the skin, and he knew exactly what it would look like if he disappeared with her now. he should have declined. the thought barely finished forming before he felt the thrill curl in his gut instead. shouldn’t had never stopped him when it came wrapped in temptation. “i doubt the old men will miss us,” he said, dry, already moving as he looked behind his shoulder, pausing to wait for her. he stepped forward, not offering his arm, not claiming her, merely angling his body in a way that cleared a path through the crowd. he glanced back only once, a silent question in the lift of his brow, before continuing on, slowing just enough for her to fall into step beside him.

they were stopped more than once, greetings exchanged, obligations met with ease and charm, until at last the noise thinned and the stone beneath their feet cooled. a glint of mischief crossed his expression then, brief but unmistakable in the flickering candlelight of the halls, where only a few courtiers passed by and some serving girls intending to make their way to the sisters. now there were less people, he took the moment to speak more openly - perhaps almost recklessly so, as though he wanted to see if he could get her to try to quieten or shush him. “you appear to have words for the grand seven, don't you?” he remarked lightly as he turned them beneath a cloistered archway, the air shifting, quieter now, older, almost feeling as though he were walking back in time.

“so i thought i’d show you something that offends it from both sides.” the ancient sept loomed ahead, worn smooth by centuries, with the infamous godswood growing defiantly within its walls beneath a tranquil pool.

cedric stood there, shoulders squared but not stiff, the light breaking through the canopy above them and spilling across laena’s bowed frame like some painter’s brush had chosen her alone. for a long moment, he only watched her, saw the way her fingers laced and unlaced against themselves, the way her breath seemed heavier than it should, as though the simple act of sitting upright cost her something. he felt the weight of what she said settle against his chest—not sharp, not jagged, but heavy, like wet cloth, clinging and undeniable.

"yeah. we can understand eachother and let it go." he regretted that it had taken their voices raised, that it had taken her tears, for her to finally hear what he meant, and still, the way she said she would “let it go” hollowed him out rather than relieved him. it felt unlike them, even unlike her; or perhaps, he had not yet come across her when she genuinely was fixed on wanting something. she would want something entirely for herself in the end, considering she had never owned anything herself for the entirety of her life. obviously it made sense; it was human nature, nothing more and nothing less, regardless of what emotions clouded it. "and we can let it go, but i just need to say something clearly first, whilst we're getting it all out there."

he thought of what she said about it being romantic in her head, and for the briefest instant he almost envied her for that—envied her ability to paint hope into something that, to him, only spelled out dread. “i understand what you wanted, and why you wanted it,” he admitted, forcing himself to hold her gaze even as his instinct begged him to look away. “i know how badly you wanted to imagine some world of ours, a private thing, just us. a family. and i swear to you, it isn’t because i can’t picture it. it’s because i can. too clearly. and i know what you’d want of me if it ever came to pass. you’d want me present. you’d want me there, more than just a name in the child’s mouth. and i know myself well enough to say i would fail you there. i’d fail them too. because i am not ready for it.”

“you never needed to promise me that,” he said at last, his voice quieter than it had been all evening, drained of that edge that had lingered so persistently before. “not letting go. not silence. not even thanks. none of it. everything you’ve got—that’s yours, laena. never once did i want you to feel you owed me your gratitude, or your shrinking. never once did i want you to think you had to prove your joy to me. and gods, if that’s what you thought, then it's about time we sat and talked about this no?” he exhaled, rubbing at the corner of his jaw as though the simple action might hold back the tide of guilt pressing harder against him now.

the words came slower now, careful, as though he feared their weight more than her reaction. “this isn’t just about refusing you. it’s about duty. i can’t step into that role with you before i’ve done it where i must—before i’ve a wife, before i’ve heirs to secure the line. my cousin louis? gods, he’s got a mind for herbs and scrolls, aye, but he couldn’t rule if the throne were given him with the crown already set on his head. that is my burden. my blood’s charge. i can’t, and wouldn't, set it aside for… for this. even if i wanted to. and that’s the truth of it. not cruel. just truth.” he shifted then, his stance softening though his words still carried their weight. he could see how small she’d curled into herself again, and it twisted something in him, sharp and guilty, though he kept his tone measured. “don’t think this makes me see you any differently,” he said firmly, almost to the point of command.

“because it doesn’t. i expect us to disagree, its the norm. i expect there to be moments where you want more than i can give, and moments where you want your space. but don't mistake that for a change in what i think of you, or what this is between us. something like this isn’t enough to undo it.”

for a beat, the air between them felt too still, her hair stirring faintly in the soft breeze, his shirt still rumpled from their earlier quarrel, his doublet still draped over his arm. the sun rose further, spilling gold across her shoulders, painting her silver-blonde hair in shades almost holy. cedric stepped closer then, not hurried, not hesitant, but with the surety of a man who had decided to stop letting distance do all the speaking. when he reached her, he let the silence hang just long enough before extending his hand toward her.

“i don’t think you’re cruel,” she said after a long pause, voice low, a thread just strong enough not to break. “not for speaking truth. not for saying what you can and cannot give. it isn’t a wound you’ve made. it’s more like… a line drawn in earth. it’s only me who kept mistaking it for something i could cross.” her breath caught faintly there, but she didn’t falter. “i hear you, cedric. i do.”

her gaze flicked toward him, searching, though there was no demand in it, no plea for him to take back anything he’d said. just the searching look of someone trying to keep all the pieces aligned in her mind, to fix them in their rightful place before she could let them go. “i never thought gratitude was something i owed,” she admitted, her voice faint, careful. “but i held onto it anyway. maybe because saying it out loud made me feel steadier. like if i kept reminding you, reminding myself, of what we already had, this might feel less fragile, less reckless.” a small laugh slipped from her, barely there. “but it doesn’t work like that, does it.”

her shoulders shifted, loosening the curl she’d tucked herself into, though she still looked small sitting there in the dappled light. “you’ve said before what your duty asks of you. i’ve no illusions about what path you walk, or what place i hold along it. i never thought i could change that. i just...” her hands tightened again, a flicker of strain across her features, “...i wanted to believe there might be something outside of all that duty. some corner of the world that was only ours. not stolen or secret. just…ours.” she exhaled, slow, steady. “but if that isn’t yours to give, i won’t press it anymore.”

when he stepped closer, the shift of his shadow falling against her skirts, she lifted her head fully to meet him. her eyes were still rimmed red, still fragile in their openness, but they carried something steadier now, acceptance: even if it stung. despite the ache still lodged deep in her chest, she knew, had always known, that she would reach for him anyway. even in the hurt, she longed for the steadiness of his nearness, for the comfort only he could give. she would always choose him, no matter how heavy it sometimes felt. when his hand found hers, her body remembered before her mind did, loosening ever so slightly as if drawn into the quiet safety of him. her grip wasn’t tight, not eager, but it was sure enough to say she had chosen it.

