gold runs in our blood.

"Price?" The spy master shook his head, a passing smile coming and going as he shook his head. "This is not a request of coin or special favor. You are the queen. I have my duties. And we should all use the tools in front of us when we need them." He could ask for something, bank the favors until the price was too high not to pay but men who played dangerous games were oft met with painful fates.

Roman looked thoughtful for a moment. What was too much? What would be a step too far and lead people to question him? The eyes he kept on her ladies? The spies in various apartments and regions sending back word to those who knew he would pay them. He smoothed his hair down and crossed his wrist behind his back.

“my brother is ambitious,” she said at last, her tone even, certain. “that is clear to anyone who has spent more than a moment at court.” and yet, there was the faintest flicker of something behind her composure, pale hues flickering with an emotion that did not quite mirror surprise, but something close to it. that it had been spoken so plainly, offered to her as knowledge rather than assumption, unsettled her more than she allowed to show. why had it not come to her sooner, and from another source? she did not linger on the thought, but it settled within her as a quiet pang in her chest.

silence followed, stretched thin between them, broken only by the distant crash of waves against the rock below. katherine turned slightly, taking a few measured steps across the worn stone floor, her thoughts arranging themselves with care. he had given her something, small, perhaps, but deliberate. a beginning. and beginnings, she knew, were rarely without intent.

"It's uncertain if you know that the Prince's reaction," his childishness that embarrassed the court and perhaps his own family, "when you spoke to him has reached many ears." The most important ears, after the King, were his own. And once he was able to remind himself of positions, rules, and order he thought of something better. Everything, even the parts that went against the grain, could be used for something even better than any thought.

"You may not know this or perhaps the King has been gracious and shared it with you but I am the master of whispers." It was a title the maesters would credit to the green dragon and Larys Clubfoot and in that it would always be a title of lower standing. Roman, however, believed it was much more than that, much more than the legacy of the Clubfoot. "And while this is a position that is rightfully hidden, you are the Queen. And should you wave your hand in this court then I should make my services available to you."

The offer was direct. Roman did not see a need to speak with her in riddles, even as he looked around he knew and understood they were alone because he entered a space and these lowly castle workers knew it better to leave than to be told to leave and be reminded later of their place. They all worked for him. They shared everything they heard and by all accounts it meant they could not be trusted with this project he wished to undertake.

she turned from the window then, not fully, but enough that the light no longer caught her face so plainly. roman’s mention of his office earned a slight inclination of her head, an acknowledgment rather than surprise. “i am aware of your role, lord prester,” she replied softly. “one does not sit beside the king without learning who truly listens.” there was no warmth withdrawn from her tone, only a careful narrowing, the instinct of a woman long practiced in knowing when an offer carried weight, and when it carried strings. though her duties as queen did not place her amid the court’s murmured exchanges, tyland ensured she was never kept ignorant. a queen, after all, was of little use if she was not privy to the currents beneath the surface.

at his proposal, she paused, allowing the silence to stretch again, the library settling around them like a held breath. “you are kind to think of my comfort,” she said after a moment, her voice even. “though i have lived alongside tempers before, and learned when to endure them and when to step aside.” she did not dismiss him, nor did she accept what was offered, yet. instead, she held it where it could be examined from all sides, no matter how tempting it was at first glance. “answers are valuable things,” she added quietly. “but they must be sought with care. some knowledge, once held, cannot be set down again.”

her gaze returned to him fully now, steady and assessing, though still gentle. katherine could not yet tell whether this was a test of her footing, or a genuine extension of loyalty; in a court such as this, the two so often wore the same face. even a queen was not immune to the quiet, self-serving machinery that turned beneath the surface of civility. “your offer requires a great deal of trust, lord prester,” she said at last, her voice calm, unhurried. “tell me, what is the price of such a thing?” there was no accusation in it, only clarity. she had learned that power was rarely offered freely, and never without expectation.

it had been over a decade since amicia had been married, and to this day, she'd yet to find a sense of ease around her husband's sister. it was not just that she was a queen, or that amicia came from the family she did. something about katherine made her feel awkward, be it the way that she dressed or the expression on her face, the one that said touch-me-not. ten years, and amicia still felt as though she did not know this woman at all, had no idea how she thought, her opinions, what it was that went through her mind when she looked at amicia.

she fidgeted in her seat, wishing they were drinking something alcoholic, that burnt on the way down, instead of essoian herbal tea. the terrace where they sat was undeniably beautiful, stone carved into ornate patterns, shaded by trellises of fragrant blossoms with soft harp music floating from... somewhere. it was still not enough to relax her, her gaze resting everywhere but on katherine.

she took a sip of the tea, the bitter, grassy flavour making her splutter, face crinkling in disgust. "that's awful," she spoke without thinking, returning the cup to the saucer and pushing it away from her. it was then she noticed two things. first, that the neckline of her gown had slipped lower. she normally did not mind that her gowns were lower cut than most women, or fitted a little too tightly to her body. even when wearing something that would be perfectly modest on someone else, it always seemed to look indecent on her anyway. she did mind now, though, and moved to try and subtly tug it upwards. it was then the second issue came to her attention: a few of her fingers were stained black, smudged with charcoal.

