amirofmanderlys

[amirofmanderlys]

❅

amir shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his shoulders rising with a quiet inhale before he turned slightly toward her, eyes flicking to her veil again, to the way her fingers fidgeted like they were trying to speak for her. "why don't you just hiss at them? that'll do the job." he muttered back quietly to her, sitting back against the wall and stretching, feeling his limbs stretch - it had been hours they were sat along the pews during the funeral, and then he needed to stand in the graveyard when lowering the man's corpse into the ground. he ignored the sound of the slight shake of nervousness to her voice, as she didn’t like when her voice trembled, even if it only did so in her own mind.

she’d never say it aloud, but he’d known her long enough to tell. emira mallister was a storm disguised as a tide—controlled, rhythmic, until she wasn’t. and something in the set of her jaw now told him she was doing everything not to crash. "we're not in the north." was the quiet statement he gave to reassure her; there was nothing cynical in his words, nothing cryptic, but perhaps that made it even worse - to hear the way amir manderly spoke of his own homelands, and the nature in which he knew he was in danger. it were hard to feel as though his people were not increasingly isolated in the north, but the reality that his people were possibly too being isolated even with the halls of oldtown was enough to momentarily make his mind blank.

as though it would never end; their names never mattered, their thoughts never mattered - they ended up being isolated. “you know,” he said, his tone low, but casual in that deliberate way he always used when he didn’t want her to brace for something heavier. “i’ve been thinking, after having a conversation with younes,” he started, voice low but steady, “about us. not just you and me, but the lot of us—the families, the ones raised like we were. the old way.” his thumb brushed against the rim of his cup, more a habit than anything. “we used to marry in. keep things tight. alliances were tidy, predictable. now it’s all over the place. not bad, just… different. and i'm beginning to wonder if this is the consequence for that.”

he didn’t look at her when he said it. not at first. he looked ahead, into the firelight dancing across the goblets and solemn faces, his own hands loose at his sides. “our parents did it, but us?” he finally glanced at her then, the corner of his mouth twitching into something wry, almost half amused. “now you’re marrying ben blackwood, somehow. the poor man did get done dirty with that one.” he paused just long enough to let the name hang between them, though his voice wasn’t accusing—just curious. maybe a little resigned. “not that i’ve heard a poor word about him. but still. it surprised me.”

he didn’t say it to wound. if anything, it was just the truth. and he was tired of dressing his truths up in pleasantries.

he shifted his weight, sighing through his nose. “i guess what i’m wondering is—did our parents basically raise us all too close? like siblings. so close it’s weird to think about marriage, even when it’s expected. maybe that’s why things keep changing. people look outside the usual matches because it doesn’t feel right anymore. or maybe we’re just out of step. maybe it’s not about right or wrong, just different rules now.” he didn’t want to press too much—especially not now, not when she already looked like she was holding herself together with string and willpower. his voice dropped a little, softer now. “you know i’m staying. don’t need to ask. i’ll keep close, alright? i already told you i’m not letting you wander off into the sea unless you’ve got a proper plan.” he made a quiet note to speak to the high commander of the reach and ask him directly if it were worth increasing their household security in oldtown.

his mouth twitched into a half-smile, a flicker of old humour returning as he groaned like an old man, his hands resting on his shoulders as he straightened his back. “anyway, you know what i’ve actually been thinking about? those apricot tarts from gulltown. remember those? you used to steal two and pretend the second one was for me, even though we both knew it wasn’t. if this place has anything half as good, i might actually survive the rest of tonight. i'm sure there are some." he glanced at her again, lighter this time. “you want to sneak out for something sweet or keep playing the part of the grieving lady who’s definitely not about to lose her mind?”

.

emira exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible over the murmured conversations filling the room. she had been trying, all evening, to push past the weight in her chest—to focus on the familiar faces, the quiet hum of voices, anything to keep herself from truly sitting with what had happened. but now, standing beside amir, she found it impossible to ignore.

she still couldn’t believe demir was gone.

her fingers curled and uncurled around the fabric of her veil as she turned to him, trying to grasp onto something steady. amir is steady. amir is always steady.