“not in circles,” she agreed softly, echoing him. her free hand smoothed over her skirts, a grounding motion that steadied her breath. “when we speak of it again, it will be different. clearer. i’ll be ready for that.” another quiet exhale left her, sounding more like release than surrender. “for now, resting it sounds enough.”

she gave a few soft nods as he spoke, the shape of her mouth tight, like she’d bitten back another apology but chose not to voice it this time. and then, slowly, she sat up straighter, both hands folding neatly in her lap now as she met his gaze, really met it, no longer trying to pull some hidden meaning out of what he was saying, no longer trying to fix it or reinterpret it. just…hearing him.

"i didn’t mean it like that," she said softly, not defensive, not even regretful anymore, just steady. the words came slowly, paced by the need to say them properly, not perfectly. "of course, i don’t think of us like that. i never have. but i... i see now how it must sound, when i keep trying to say how thankful i am. to have all this. to have you," she added quickly, shaking her head, "i’ve never had this much before. not in a way that felt like it was really mine to keep."

she reached up, gently pushing some hair away from her face, her fingers catching in the tangles. her lips parted like she might cry again, but she didn’t. "and i got in my own head," she admitted, quiet and faintly self-conscious. "i thought it might be a sweet thing, to say. about wanting that kind of future, with you. and i didn’t think… i didn’t think what that would feel like on your end. i wasn’t fair about that part." she let out a small, breathless laugh. not bitter. just exhausted. "it did sound romantic in my head. like something you say when the sun’s warm and the berries are sweet and you’re both barefoot in the grass. i didn’t think about what happens after."

her brows furrowed faintly, and she looked down at her lap again. "it hurts, yeah. not because you were cruel, but because i think i hoped there was something else underneath. some reason i could make sense of. some story i could comfort. even just for myself i guess i thought if i could name the reason, it’d make the no easier." her voice tightened just slightly at the end, breath trembling.

"but there's no story. it’s just the truth. and i have to accept that." she lifted her chin again to look at him. lilac hues now puffy and red. her voice was quiet, almost timid now. "and i will. i promise. i’ll let it go."

cedric stood there, shoulders squared but not stiff, the light breaking through the canopy above them and spilling across laena’s bowed frame like some painter’s brush had chosen her alone. for a long moment, he only watched her, saw the way her fingers laced and unlaced against themselves, the way her breath seemed heavier than it should, as though the simple act of sitting upright cost her something. he felt the weight of what she said settle against his chest—not sharp, not jagged, but heavy, like wet cloth, clinging and undeniable.

"yeah. we can understand eachother and let it go." he regretted that it had taken their voices raised, that it had taken her tears, for her to finally hear what he meant, and still, the way she said she would “let it go” hollowed him out rather than relieved him. it felt unlike them, even unlike her; or perhaps, he had not yet come across her when she genuinely was fixed on wanting something. she would want something entirely for herself in the end, considering she had never owned anything herself for the entirety of her life. obviously it made sense; it was human nature, nothing more and nothing less, regardless of what emotions clouded it. "and we can let it go, but i just need to say something clearly first, whilst we're getting it all out there."

he thought of what she said about it being romantic in her head, and for the briefest instant he almost envied her for that—envied her ability to paint hope into something that, to him, only spelled out dread. “i understand what you wanted, and why you wanted it,” he admitted, forcing himself to hold her gaze even as his instinct begged him to look away. “i know how badly you wanted to imagine some world of ours, a private thing, just us. a family. and i swear to you, it isn’t because i can’t picture it. it’s because i can. too clearly. and i know what you’d want of me if it ever came to pass. you’d want me present. you’d want me there, more than just a name in the child’s mouth. and i know myself well enough to say i would fail you there. i’d fail them too. because i am not ready for it.”

“you never needed to promise me that,” he said at last, his voice quieter than it had been all evening, drained of that edge that had lingered so persistently before. “not letting go. not silence. not even thanks. none of it. everything you’ve got—that’s yours, laena. never once did i want you to feel you owed me your gratitude, or your shrinking. never once did i want you to think you had to prove your joy to me. and gods, if that’s what you thought, then it's about time we sat and talked about this no?” he exhaled, rubbing at the corner of his jaw as though the simple action might hold back the tide of guilt pressing harder against him now.

the words came slower now, careful, as though he feared their weight more than her reaction. “this isn’t just about refusing you. it’s about duty. i can’t step into that role with you before i’ve done it where i must—before i’ve a wife, before i’ve heirs to secure the line. my cousin louis? gods, he’s got a mind for herbs and scrolls, aye, but he couldn’t rule if the throne were given him with the crown already set on his head. that is my burden. my blood’s charge. i can’t, and wouldn't, set it aside for… for this. even if i wanted to. and that’s the truth of it. not cruel. just truth.” he shifted then, his stance softening though his words still carried their weight. he could see how small she’d curled into herself again, and it twisted something in him, sharp and guilty, though he kept his tone measured. “don’t think this makes me see you any differently,” he said firmly, almost to the point of command.

“because it doesn’t. i expect us to disagree, its the norm. i expect there to be moments where you want more than i can give, and moments where you want your space. but don't mistake that for a change in what i think of you, or what this is between us. something like this isn’t enough to undo it.”

for a beat, the air between them felt too still, her hair stirring faintly in the soft breeze, his shirt still rumpled from their earlier quarrel, his doublet still draped over his arm. the sun rose further, spilling gold across her shoulders, painting her silver-blonde hair in shades almost holy. cedric stepped closer then, not hurried, not hesitant, but with the surety of a man who had decided to stop letting distance do all the speaking. when he reached her, he let the silence hang just long enough before extending his hand toward her.

she took a small step back and crossed her arms over her chest, more for stability than defense, her hands curling against the fabric of her sleeves like they might anchor her. she shifted from foot to foot, uncertain, fidgety, like her body couldn’t decide whether to run or fall apart where she stood.

“i didn’t want you to think i was ungrateful, cedric,” she said, voice thin. “but saying it aloud, that this is enough, it’s not for you. it’s for me. i need to say it. i believe it, but saying it. it helps me.”

her gaze lifted to meet his, and though her expression was weary, there was something firmer underneath, something that had begun to root itself. “what would you have me do?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, a bitter smile flickering. “drop to my knees and weep for the parts of you you’ll never give me? would that feel more honest to you? would that make this easier?” she gave a quiet, humorless laugh, the kind that didn’t touch her eyes.