“the reach does that, i've noticed,” she murmured after a moment, her tone thoughtful rather than wistful. “inspires. draws things out of people.” her finger traced absent circles along the rim of her saucer, the motion subtle, controlled. “i was never gifted with a hand for drawing. thread and cloth were my talent instead.” not quite an admission, not quite pride, merely truth. she had once found peace in the steady discipline of needlework, in how fabric obeyed where life did not.

her gaze flicked briefly to amicia’s hands once more, then rose to meet her eyes, not with warmth exactly, but with a steadiness that held no malice. “there is value in making something with one’s hands,” she said, voice quiet, but firm with belief. “to shape something that did not exist before. whether it is cloth or charcoal or… a life.” the last word lingered, soft but weighted, as though she had not meant to say it aloud and yet did not take it back.

Roman could have set a meeting with her up in her solar, make it more official. Set the meeting in a place that would put it more on the record but some times worked better when one pulled the strings of their position. As the master of whispers in the Westerlands, Roman knew that when he pulled strings they would have to be unseen but lacking in suspicion. Everything mattered when meeting secretly, one could see you leave from a dark cave or secret path or even an empty room that the servants still attended. He knew that the library tower was the best place for two people to meet and still not gain suspicion should someone stumble across something off the record. And so the scroll he had delivered was simple.

Meet me on the third floor of the library tower. - r.p

He smoothed down his hair as he stood with his arms crossed in front of his body as his eyes scanned the spines of the books that needed to be dusted, cobwebs forming in the corner. Roman dragged his tongue over his lips as he dragged finger through the dust before blowing it off his hand.

His hands slipped into his pockets as he stilled his steps. He didn't want to be seen as nervous or impatient, it was important for those that sat above them to always see them in the right light. Roman knew it was important for the status himself and his house. And men of Feastfires were cut from stone, unshaken, and carried the weight of their status and position. Not only did he serve as minder of the new isles they acquired through the dispatching of the ironborn, he was the man who watched the realm for his king.

This meeting wasn't about the king. It was about something else. It was about what he heard. The Prince threw a tantrum in the queen's solar, one of his famous blow ups. Roman thought it was the perfect opportunity to offer the queen something no one else could.

“lord prester,” she said softly, the sound of of her gown brushing the floor following suit. “it is no small thing to draw a queen into a place such as this. i can only imagine you thought it necessary.” her voice was gentle, but her eyes carried the weight of a question unspoken. katherine did not press him with it outright, she had learned long ago that silence could be as telling as speech. instead, she let the pause linger, giving him room to speak first.

The Tully queen detected warmth in Katherine's words as she'd spoken, warmth in her demeanor despite being as polished as was expected of a monarch of the West. But there was still that particular sincerity that had been key to their friendship, it still stretched beyond the layers of politics and responsibility draped over both their shoulders. “And how have you been after childbirth?” Iona asked after a moment, tilting her head slightly, her voice softer now. “It understand it can be quite draining, and very emotional, even”. There was no mention of duty or legacy, no talk of securing the line or fulfilling expectations— only an earnest question, from one woman to another. Iona had not known the feeling of holding her own child, but she understood the weight of change, how it could settle into the bones in ways one never expected. And gods knew if Katherine had had the space to speak about this in a more human way, not as queen or wife, or mother to a future king.

At the mention of the Riverlands and their enduring nature, Iona allowed a quiet smile. “If my people are strong, it is because they choose to be. I may guide them now, but I've not stood alone,” she admitted, her fingers reaching for her own teacup. If this was a toast of sorts, Iona inevitably raised her cup for Jalabhar and his house. For Ronan and his sister. For the Mallisters and the Blackwoods. For her Sentinel of the Riverlands. And for her sisters and their constant support, their wise advice. Then, she took a sip along with Katherine. “I have been fortunate to be surrounded by those I trust,” she added then. There was no illusion that her crown rested easily, nor did she pretend that she alone had shaped the Riverlands into what they now were.

“it is strange,” she said at last, her voice low, careful. “to carry something for so long, and then to place it in the world and be expected to go on unchanged.” her fingers rested against the rim of her cup, not lifting it, only holding the edge as though steadying herself. “they tell you you’ve done your duty, and then the days stretch long and quiet, and you’re expected to smile and speak plainly as if nothing inside you has shifted.” she gave a small breath, not quite a sigh. “but of course it has. entirely.”

she looked across at iona, her expression composed, though something thoughtful lingered at the edge of her voice. “i had good care,” she said simply. “everything went as it should.” her fingers rested lightly on the saucer beside her cup. “he is strong, thank the gods. and i’ve recovered quickly enough.” there was a pause, not awkward, but deliberate, katherine choosing her words with the same care she chose her silks. “it is a quiet thing, after,” she added. “not unpleasant, only... different.” her gaze held steady, though a flicker of something passed behind it. “i expected to feel joy, and i do. but there is something else, too—something that doesn’t quite fit into words. i suppose every woman feels it in her own way.” she took a measured sip of tea. “i carry it with me. and i imagine i always will.”

the edge of a smile touched her lips at iona’s recounting of lann’s day. “i remember the masks as a child, trying so hard to guess who was behind them, only to be wrong more often than right.” her voice lightened. “though there’s something comforting in the anonymity, isn’t there? people speak more freely when they believe they’re hidden. or perhaps more honestly.” she took a sip from her cup, the motion unhurried. “i’m glad you joined the revelry. the west can be... stiff, at times. but joy is as much a strength as stone and steel.”

tyland’s brow lifted, his back still turned as he listened, the flames throwing his shadow high against the stone wall like a spectre of old lannister kings. “ah,” he murmured inwardly, “so this is it, then.” he inhaled once through his nose, long and composed, though a muscle twitched faintly in his jaw. of course it had been arron. it was always arron—his younger brother, ever convinced that the world had wronged him, ever meddling where his opinion had not been asked. the fool fancied himself a soldier of truth, never realising that truth, when wielded without restraint, was little more than a sword turned inwards..

tyland turned at last, slow and deliberate, and allowed his eyes to settle upon his queen. the flicker of her composure had been slight, almost imperceptible, but he had seen it. “you are sensitive today,” he thought, though the amusement he felt was not cruel—merely masculine, rooted in the understanding that women, particularly mothers, were so often moved by things that ought not move them at all. “katherine,” he said, voice low and even, his tone the sort one might use to soothe a prized hound who had whined at thunder.

"he is my brother." there was no further explanation, no further clarification needed: there was a hierarchy to the world of the men of the westerlands, and whilst unnesecary disrespect and disdain would be considered, arron was not particularly wrong. tyland would take his advice on matters of state more seriously than that of his queen.

“you are queen of the westerlands. you have borne me a son, a true lannister, and ensured our line stretches proudly into the next generation. whatever was said by my brother—whatever tone he used—it ought not to wound you so easily.” he stepped forward, gaze fixed upon her now, weighing every small expression that played across her face. “the way of men is harsh, i grant you that. we speak in bluntly. yet, you know this.”

he studied her another moment, then turned again and crossed to the table where his untouched supper sat. his appetite still had not returned, but he needed the rhythm of movement, the shape of a room he could pace through. “what precisely did he say?” he asked after a pause, keeping his back to her again, though his voice now bore the firmness of a command. “i would hear his words in full." he plucked a fig from a silver bowl, but did not eat it. he merely turned it in his fingers. “jasper is not your concern, nor mine,” he said, tone cooling slightly now, a flare of distaste colouring his otherwise composed manner.

“arron concerns himself with the bastard out of loyalty. if the boy survives to adulthood, it will be by arron’s mercy and upbringing, not mine. arthur is my heir, and he will want for nothing. this will not touch him."

he paused again, considering her final words. they had been chosen well—soothing, demure, even self-effacing—but he had not missed the subtlety beneath them. she had spoken like a queen, yes, but also like a woman bruised. “the trials of motherhood,” he echoed, almost sarcastically before he then turned once more, walking back to her with slow, measured steps. “i do not wish to see you troubled, katherine,” he said, his voice softer now, with something like warmth glinting faintly beneath the armour.