“i’m trying,” she said, breath catching, “to process this. with you. not away from you. not in some distant field days from now. here.” she rubbed her palm against her temple, blinking back the sting. her eyes stung, and still she tried not to fall apart in front of him.

then he said it. with you. not in general. not ever. but with you.

laena stopped pacing. her whole body paused, like someone had just cut the strings that kept her moving. she looked at him, and for a moment her face was unreadable. then she slowly turned, crossed the soft moss and low grass, and sank onto the stone bench, her elbows resting on her knees as she pressed her face into her hands. she didn’t cry, not fully. not yet. but the effort it took to hold herself together showed in the tremble of her shoulders, in the way she dragged her hands slowly down her cheeks like she were trying to wipe away something permanent.

she sat back, laced her fingers in her lap. stared out toward the brook, watching the light dance on the water. her voice, when it came, was quiet. careful. “the truth isn’t dull, cedric,” she said, eyes fixed forward. “it’s just cruel.”

she looked back at him now, the pale lilac of her gaze rimmed in pink. “and i’m not—” she swallowed, fingers twitching slightly in her lap. “i’m not fragile. or maybe i am. i don’t know anymore. but i chose this. i chose you. and i knew what choosing you meant. i’ve known since the start.”

she paused, drawing a slow breath. tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear even though it kept falling forward again. “i don’t want to change you,” she murmured. “i don’t want to make you something you’re not. i don’t want anyone else. and i never will.”

cedric exhaled, slow through the nose, arms folding across his chest as though to hold himself still. the orchard behind her swayed under the early evening breeze, dappled sunlight catching the edges of her hair, her profile fixed forward like something carved. he didn’t move. didn’t step toward her. didn’t speak until the silence had swelled enough to let his thoughts settle into shape, jagged as they were.

“i never said you were ungrateful, and i wouldn't have thought that of you either. fucking hells.” he said at last, quietly, though not gently, irritation still wired across in his tone as she saw her figure go and a his voice lacked temper but held weight, and there was a faint frown pulling at the edge of his brow, the kind that came less from anger and more from bewilderment.

“that’s not what any of this was about. gods, laena—do you really think i need you to fall over yourself in thanks just for... being with me?” he gave a short breath of a laugh, but there was nothing amused about it. he looked away, just for a moment, toward the brook. the water moved with careless rhythm, untouched by their conversation, unbothered by the tension strung between them. “when you thank me like that, when you speak like you’ve been given something you didn’t deserve, it makes everything between us feel—” he paused, jaw flexing slightly the way it always did when he was irritated but trying to maintain it. snappy.

“it makes it feel weird, yeah? transactional, even sleazy. and maybe that’s not your intent, but that’s what it does when you consistently express your gratitude. you say it’s for you, that saying it helps. fine. but do you realise what it does to me? it lays the whole imbalance bare. makes me feel like a man who’s done you some rare courtesy by simply being honest with you. and i don’t want to feel like that, laena. shit feels dirty.” his gaze snapped back to her then, the weariness plain in his eyes now, drawn not from cruelty, but from the sheer effort of being misunderstood.

“you ask me to be gentle, but how much gentler did i need to be? i told you it wasn’t too much to ask. i told you there was no crime in wanting. i told you not to make yourself smaller. i even told you it’s not about some wound or trauma or tale you can soothe. i told you i simply don’t want it.” he tilted his head slightly, voice losing some of its edge, though it didn’t soften completely. “and somehow, even that—especially that—seems to hurt you.”

at her mention of gentleness, there came a surge of defensiveness that came over him, an audible exasperated sigh slipping from his mouth as he merely looked at her with a gaze that was incredibly tired. as though this conversation was tiring. “you asked me to meet you with gentleness—but you didn’t exactly arrive with a warning, either, did you? we’ve never spoken of it. not once. and suddenly you tell me you want children. not eventually, not perhaps—you want them. one, maybe two. from me.” he stepped forward then, just once, as if to anchor his words more firmly in the space between them.

guilt pulled heavy in her gut now, for speaking it aloud. she hadn’t meant to make something sacred feel like a demand. hadn’t meant to make him feel caged by the future she didn’t even know how to name. of course he would have children. it was his duty. it just wouldn’t be her. and no matter how gently she tried to hold that truth in her hands, it still cut.

she stood there in silence, the weight of everything pressing in on her ribs. she watched two butterflies flit by between the branches, careless and untouched by what had just broken open here. they moved like the world hadn’t shifted—like something hadn’t just changed in her. something permanent. she didn’t speak right away. the orchard was still holding its breath around them, and she let herself listen to it, listen to him. the low rustle of branches, the gentle shift of his stance. he wasn’t angry. not really. just honest. and somehow that hurt more.

“my father was mad, yes,” she said quietly, voice thin. “but my mother was more than a rumor. more than the shame they made her carry.” her throat tightened, and she looked down, not trusting herself to meet his gaze. “i just never thought… i don’t know. i suppose i hoped it wouldn’t ever matter here, ever be spoken like that between us.”

the basket, now more a burden than a comfort, slipped from her arm with more force than she meant, landing with a soft thud against the moss. a few berries tumbled out, rolling into the grass, and she didn’t look at them. instead, she crossed her arms over her chest like a shield. “it bothers me,” she said finally. “it always has. it’s mine to carry, i know that. but it’s there.”

when he spoke again, when he said it wasn’t about her, something shifted. something deeper than embarrassment or hurt. because she could see how it hollowed him too, this idea of fatherhood, not as joy, but obligation. not as warmth, but strategy. and gods, didn’t that burn in a different way? she wanted to reach for him, to pull him close, to cradle the ache in him as much as the one in herself, but the divide between them felt sacred now. she didn’t want to make it worse by pretending there wasn’t one.