“perhaps i am being sensitive, your grace,” she said, turning her head just enough to glance at him over her shoulder. “i’ve been told it’s a hazard of recent motherhood.”

her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but it softened the line of her mouth for a moment before fading. she looked ahead again, watching the firelight flicker across the stone. "i should not let it weigh on me, yet it does. perhaps that awful woman meant to poison my mind." ravella arryn was akin to a snake in silk, though she recalled a time where perhaps the queen of the vale was far more...human. she wondered momentarily if a curse had been placed upon the crown of falcons high atop the mountains of the eyrie.

lithe fingers tightened slightly in the folds of her gown, unseen beneath the long fall of silken fabric. she did not look away from him, though his back was turned once more. her voice, when it came, was quiet, carefully shaped, each word pressed into place like fine embroidery.

“he said i was brave,” she began, softly, without bitterness. “brave, now that i had finally managed what was expected of me.” she let the silence hang there, let the shape of the words settle between them. her hands moved gently, smoothing fabric that did not need smoothing. “he reminded me, quite plainly, of who he was. that he is your brother. that his word, his place, his loyalty to you, is placed above whatever title i wear.”

her hands folded neatly once more, her posture unyielding. “he told me of what he thought my place was. what he thought my word was worth.” her voice didn’t waver, though there was a subtle shift in her demeanor as she spoke, as if she felt the weight of his brother’s words settling in her chest, yet, her voice did not tremble. not once. “and he warned me that any threat to jasper, real or imagined, would go through him first. and that the crown has paid for enough funerals already.”

tyland watched her carefully, his gaze unreadable, the firelight carving sharp angles into his features. her words were measured, perfectly chosen to soothe the tension that sat thick in the air between them. she was always so careful, so considerate in how she spoke to him, and yet, tonight, it did not please him. instead, he saw it for what it was—an attempt to mend what had already been severed. an effort to assure him that she understood her mistake, even as the very fact that she had made it lingered, a stain upon the perfection he had once admired. he had not sat back down since rising from his chair, nor did he now.

his appetite had fled, chased away by the weight of his displeasure, and so he stood, a lion surveying a subject who had dared to tread too close to matters beyond her station.

“foolish,” he echoed, though not cruelly. the word was an acknowledgement, not an accusation, but it carried the weight of something final. it was the only concession he would allow her—that she had realised, at last, what he had known from the moment she first spoke. she was out of her depth. his gaze drifted over her, his queen, his katherine, the woman he had chosen above all others. she had always understood her place so well, had always played her part with grace. and yet, here she stood, seeking to speak on matters that did not concern her, to assert a voice where there should only be his. the disappointment settled deep within him, a quiet thing, but no less firm.

he had loved her for her obedience, for the ease with which she complemented him. but this? this was not what he had wanted. “you speak of ensuring we are prepared, of securing our house’s strength,” he said, his tone smooth, unwavering. “but have you forgotten, my queen, that we already are? that we do not scramble in the dark, grasping for control like lesser houses might? this is the rock upon which the realm breaks. we do not yield. we do not bow. we do not entertain the fears of women when there is a kingdom to be ruled.” he turned then, as if the conversation was already closing, his hands clasped behind his back.

the fire crackled softly, filling the silence between them, but it did nothing to warm the cold that had settled in his chest.

“you know your place, katherine.” his voice was softer now, almost contemplative. “you always have. it is why you were chosen, why you are my queen. there is no shame in it—no dishonour in remaining where you are most suited, where you serve our house best.” and yet, despite the gentleness in his tone, there was no mistaking the meaning beneath it. he was reminding her, carefully, deliberately, that the crown she wore was not one of governance, but of duty. of grace. of bearing heirs and maintaining the illusion of perfection that he demanded. he did not look at her as he reached for the goblet that sat untouched upon the table, running a finger idly along its rim.

she understood what he was telling her. what he had always told her, in one way or another. she knew her place. she had always known it.

and yet, for all her understanding, for all the grace with which she bore her station, there was something within her that would not still. not fear, not defiance, something softer, something she did not yet have the words to name.

her gaze remained steady upon him, even as he turned away, even as he did not look at her. she let the silence settle between them for a moment longer before she finally spoke, her voice quiet, unhurried.

"of course, your grace," she said, the words carrying the easy acceptance he expected of her. and yet, beneath them, something lingered, a note too subtle to be named outright. "i have never doubted your hand upon the kingdom, nor the strength that holds it steady. i admit, the trials of motherhood weigh heavily on me today," she said softly, her voice laced with quiet exhaustion. "i have thought only of arthur, his future, his safety." her hands remained folded, her posture unyielding in its poise, but she allowed a breath to slip through her lips, measured, careful.