“change,” she echoed softly, blinking a few times before lifting her gaze. “that’s the thing, isn’t it? change will come whether you want it or not. you’ll have to marry. you’ll have to have children. the path will shape itself around you whether you walk it or not. in highgarden.” she swallowed, her voice barely holding. “but you want here, me, this place to remain the same. is that it?”

she understood that, in a way. the orchard, hollywell, was her safe haven too. a place she could shape with her hands, where things grew if you nurtured them. perhaps it would have to be enough—for both of them.

laena stepped forward, slowly, and this time, she didn’t stop herself. her fingers found his, light and tentative at first, then firmer as they laced with his. “you are what i want,” she said, barely above a whisper. “and i’ll take what you can give me. this place. your time. your sharp eyes and steady hands.” there was a breathy laugh, but the humor didn't quite reach her eyes.

she gave a small squeeze of his hand, her thumb brushing lightly against his skin as though she might offer comfort through touch alone. her lip trembled, eyes stinging, and it took a quiet, careful breath for her to find her voice again. "i'm sorry, too, cedric," she said softly, a breath catching in her throat. "i won’t ask you to explain why you feel the way you do. maybe i don't need to understand it. i just..i shouldn't have pushed. i asked for too much."

cedric didn't speak at first, and that silence wasn’t kindness. it was study. something about the way she laced her fingers with his—it undid something in him he didn’t have a name for. not tenderness, not guilt. something older. something tired. her touch was soft, reverent even, like he was made of something worth preserving, and it made his skin itch. her voice had always had this way of softening at the wrong moments, curling around apology like it was a prayer. but now, it just made him feel... small. smaller than he ever wanted to be.

he looked at her, really looked, and all he could think about was how quickly she'd folded. his mouth twisted, something close to a smile but with none of the pleasure. “and now you’re looking at me like i said something tragic.” he turned his eyes to hers again, sharp and dry - there was a scoff that slipped from his mouth as he looked at her. what did she look so struck for? why did she appear so regretful? “i don’t need to be held like a wounded thing, laena. i don’t need endless i’m sorrys for a choice i made of my own accord. it starts to feel...wrong.” how fast she'd shrunk herself down the moment she'd thought she'd hurt him. her lip trembling, her eyes glossed—he’d seen that kind of sorrow before, but not in her.

and gods, it repulsed him, not because she meant it any less, but because it felt like she'd mistaken him for a man who needed saving. or worse, pity.

“you didn’t ask for too much,” he said finally, but the words came without warmth. they were measured, pared down, like stone worn smooth by water. “you asked for something you want, once. there’s no crime in that. we've never spoken about it before.” he pulled his hand away—not harshly, not to punish—but because it suddenly felt wrong to be held like that. like she was afraid he’d vanish if she let go. like he was something precious. it didn't feel right, for some reason he did not want her hand laced with his own.

“why do you sound like you’ve resigned yourself to scraps and need to reassure me that you’re happy with it. i don’t want to be with someone who flinches every time i’m honest. who makes herself smaller so i feel larger. it doesn’t feel like..." he trailed off, as he realised he did not even have the word for what there was between them. familiarity? comfort? "it feels like debt.” he let the silence hang there for a moment, cool and measured - his words were emphasised, his momentary irritation slipping through.

“what does get under my skin,” he went on, voice growing quieter, colder, trying to explain how it were feeling from where he was stood without getting overly irritated and aiming it at her direction. “isn’t what you said. it’s what you became the moment i said what i did. like i’d kicked something out of you. like i’d confided some great wound and you needed to tend it.” his gaze flicked to the basket by her feet, to the berries bleeding slowly into the grass.

"you react as though i've confessed something heartwrenching to you - and that's not it. not everything is as deep as you make it in your head."

his move to stand with her was an unsaid signal, and she turned towards him just so. mostly out of comfort so her neck was not turned too drastically as she listened, allowing his words to wash over her, a mind honed by ancient and modern texts turning them over and analysing what was said. there was either courage or a blase sort of uncaring in openly speaking of the gods as either uncaring or imperfect. it was something she expected from a valyrian, now openly encouraged to light candles and say prayers to the ancient gods of their ancestors instead of kneeling before the seven-in-one, not a reach-born tyrell who could see the hightower and the starry sept on his south-western horizon. her eyes darted as she listened her; sometimes meeting his, sometimes moving as she thought deeply on his phrasing, on his questions, on the way his voice changed with each point. there was more to him than her brother's bosom friend who he found trouble with, as she assumed as all people are more than what they appear, but this was a glimpse at what lay beneath the reputation of cedric tyrell and his crown of golden thorns. it interested her, like the toy puzzles her father gifted her, but more deeply. were people not the most complex of puzzles? and were they perhaps never solved, not even by themselves?

"tell me, do you not find the beauty of your roses all the more lovely when you accept one day they will wither and wilt? whether cut by your gardeners or left on the bush, eventually the flower fades." the velaryon's words were measured, thoughtful and occasionally she paused as she formed her answer, taking what she had heard him say and not chipping at it but rather adding to it. building something from it. her eyes searched his for an answer she wouldn't wait for. "i find that to appreciate things, we must also accept that they will atrophy, and that is for a reason. whether that is the gods' design or just nature is up to you and the strength of your faith. you have your views of your seven, who frankly i find to be more like lackadaisical minders than makers myself, if they exist." she could divert to complain about the starry sept and gods knew what mysteries they purported and encouraged to keep the smallfolk and lords complacent and acting in fear of their souls, but this was not the place or time for it. she bore little love for the seven, thinking back to her moody and dark teenage years for a moment. a shade of darkness crossed over her eyes as she remembered how her faith disintegrated in the wake of the queen who never was. "and if they exist, they have their plans which are ineffable to mortal minds. whether they guide us or have left us on our own will never be known by us. so we must keep going, find our own meaning in the meaningless."

"after all, you pray to the warrior for strong arms, you ask the mother for healthy children. if they were something like kind, you wouldn't have to ask. no man would fall in war, no child would be born deformed. but these things happen." rhaena turned towards cedric more, as she lost all desire to hear men consulting scrolls and arguing for the masses when she had her own discussion, her own philosophical back and forth to enjoy. it was so rare to find someone that wanted to talk to her like this, to have the discussions that few would dare. the additional bonus of it being someone attractive -because she was not blind nor stupid, cedric tyrell was almost objectively attractive- that she did not mind looking at while speaking. it was not like aemon would mind that she spoke to his friend in this way. her brothers had long ago given her freedoms that she's never given them a reason to regret.

cedric tyrell let her words settle in the space between them like the hush that comes after a well-played chord, one that stretched and lingered amidst that of a thunderous applause that seemed to go and on and on. he did not speak at once—not because he had nothing to say, but because he found it almost too pleasurable to simply look at her, the background sound of chattering and disagreement and yet, the entire time his gaze merely remained sweeping across her own. her voice had been soft but unshaking, threaded with the kind of conviction that came not from sermons but from years of internal reckoning. and when she leaned in, asking her final question with that glint in her eye—half jest, half blade—he didn’t lean in to meet her.

no, he stayed precisely where he was, looming slightly, as if rooted, watching her the way a man might regard a fire he did not fear but would not dare touch.

his gaze lingered—unashamed, steady. he looked her over as a man looks at a painting he’s already decided to steal: with admiration, yes, but also calculation. the shape of her mouth, the scent of citrus and salt that hung about her—he took all of it in like a private indulgence, his lips pressing slowly into a smile that cut sideways and sharp. she was ravishing. that particular kind of beauty that made a man imagine things with his hands. and gods help him, he wanted to make her eyes roll back. in pleasure. in disbelief. in whatever moment silenced her long enough to forget the word if. he chuckled low in his chest—just once.

“if i were hiding,” he murmured, tilting his head, letting his voice drop as he did, “i wasn’t doing it well. i’d argue i was waiting for someone to turn around.” his smile deepened, slow and dry, golden against the lean lines of his face as he watched her for another second too long—long enough to let the humour and the challenge both sit in his gaze. she was close enough now that he could feel the difference in height more keenly—the way he had to angle his head slightly down, the weight of his voice lowering so as not to speak over her but to her. there was something oddly intimate about it, standing amidst the bustle of scholars and noble minds, yet speaking in a register just for two. as though the crowd around them had ceased to exist, or better yet, as though he’d granted it permission to vanish.

and then, when her smile curled and her teasing inquiry came—do you consider yourself a god, cedric tyrell?—he didn’t smirk, didn’t laugh. he simply regarded her, let the full, unbroken weight of his attention fall on her features, one brow raised as though mulling the question in earnest. but his eyes were not solemn. they were dangerous. his gaze travelled over her again, slowly this time, thoughtful and intimate and impossibly impolite. his pause was calculated, designed to remind her that he could hold a silence just as well as he could fill it with words. eventually, he spoke.

“no,” he said, softly. “i’m not a god.” he straightened ever so slightly, that sharp crown of curls gleaming faintly in the afternoon light. “a nonbeliever. and what is a god to a nonbeliever?” he looked down at her like the question wasn’t rhetorical at all; a bed time story. a rumour. a fantasy. and most importantly, irrelevant. there was no venom in it. just certainty. seductive in its confidence, unshaken by offence or doubt.

“i don't believe in gods because i don’t need to,” he continued, shifting his stance slightly, the edge of his boot brushing a fallen blossom beneath their feet. “and because i’ve seen the world turn without them. i’ve made it turn. not with dragons. not with prophecies, but with will, and wit, and weight." of my own name. of broken promises, of kinslaying, of blood on the hands that would never be able to be washed out. his eyes flicked toward the horizon briefly—the ancient reach stretching outward with its green waves of abundance, dotted with septs and shrines and smoke from prayer fires. “some would say the velaryons believe themselves close to gods because they ride beasts that breathe fire,” he said, turning his head back to her slowly. “but even a dragon must bow its neck to a man who understands leverage.” the words weren’t threatening, but there was a velvet sharpness to them.

“some don't need to fly to command the sky. and some, don't need to land a mighty beast to benefit from the earth either.” somewhere in the very back of his mind, a tense conversation with a childhood friend that did not survive to adulthood arose to the very front of his mind; the guardian of the faith, the once voice of oldtown - how he had once told him their gold, their power, came from the ground. it was enough to fill him with a distant feeling of coldness upon his shoulders, like the final chime of a funeral procession - another conversation which felt like a lifetime ago, with one who would never be again.

the conversation around them continued, the speakers still waxing lyrical about divine order and celestial mercy, but he gave none of it his attention now. she was the only presence that held his focus. her ideas, her curves, her voice. it thrilled him more than he liked to admit, this tension of intellect and unspoken promise. a storm gathering behind civil discourse. “you speak of building meaning in a meaningless world,” he said, his tone softening—not in warmth, but in texture, like wine darkening in the cup. “and i respect that, more than blind faith. more than devotion passed down like an old shirt. you speak boldly, and i think all should be able to do that. this is only proving that, look at them. even the old men are joining in.” he indicated his ringed hand toward a group of elderly men, excited, eager to chime in on matters of a world that had long since left them behind.

his eyes dropped for the briefest of moments—just enough to glance at her hands still folded at her waist, at the line of her collarbone where her necklace sat like a signature—and then lifted again. “but it’s the ‘ifs’ that give you away,” he said, the grin returning now, sly and edged with charm. “every stance you’ve offered rests on condition. on possibility. ‘if they exist.’ ‘if they care.’ ‘if they’re cruel, or kind.’” he moved half a step closer, not to intimidate, but simply to close the air that flirted between them.

"tell me your stance," he said, his voice smooth, with just the faintest touch of amusement curling in it, "without using the word if." his eyes danced at that, glinting in the warm reach sunlight, cutting straight through the hesitation that hung around philosophical musings like incense. “not a single ‘perhaps’ or ‘maybe’ to hide behind. no conditions. no cloaks. do they exist—yes, or no?” something about gut instinct was what he wished to see from her; if she needed to pick one word, what would it be? he let the question rest between them like an apple held out in the palm of a snake.

for a long moment she said nothing at all, letting the hush stretch out between them. even the orchard felt still now, the air too thick with meaning, the leaves too still. the scent of lemon balm, once comforting, warm on her fingertips, barely touched her now. she stared down at the moss, willing it to anchor her, but it offered no wisdom. no comfort. only green. only quiet. when she finally did speak, her voice was gentle, the words strangely soft.

“with a bastard,” she echoed, “right.”

her gaze dropped, not in shame, but in acceptance, and she gave a slow nod, one after the other, as if they might help push the heat back from her cheeks, might stop the sting behind her eyes. her thumb brushed the weave of the basket, back and forth, back and forth. “i didn’t think about it that way,” she admitted, softly. “i didn’t think at all. not properly.” it had been a dream, a soft one, stitched like a lining inside all the others. but still just that, a dream. “it wouldn’t be fair. not to them. not to you.”

she lifted her hand to brush a strand of hair from her cheek, damp with a tear she hadn’t meant to let fall. she smiled, faint but earnest, as if to cover the crack in her voice before it could widen. “you didn’t ruin anything, cedric. i asked, and you told me the truth. that’s more than most would bother with.” the smile flickered, weary. the words did not hold as much weight going out as they did in her mind, but she spoke them anyways as if they did.