"but…" she hesitated, her voice trailing for a fraction of a second before she lifted her chin, just slightly. "it is not matters of state that trouble me. i spoke with prince arron," she said, her voice careful, composed. "earlier."

katherine inhaled slowly, smoothing the fabric of her gown between her fingers, willing away the quiet anger that still simmered beneath the surface. she had known her duty from the moment she had taken her vows. her purpose, her greatest purpose, had always been clear, to bear a son, to secure the line, to ensure that the golden lion remained unchallenged upon its throne. she did not resent it. she did not question it. it was the weight she had accepted the moment she had become queen.

“the prince,” she said at last, her voice smooth, careful, betraying none of the offense that still simmered beneath the surface, “spoke to me in a manner i did not expect.”

her gaze drifted to the fire, its flickering light catching the gold in her hair, before she looked back to her husband. “i approached him for the sake of this family, for jasper’s sake, for our son's sake, to ensure there was nothing that could be turned against us, no whisper that might fester into something greater. but his response…” she let out a soft breath, measured, as if weighing the words before she spoke them. “his anger was not unexpected. but the disrespect,” she hesitated, just for a moment, before continuing, “i will admit, it did wound me.”

slender fingers brushed absently against the fabric of her gown, though her composure did not break. “he called himself your brother first, above all else, including me, and made it clear that my concerns were unwelcome.” a pause, measured. “he spoke to me as though my words held no weight, as though my place meant nothing in matters of our family.”

She glanced down at her hands, taking a slow breath. The mention of Rosalyn heavier in her heart than she would have thought. She had not met Owen's Queen often, their interactions brief and seemingly insignificant before. The weight of loss was ever present in Cyrene’s life, but Katherine’s sympathy was genuine, and for a moment, Cyrene allowed herself to feel it.

“Thank you,” Cyrene said softly, the words weighed down by the heaviness of grief. “It is strange, how grief lingers. As for Owen… I suppose he carries on. He must.” The corner of her mouth lifted briefly, but it was not a smile—more of a knowing, a weary understanding of what her brother, all of her siblings really, had become since their shared losses.

“stubbornness is a trait well-suited for this world,” katherine mused, her voice light, though not without meaning. “your children will need that strength, as will arthur.”

she let the thought settle, exhaling softly as the warmth of the afternoon pressed gently against them, before she inclined her head slightly, acknowledging cyrene’s words with understanding. “indeed, he must,” she said simply, allowing the sentiment to settle without lingering.

she glanced toward cyrene, her expression thoughtful. “hopefully your duties at the crossing are not too great at the moment that you cannot venture north during this difficult time.” sunlight flickered through the leaves above, catching the gold at her throat as she turned, watching for any hint of burden in the lady’s face. “family should not feel so far when grief is fresh.”

“Yes, you are the queen he chose,” he said at last, his voice dangerously smooth, though laced with something sharp beneath. “And you feel rather brave now that your exhausting attempts have produced a male heir.” His lip curled ever so slightly, his tone teetering between mockery and menace. “How bold of you, goodsister.”

His fingers twitched at his sides, as though resisting the urge to curl into fists. His restraint was not for her sake, but for Tyland’s, for the brother to whom he owed all things.

“You know who I am, goodsister.” He took another step, his presence looming over her like a gathering storm. “I am the Prince of Fair Isle, the King’s rage.” A beat of silence, then—low, sharp— “And more importantly, above all else—and that includes you—I am his brother.”

The weight of the words settled in the air like a gauntlet thrown. She had sought to speak to him as though they were equals, as though her voice mattered beyond the man who had placed a crown upon her head. Arron’s lips pressed into a thin line, his fury a living thing barely leashed beneath his skin.

“Your word, like that of most women, is worth very little.” The dismissal was cutting, deliberate. He turned away briefly, as if the sight of her irritated him further, before he whirled back to her, his fury a blade honed to the sharpest edge.

her breath steadied, her posture never faltering, but her gaze hardened, locking with his, as if to remind him exactly who she was in this room. she was the queen, his brother’s queen, and she would not endure this treatment. not from him.

her voice, when it came, was smooth and cold. “yes, i know exactly who you are,” she said, her words precise, each one laced with the sharpness of her restraint. “and i will not entertain further insults, prince arron.”

her fingers released their grip on the back of the chair as she took a step back, her movements deliberate and composed. there was no hint of apology in her eyes, only a clear understanding that this conversation had reached its end.

she turned then, her resolve final, though her voice softened just slightly. “you have made your position clear,” she said, her words clipped, but dignified. “and i will not waste any more of my time with someone who cannot see the bigger picture.”

and with that, she turned, her steps measured, her back straight, as she left him to wrestle with his own fury.

the flickering firelight cast long shadows across the room as tyland listened, his eyes narrowing with each word katherine spoke. her reasoning was sound, her calm demeanour a perfect complement to his own simmering fury. yet, beneath the surface of her measured counsel, he detected something that stirred his irritation—an implication that the lions of casterly rock might yield, even slightly, to the will of the arryns. she was perfect...until she was not. he rose from his chair, his imposing frame silhouetted against the firelight, and stepped towards her. the softness of her gaze, the delicate grace with which she spoke, only fuelled his resolve.

reaching out, he took her hand firmly, not unkindly, but with a grip that conveyed both his authority and his need to halt her words.

“katherine,” he began, his voice low but resonant, “you are the perfect queen—wise, poised, and ever mindful of our house’s dignity. it is fitting that you have involved yourself in this matter. yet, there is a line that must not be crossed, even by you.” he paused, his thumb brushing over her knuckles, a fleeting moment of tenderness before the weight of his words returned. “the arryns are our enemies, and ravella’s demands are nothing short of a provocation. to even entertain the notion of bending to her will—of allowing her to dictate terms, however subtly—is an affront to the pride of the west. we do not yield to demands born of spite and ambition.”

his gaze sharpened, the flicker of the fire mirrored in his eyes. “ravella seeks to undermine us, to sow discord and doubt. she demands jasper not out of concern for the boy, but as a ploy to gain leverage. we will not give her the satisfaction of believing she has any power over us. her audacity alone is enough to deny her.” tyland lannister cared not for the boy; he cared not for his sister, but rather the other in the equation he had made promises to. it was in this moment he begun to understand the knots and strings that had wrapped around arron lannister when it came to his sister.

she had always known the importance of pride in their house, the lannisters’ unyielding position in westeros. she was, after all, the queen—the perfect queen, as he so often reminded her. but the thought of yielding to ravella, even indirectly, unsettled her in ways she hadn’t expected. it wasn’t just politics, not in this case. she could feel it in the pit of her stomach, an instinctual unease.

when he released her hand, stepping back with an air of finality, she stood firm, her expression calm, though the turmoil roiled beneath the surface. she had never shied away from difficult decisions, but this one felt different.

“at first," she began, her voice quieter, almost hesitant, "i thought it wise to consider what retaliation from her might mean for us, for arthur. her reach, her...cunning. i feared that defying her would open us to an attack we could not anticipate. and so i suggested we consider it." she hesitated, her gaze flickering down to the floor, before meeting tyland's eyes again. "but i feel foolish now."

her shoulders relaxed slightly, the tension in her form unwinding just a touch, but it didn’t entirely leave her. "i should not have doubted that, nor allowed my concerns to cloud my judgment. i know you will not let us be led astray by the whims of the vale, and that our house’s strength will guide us through this."

yet, despite her words, a small knot remained in her stomach, a lingering unease. she had feared what ravella could do, but in her heart, she knew that it was the unknown—the things that could not be seen, the strings pulled in the shadows—that truly unsettled her.

“He is not the son of Rowan Arryn.”

The words were spoken with such finality they felt like a hammer striking stone. Arron began to pace, his movements deliberate, each step echoing faintly in the chamber.

“And even if Rowan were a bastard,” he growled, his voice rising as his anger began to crest, “what does it change? Rowan Arryn was never lawfully wed to my sister. He had no claim on her, no hold over her, no right to the child she bore. If he was nothing more than another stain from that wretched house, then so be it. It is no surprise. Bastards and weakness are the very legacy of the Vale.”

He stopped abruptly, fixing Katherine with a piercing stare. “Yet here you sit, the Queen of the West, my brother’s wife, questioning the honor of a Lannister princess. My sister.” His voice cracked like a whip, laced with indignation. “Do you truly think so little of her? Or do you place so much stock in the lies of a foul witch?”

Arron’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his temper barely contained. Internally, a darker frustration churned. Why didn’t Guinevere tell me? What else has she kept from me? The thought seared through his mind like a brand, feeding his anger further.

she took a single step forward, slowly, composed yet unyielding, allowing the silence to stretch just enough for his own echo to settle around them. the tension in the solar crackled like an unseen flame.