“and i am grateful. for everything. for all you have given me. it's more than i could ever truly deserve." those, at least, held their truth.

laena adjusted the basket against her hip, its weight seeming to double all at once. the sun-warmed fruit no longer looked quite so bright, their color dimmed by the sudden ache settling in her chest. she looked at him, really looked, and saw not just the man she'd shared quiet laughter and long, intimate evenings with, but the weight of his crown between them. not her cedric, her king. and she'd spoken too freely.

he didn’t answer her right away. instead, cedric remained there, sleeves still rolled and arms crossed, but the tension in his shoulders shifted, not loosening, just realigning—like a blade set gently on its edge rather than sheathed. the orchard was far too quiet now, too thick with thought, as if the trees themselves had turned their leaves inward to listen. and gods, he regretted it already. not what he said—he stood by every word—but the way he said it, the firmness of it. the look on her face now, the tilt of her head, that gentle resolve—he’d seen women bargain with kings before, but this wasn’t that. she wasn’t bargaining.

she wasn't begging, or pleading. she was retreating, and for the first time in weeks, he felt like a coward.

“don’t say that,” he muttered, jaw tight as his eyes flicked to the basket in her hands, then to her face again. “don’t start thanking me like i’ve done something noble.” his voice was quieter now, less sharp-edged, though it held the same weight, his hand flexing as it moved to sit across from his knee, looking over at her with a lazy sort of relaxation - it were as though he belonged in the midst of these orchards, as though he were some mythical dryad that walked the paths the winds dictated for him. “i didn’t give you anything out of generosity, laena. i gave you what i did because i wanted you to have it." he stepped closer then, not touching her, not daring to, but near enough that she could see the regret settle behind the usual flicker in his gaze.

“of course it doesn’t bother me,” he said, voice low and tight as though the words fought to stay inside him, as though he felt offended that she had even asked such a thing. never once had her blood come to his mind when determining her place in his life, apart from the obvious; they could not wed. they would never wed. and yet, in no other space or capacity did her legitimacy ever come to his mind - it were clear in his face that he was shocked she would ever even think otherwise.

“gods, woman, do you think i give a damn about the blood in your veins? what your mad father didn’t claim or what septas whispered about your mother? i know exactly what you are. i’ve always known. i don't care.” his lip curled faintly, not in cruelty, but in disbelief that she’d even asked.

his hand flexed again, and this time he let it fall, fingers brushing against his leg as though trying to shake the weight from them. “it isn’t about you being a bastard. it’s about me.” his voice flattened there, bitter around the edges, as though it were deflated. a sense of nonchalant matter of fact, that was a world away from the dreamlike world she had set up in the thickest of orchards. “you think i want children? i don’t. i never did, i never will. but i’ll have them—because the path needs to be obvious.” and even in that regard, he did not consider himself to be a man that would be involved with his children; the thought did not bring warmth to his heart, if anything it filled him with the opposite. fatherhood would be a necessity, and nothing more than that.

"but i don't feel the urge to be a father. i don't feel the urge to witness milestones, or just be there. and you..." there was a slight laugh that came from him here, his hand indicating toward her as he looked in her direction. "you'll want a family as a collective, a presence. it'll change too much."

he turned away then, just briefly, but long enough to inhale—deep, measured, as though his lungs might calm what his heart could not, before he said something that would truly bring her grief or upset. “if i were a different man,” he began, then stopped, shaking his head, the notion too far removed from reality. “no, never mind. i’m not.” still, he looked back at her, more weary now than hard. “i’m sorry,” he said at last, and the words came flat, but true. “not for the truth. but for how it came out. you didn’t deserve the way i said it.” he paused, then added, quieter still, “but i know why you asked. i know what it cost you to be here with me, and what you’ve lost in place of it. it’s natural to want to build something new. something yours. i just…” he trailed off, raking a hand through his hair. “i’m not the man to give it to you. i think we both know that.”

and what bloomed from that wondering was dangerous. because it wasn’t just dreams of wildflowers or stone mosaics anymore. it was footprints in the moss. smaller ones. rounder ones. it was laughter in the trees and sticky berry-stained fingers. maybe she was greedy. her lips quirked as she looked over at him. “greedy?” she echoed lightly, her voice laced with amusement. “when have i ever been called greedy?”

his teasing never bothered her. it was the language they spoke most easily, and she let him keep the edge to it, even as she leaned in and took a bite of the fig, despite him not offering it directly. her lips brushed the spot where his had been moments before, but she didn’t make a show of it. the sweetness lingered on her tongue, and she licked a drop of juice from the corner of her mouth, glancing up at him. “i’ve been stung by a bee out here, you know. the land’s gentle, not harmless.” a small laugh escaped her. “am i alone not tempting enough? or rather, you seem enchanted by the figs and berries.”

they reached the brook, and she let him go on ahead, watching the way his shoulders loosened beneath the canopy’s dappled gold. she saw the weight he carried when perhaps he thought no one noticed. a beat passed, the quiet stretching comfortably between them before she added, tone lilting with dry amusement, “you can crack one of the vases inside, if you like. something modest. i’ll pretend not to notice — just to balance the scales.” her smile curved, teasing. “it’s only fair. you’re letting me borrow all this space in your head, after all.”

she stayed where she was, leaning lightly against the old oak, one hand toying with the slim rings on her fingers as she heard him finally ask the lingering, pressing question, taking a seat on the stone bench across from her.

“a child,” she said at last, quietly. “or two. or one.” she didn’t look at him right away, instead letting her eyes follow the winding path they had taken through the trees. “i don't know, but gods, every time i walk out here, i see it. them. someone running between the hedgerows, laughing. helping me pick berries. filling in the empty spaces with something whole and new.” her voice was steady, though her heart beat louder for it.

he didn’t speak at first. didn’t move, either, save for the faint flex of the fingers resting beside him on the bench, his palm grazing the weathered stone as though grounding himself against the words she had just uttered. there was a shift—not loud, not visible to the untrained eye, but quiet and sure, like a breeze gone still. his gaze didn’t snap to her, didn’t narrow or darken in some theatrical turn, but it held. it held. and his sleeves, already loose from the warmth of the orchard, he rolled up with deliberate slowness, as though preparing for something more manual than mere conversation.

“you don’t think you’re building all this for just yourself,” he repeated, not a question, but a mirror of her words—dry as flint, eyes fixed now on the brook rather than her. “and you thought to say it like that. here. beneath the trees. fig-stained lips and all. mm.” the sound left him more breath than voice, and he rubbed his jaw with a short laugh, one entirely humourless. “a child.” he stood, briefly, just to pace a few steps, like the motion would shed the tension gathering in his limbs, but it didn’t. nothing did. he glanced at her then—not as her lover, not as the man who touched her wrist in the orchard’s hush—but as something older, sharper.