“your highness,” she began, her voice soft yet cutting through the air, “i am the queen you are speaking to.” her gaze remained steady, meeting his stormy blue eyes without flinching. “and while i understand the heat of your feelings, i must remind you that my questions are not accusations. i came to you seeking clarity, not insult. if i have misstepped, it is in assuming you would see that i ask these questions to protect the family, not diminish it.”

she took another measured step toward him, the firelight casting a golden edge to her features. “do you hear what you’re saying? do you truly believe that i would lend ravella arryn’s words such weight without cause? i have no desire to entertain her games, but i must ask if there is any truth that she could twist into this venom.”

a hand rested lightly on the back of a chair, her fingers contrasting against the dark wood. “i cannot ignore her accusations without knowing whether they hold any weight. i would not ask this of you if it were not important. her voice softened slightly, though the strength beneath it remained. “i came to you first because i know the princess trusts you. i want to act in the best interest of our house, of jasper, but to do so, i need your honesty. if you cannot or will not provide it, then so be it, but i did not want to speak to the king without knowing all i need to know, first."

the firelight danced in tyland lannister’s eyes, but the warmth from the hearth did little to temper the icy disdain that swept across his face as katherine finished speaking. his fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest of his chair, the golden lion embossed beneath them catching the flickering light. his queen's words hung in the air, their weight pressing down upon the room, yet his expression betrayed only cold calculation. “so, ravella arryn has taken to rewriting history,” tyland said at last, his voice low but laced with venom.

“how very convenient for her. rowan—a bastard. and not just any bastard, but one so false that she demands jasper be dragged into this farce. as though she holds the authority to question the blood of lions and falcons alike.” his lips curved into a faint sneer, the mockery sharp as a dagger. “it’s a bold move, i’ll grant her that. too bold. ravella means to consolidate her hold, to weaken any claim that might rival her own. and who better to target than a dead man, which would go on to indicate jasper, a boy with neither voice nor strength to defend himself?”

he rose from his chair, the motion slow, deliberate, as though the weight of his anger made him heavier. tyland’s gaze fell upon katherine, his queen, steady but unyielding. “you were right to bring this to me, katherine, but you must understand—ravella arryn’s machinations are no mere folly of the vale court. this is a declaration. she seeks to insult us, to provoke us, and to remind me, personally, of the disgrace my own sister brought upon this house.” his tone grew colder, his words cutting through the warmth of the room like a chill wind. “let her claw at her throne, let her scramble to keep her mountain birds in line. the lions do not answer to the falcons."

"my king," she began, her voice quiet but firm, "I share your resolve to protect Jasper and our house from insult. Yet Ravella's intentions, however audacious, are not without teeth." She stepped closer, the soft rustle of her gown breaking the silence. "your assessment of teh falcon queen is sound. she twists truths to suit her purposes and wields them as weapons. but it is precisely because of her cunning that i hesitate to leave this matter entirely untouched. her intentions are layered, as always, and I fear there is more to this than we see."

she stepped forward, her movements graceful and deliberate, the hem of her gown whispering across the stone floor. "she demands to see jasper not for clarity or peace, but for leverage. i do not trust that she seeks only the truth, and i cannot help but question what whispers she may carry back to the vale should we refuse her outright. if her goal is to provoke or humiliate us, we must ensure she does not succeed."

katherine paused, her fingers brushing the back of a nearby chair, a grounding gesture. "if she insists on meeting the boy, let it be under our terms, in a setting we control. not paraded before the court, as she might hope, but in private—surrounded by only those we trust implicitly." she looked up, her expression calm yet resolute. "you have always been a master of strength tempered with strategy. this approach would deny her the stage she craves while showing the realm we are neither afraid of her accusations nor careless in defending our own."

queen ravella tilted her head, a small, birdlike gesture that might have seemed innocent if not for the cold sharpness in her pale blue eyes. something that almost appeared to make her look like a doll, the way a child would twist the neck; with too much force, it would end up snapping. her lips parted slightly, the faintest of smiles curling as though amused by some private joke. when she spoke, her voice was a soft, lilting thing—a child’s lullaby given form—but each word carried a quiet venom beneath its delicate surface.

“queen katherine,” she murmured, her accent weaving an almost musical quality through her words, “how very loyal of you. and yet, for all your words of caution, i cannot help but hear hesitation. not in what you say, of course—you’re far too measured for that—but in what you don’t. the spaces between your assurances are far louder than you realise.” her pale fingers traced a slow, idle circle on the armrest of her seat, the motion hypnotic, almost absentminded. the firelight flickered over her face, casting deep shadows beneath her high cheekbones and lending her an almost spectral air.

‘i will speak to his grace,’ she echoed softly, her voice lilting up at the end as though tasting the phrase. “do you often find your king needing guidance on matters that involve your family’s honour? or is this particular hesitation reserved for our shared bastard nephew?” she allowed a pause to stretch, the weight of her words filling the room like smoke. she rose slowly, her movements fluid and unhurried, as though she had all the time in the world. the dark fabric of her gown trailed behind her, a liquid shadow that seemed to drink in the light. she stepped around the table that separated them, her pale face framed by the inky cascade of her hair, her icy gaze fixed and unblinking.

her lips curled into a faint, humourless smile, her tone turning conspiratorial. “do take your time, though. speak to your husband, consult your advisors, gather your courage. but know this—i will see jasper. not because i wish it, but because it must be done. the vale demands truth, and truth, my dear katherine, waits for no one.” she tilted her head again, studying the lion queen with a curious intensity. “and when the truth is known, when the boy’s place is settled for all the realm to see, you will thank me. for clarity. for peace. for justice. for all the talk of this boy, it is as though he is the most powerful of the lion cubs.”

ravella’s words hung in the air, delicate yet poisonous, each one a reminder of the fragile balance katherine had to maintain. her own silence was not an admission, nor an agreement, but simply a graceful response to the complexities of the situation. she didn’t respond immediately, only watching ravella carefully as she paced the room, a quiet resolve settling in her posture.

when the other finished speaking, the queen of the west took a long breath before answering, her voice steady, though the weight of the conversation lingered. “of course, your grace,” she said softly, her tone polite but measured. her gaze flickered briefly to the guards at the door, then back to ravella, her expression maintaining its practiced neutrality. "i trust the truth will reveal itself in time, if not already known."

she allowed the silence to stretch between them, not rushing to fill the space with unnecessary words. her hands were folded neatly in her lap, betraying no sign of the agitation simmering beneath her calm demeanor.

as ravella turned to leave, katherine rose slowly, offering a graceful nod in her direction. “goodbye, your grace,” she said, her voice warm but distant, her smile light though it didn't quite reach her eyes. she remained standing, watching as ravella departed, her mind already turning inward to the steps she would take next.

The mention of the mines and the blessings of the gods made Iona glance up from her teacup, meeting Katherine's eyes again. “An heir for your realm and productive mines,” she began, “I am glad to know your blessings have been abundant, Katherine. You must be proud of what you’ve given the West”. Iona’s tone was gentle, affectionate even. Her friend was doing so well, and it filled her heart to see it.

When Katherine mentioned Riverrun and spoke about the bustling images of her memory, there was an inevitable sense of nostalgia in Iona's chest. Thinking about Katherine visiting in the future seemed less likely than either of them wanted it to be. Perhaps someday. It was the sort of phrase that lingered, a few words that rang heavy with things left unsaid. Unsaid but not unknown. “Perhaps someday,” Iona echoed, a subtle smile gracing her lips.

The Tully queen knew she could have an ally in Katherine in terms of the Western perception of Iona's rule. At the same time, she also saw it as a useless effort. Why ask of a friend what could not be achieved? Besides, Iona had already decided along with her closest advisors not to rely on the the Western realm for anything. Political neutrality and civil diplomatic words. That was all there was to exist between the West and the Riverlands. For now, she was fine with settling for what they had: cordiality wrapped in the warmth of old memories.

she turned her attention back to Iona, offering a small but warm smile. “it has been too long since we’ve had a quiet moment like this,” she said softly, her tone still measured, but touched with the familiar ease of old friendship. “i must admit, I’ve missed it, our talks, our laughter.”

she glanced at the platter iona had eyed and offered the cheese with a gentle motion. “the scent is strong, yes, but the taste... it’s an acquired one.” katherine’s lips curled upward, her voice light with the attempt at easing the tension between them. “i do hope you can trust me.”

a flicker of thought crossed the western queen's mind, but she kept her expression composed. It was not the time for deep reflections. their world, as much as their bond, had shifted—both queens aware of the delicate balance between them. katherine’s loyalty lay firmly with her husband and king, and with the west, but she found herself, just for this moment, slipping away from the responsibilities and constraints of court and savoring the familiarity of her old friend.

her smile softened, but she chose not to dwell on things unsaid. “the riverlands... timeless,” she mused, her voice still light, though the words carried more weight than she let on. “i admire that about you. the strength in that.” she raised her cup slightly, toasting the riverlands, to her friend, to the memories that lingered in the spaces between them.

she set her teacup down with a soft clink, her fingers lingering on the rim for a moment as she considered the question. “i do hope your visit to the west has been pleasant, iona,” she began, her tone gentle but curious. “have you had the chance to see the lion’s tor yet? or perhaps to partake in lann’s day celebrations?”

her eyes softened with genuine interest as she regarded her friend, knowing full well that a trip to the west was not simply a journey of distance, but one of political significance as well. still, she hoped Iona had found some enjoyment in the cultural customs, despite the tensions between their realms.