“laena.” her name came clipped, tight. “i don’t know what idea has taken root in your head, but this—this fantasy of berry-picking little things running underfoot and giving you purpose? it's not happening.”

he ran a hand through his hair, frustrated not with her, but with the absolute audacity of the moment. “do you know what that is? what that means? i’ve no legitimate heirs yet. not one. you think i would start sowing my legacy with—” he cut himself off, jaw tight, and yet the implication of his words was there and vivid as his striking blue orbs looked upon her own. it were as though he had wandered into this dreamlike world she had created for herself, and in a few short words and movements, had managed to uproot every tree, flip every rock, and set it all ablaze.

“you’ve more than any other in your position, in history. more land. more station. your own crest, your own rooms. a place at court and a seat beside me when half of the council still think you're some charming little enchantment that wandered in from the woods.” he gestured broadly to the orchard, to the quiet paradise she’d shaped like a painter layering oils, his tone clearly incredulous. was this what she had called him out here for? “and still it isn’t enough?” he turned away, briefly, collecting himself in the hush. a few heartbeats passed before he continued, and when he did, it was not rage that coloured his tone, but something worse—certainty. a firmness, that was unmoving, impenetrable.

“you don’t raise a child in the shadow of broken homes and families hoping it’ll fix them.” she had always desperately imagined a world in which her family were not the way they were, a stark contrast to the fact he never thought of his own in such a way. but something about this felt as tough she clearly wished for a babe for her own sake, rather than for attempting to progress with the next stage of her life. to fulfill some emotional need.

her fingers tightened slightly around the basket’s handle, enough to shift its weight. “yes,” she murmured at last, her tone pensive, almost faraway. “i suppose they would.” she stopped near the edge of a small arbor, letting her gaze drift toward the low stone wall where flowering vines curled in lazy spirals, the blooms faintly tinged pink.

“but comfort is a kind of defiance, isn’t it?” she looked back to him, eyes catching the gold in his. “to build something not meant to impress, but to endure. something that asks nothing but care.” her voice dropped just slightly. “they forget what comfort looks like… until they have none.” she plucked a leaf from a nearby sprig of lemon balm and rolled it between her fingers, scent rising faint and clean.

“quaint,” she repeated, tasting the word like it was a bit of underripe fruit. not sour, but not quite sweet enough to enjoy. “yes, you might be right. they’ll see the vines and fig trees and assume some retired widow dreamt it all up. but i suppose not everything needs to be remembered to matter.” her tone was light, certain. she reached out absently, brushing her hand along the low branches as they passed beneath the orchard’s shade. “i used to want to be unforgettable. now…” her voice faded, and she shrugged, letting the silence speak the rest.

but then she made a sound, soft and nearly swallowed by the breeze, something between a scoff and a breath of laughter. “if the sun’s been speaking,” she murmured, glancing toward the trees, “then i hope it keeps its voice low. it might start giving the lambs ideas.” the hem of her gown caught in a bramble, and she paused to free it with one careful motion, fingertips nimble and unbothered by thorns. there was something intimate in the way she moved, precise, but unhurried, as if the world around her would wait.

the path wound deeper into the trees, the orchard thickening before it would open again near the brook. she didn’t rush. in fact, laena seemed content to linger here, where the branches filtered the sunlight and the ground was soft with moss. “i walked this way yesterday,” she said quietly, almost like a confession. “after the rains. just to see how the grove was holding.” her gaze drifted upward, to where the light cracked through the canopy in golden streaks. “and i realized something.”

a pause stretched, lazy as the honeybees hovering nearby.

she slowed, and this time, she looked at him. close enough now that her shoulder nearly brushed his. her hand, still faintly scented with lemon balm, reached out, not with force, just presence, and curled around his fingers. her thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles, slow and thoughtful. “it’s nearly perfect here, cedric.” her voice was warm, but there was an edge of something underneath, wistful, maybe. expectant. “the kind of place that doesn’t just exist, but holds. i think the land’s learning how to be gentle again.” she turned to face him fully then, her expression unreadable save for the faint tilt of her lips. “and still, something’s missing.”

cedric tyrell did not often walk slowly—not when things waited on his word, not when the gears of state moved only when he willed them to—but here, beneath the heavy hush of orchard shade, his stride matched hers with a rare, unhurried ease. the moss softened his footfall and the scent of lemon balm still clung to her fingers, now entwined with his in a quiet claim. the touch surprised him not because she reached for him, but because of the steadiness in it—the sort that asked for nothing and yet expected a reply. and so, in the low rustle of leaves above them, he gave her one.

“nearly perfect, is it?” he murmured, his tone of voice cocky whilst turning her words over as if tasting them against his tongue. “something’s still missing?” his gaze drifted to where she’d stood only a moment ago, her silhouette etched in sunlight and moss, and there was the briefest quirk at the corner of his mouth, too sly to be soft. "mistresses these days. greedy things."

“does it need to sing when you breathe too woman?” his thumb brushed once across her wrist before he dropped her hand, and moved to pluck a single fig from a low-hanging bough. it was ripe, near bursting, and he bit into it absently, sweet juice running slightly down his thumb as he chewed. he didn’t offer her a taste—he never did things so obviously—but he held it between his fingers long enough for her to take the hint if she wished. instead, his gaze followed hers upward, toward the broken canopy and light that played across the orchard like gold flung by careless hands.

“you want the land to be gentle,” he said after a moment, “and i’m here, leaving boot prints in your moss. poetic.” his tone was dry, amused, but not unkind. he stepped closer again, not quite touching, but enough for her to feel his presence at her side, the warmth of him pressed into the air between them. “but come then. if something’s missing, you'll fill it in. like one of your mosaic panels.” he turned to look at her then, properly. “or let me do it. show you how it’s done.” the tease lingered at the edges of his voice, half-arrogant, half-inviting. “i’ve sharper eyes than you. steadier hands, too.”

he touched a loose tendril of her hair, brushing it lightly behind her ear before stepping past her down the path, leaving his words to pull her after him. “if you’re trying to draw me out here more often, you’ll need something more tempting than mosaics. or mystery.” he cast a glance back over his shoulder, expression unreadable beneath the filtered light. “i’ve already given you the land. and half the court still thinks you’ve bewitched me.” a pause, then he added, deliberately careless, as though it would not matter in the slightest. "if you ask me to start hauling stones or painting doves, i’ll need assurances that you’re not just toying with me.”

he slowed again near the brook, where the light spilled brighter across the grass and the water whispered secrets to the roots. the orchard opened up, and his posture relaxed just slightly, as though the stretch of open air eased something inside him. he could feel her still behind him—he always could, even when he pretended otherwise. “maybe you’ve got it all, and the only thing missing is a flaw. something sharp. a crack in the paint.” his gaze flicked toward her again, lingering now, but never quite soft. “don’t look at me like that. i’m not about to wax sentimental. it’s just… well.” he reached down to skip a small stone across the water. “not everything’s meant to be whole, and when it is, we wait for the other shoe to drop.”

cedric did not move for a long moment. the firelight flickered over the sharp angles of his face, casting shadows beneath his eyes, hollowing out the lines of his jaw. he did not know what he had expected from tirius, not fully—resistance, perhaps, or a begrudging acceptance. but the way he spoke, the way he said and yet, i will do it, as though it were as simple as that, left cedric feeling as though something had shifted beneath his feet. he tightened his grip on the back of the chair in front of him, his knuckles pressing white against his skin. he had spent his life surrounded by rowans, but never this rowan.

mathis had been his brother in all but name, and yet tirius had always remained just beyond reach—a figure on the edges of his youth, more a reminder of duty than anything else.

cedric had never allowed himself to dwell on that distance before, but now, in this moment, it pressed upon him with an unexpected weight. he did not want to think about what mathis would say if he saw them now. the rowans had been born into the old way. their roots ran deep into its soil, as deep as the oaken seat itself. and yet, tirius had just severed those roots with a single sentence. “then it is done,” he said, the words quiet but firm, as though saying them aloud might solidify them, might make them feel less like a dangerous thing still waiting to unfold.

“but you know as well as i do that this does not end with demir’s death.” he stepped away from the chair, closing the space between them though keeping himself just out of reach, as he always did. “the mistress of whispers will do her part. the seeds are already sown. doubt festers in the streets regarding the nature of the safety of those innocent within the faith already, as well as the merchants who bare the brunt of taxes the sept does not. but that will not be enough to turn away your own. you must be the one to turn them away from being his pillars.”

cedric’s expression did not shift, but there was something searching in his gaze, something cautious. “they will ask questions. they will try to make sense of what has happened. and if they do—if they begin to see the cracks, if they begin to understand that this was a design rather than a disaster—then it will all be for nothing. for all of septon demir's criticism, however public and obvious it is, it is the old way that continue to hold him up the most. manderlys in the north, mallisters in the riverlands, and within our own fields.” he did not speak on who; there was no need to do that.

But such thoughts did not belong in this conversation. They did not matter to Cedric, nor would they change what had already been set in motion.

Tirius exhaled slowly, letting the weight of his own damnation settle over him like a shroud. There would be no turning back from this. He had known it from the moment Cedric first spoke his plan aloud, but hearing it so plainly now, knowing what would come after, it felt like a final severance from something he had once held dear. The gods had already forsaken him, but now he would forsake them in turn. It was a quiet, hollow understanding, one he would carry in his chest until the day the Stranger came for him.

His fingers traced the stem of his goblet, though he did not drink. When he finally spoke, his voice was even, stripped of all but certainty.

“Seeds will be planted about his abilities within the community,” he said. “None of the Old Way will take the words of an outsider when it comes to these tales and rumors.” That much was undeniable. They would never believe the slander of an Andal, nor of any who stood outside their faith. If doubts were to fester, if whispers were to grow into something greater, they would have to come from within. And that—more than the act itself—was what would haunt him.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “I will see to it.”

The corner of Omer’s mouth twitched as Cedric dismissed the notion of wielding a soldier’s mind in statecraft. Omer inclined his head once. “Probably for the best.” His voice carried no bitterness, only the cool detachment of a man who’d learned to ignore jibes that missed their mark. He turned his attention back to the maps, signaling that the conversation was shifting beyond personal affronts.

Stepping away from the desk, Omer moved toward the window, where the afternoon sun glinted off Highgarden’s walls. “I do not crave a battle,” he said quietly, the words almost lost on the breeze. Peace may hold for the Reach now, but my purpose never wavered. Whether in war or calm, I am bound to protect these lands. His tone betrayed no eagerness for bloodshed—only the firm resolve of a commander who understood that readiness was his truest ally.

He looked over his shoulder at the scattered reports and inked letters. “Braavo pirates are a child’s plaything when real ships and sailors arrive.” The remark was blunt, a reminder that cursory threats paled in comparison to the disciplined navies he would soon let loose. Those corsairs skulk at our borders, but I’m chasing fleets that sail with banners and gold coins backing every sail. His eyes hardened, envisioning the true scope of danger he had yet to confront.

cedric tyrell did not look up at once. he remained where he was, fingers still braced against the carved lion’s mouth at the edge of the desk. a slow breath drew through his nose, steadying not his temper but his thought—slowing it just enough to wrap his tongue around the words that burned at the back of it. when he did finally glance up, it was not with warmth, nor even with distaste. it was the way a man looked at a blade hung above his door: known, necessary, and just as capable of turning on him as protecting him.

“you are very good at that, cousin. saying a great deal with very little.” his voice was soft now, in that manner cedric only used when he was at his most intent. “i wonder if you were always like that, or if command taught you how to make each word do more work than it ought to.” there was no sense of emotive longing in it; the two had long since come to accept the fact they were not raised to see one another as brothers, that their relationship was an active choice rather than something which had been fostered and encouraged. in all the ways they carried two shades of bluntness and arrogance, there was no denying the fact they were more alike than either would like to admit.

he straightened, his leg coming down from the chair as he stood, the sound of his chair skirting across the wooden floorboard. omer was always able to say much without saying a lot - something cedric himself had never found himself able to do. he talked, gods knew he could talk and talk and talk and the true meaning of his words were buried in a viper's nest within the middle. or it were a glowing ball of warmth; one could never truly tell. “i suppose i was the opposite. mother said i talked too much, especially when i was thinking. perhaps that’s why you never liked me.” there was no sense of emotion or upset in his voice, if anything it were dry as though cedric were purposefully irritating his cousin - wanting to see his reaction.

he moved from behind the desk now, slow but without hesitation, as though pacing might help him think. “maybe you believe that, but i do not." his gaze flicked towards omer then, and for the briefest second, something flickered there. not scorn. not contempt. but perhaps something warmer: a recognition. "and we will have a battle, if i do not find out who killed alicent higtower - as jaehaerys targaryen believes it to be me." he detests it; being accused of something he did not do. being unaware of a greater image; it drove him up the wall. “i am not rattled because alicent is dead. i am rattled because i did not choose the moment. because it was done in front of my people, my walls, with hands i do not know. jaehaerys will never believe me innocent of it. so what now? do i sulk? beg? send birds with empty assurances and hope he sees reason?” cedric laughed, low and bitter.