“i’ll whisper their names and they will hear it a mile away to come running back over i swear it” she mumbled. “they hear nothing all day until it’s their own name” it was an attempt at lightness, but the usual ease wasn’t there. the words felt hollow, as if she were trying to fill the space with something—anything—other than the reality of where they were, why they were here. but she pushed forward, forced herself to light more. trying to enjoy her time with amir. “honestly it’s better they ask you questions. you can give them a one word answer and they will nod and understand i will and i get a barrage of questions. i think they are just expecting im going to say more”

her lips quirked faintly in amsile as he nudged her back, though her hands remained tense at her sides. “but i do mean it,” she added after a moment, in a familiar pointed tone. “if naijia and you are leaving i wont be far behind”

she let out a breath, glancing toward the flickering candlelight, her expression unreadable. “we should be safe here,” she said finally, the words more to herself than to him. “we should be.” and yet, the unease coiled in her stomach, the feeling that something was wrong, that demir’s death was not the end of it.

she swallowed, then forced herself to look at him again. “just… stay close, alright? we all should” the words came out softer than she intended, unguarded in a way she didn’t like. “i don’t want to find out if i’m right to feel like this.” she couldn’t explain it. some gut feeling she couldnt shake away no matter how many times she told herself she was overrecting

[amirofmanderlys]

@mintharaestermont

NIA LONG & LARENZ TATE in LOVE JONES.

[amirofmanderlys]

❅

amir manderly laughed, loud and from the belly, arms folded across his broad chest as he leaned a touch too far back on his heels, like he didn’t mind if he fell over with it. the wrestling ring in winterfell’s great hall had become a magnet for that sort of joy—rough and breathless, clumsy with sweat and roaring pride—and amir, never one to shy away from spectacle, was standing right beside his king, eyes alight, taking it all in with a sort of boyish glee. "you’ve coin on the big lad?" he asked, teeth flashing white as he grinned sidelong at owen. “gods, your grace, the poor bastard looks like he fights with his dinner more than his fists.” his accent bent every word into something warmer than mockery—he wasn’t cruel, not really, just amused.

the man in question was near double the size of his opponent, but amir’s keen eye saw where the weight settled: too much in the belly, not enough in the thighs. no power in that stance, just wobble and sweat. “i’ll place mine on the lean one. quick hands, low centre of gravity. if he knows how to duck, it’ll be done in two.” still chuckling, amir shifted his weight, scanning the crowd. his eyes, sharp beneath the lamp-lit shadow of his brow, searched the faces beyond the ring. he was looking for nasir—his brother should’ve returned by now. just off to splash water on his face, that’s all he’d said, but he had a way of vanishing at parties like these, where the noise grew thick and the company thicker.

it wasn’t like nasir to be drawn away from wrestling; on the other hand, boxing had always been amir’s calling.

fists, footwork, the give of flesh beneath knuckle. he missed it, in truth. missed the simplicity of it. but tonight, he was content to watch. his eyes slid back to owen then, this king of theirs, shirtless and shining like some ancient first man carved of sweat and pinewood, and there it was—that flicker. not distrust, not exactly, but something close to wariness. not because owen had drawn too close to the manderly name, but because he had not yet tripped over it. because he wore it lightly, as if centuries of loyalty and pride could be shrugged into laughter, pressed into the meat of a feast and the thud of a backslap. amir didn’t know what that meant—not yet. he wasn’t a suspicious man by nature, but he wasn’t naive either.

but he didn’t let it show. not in his face, not in his voice. his laugh returned as he watched the fighters circle, his hand thudding once against owen’s shoulder in a gesture that was brotherly and rough. “look at that footwork! i told you. he’s got it in the hips. belly won’t save you when a man dances ‘round your fists like smoke.” he tilted his head, grinning again. “and anyway, it ain't real until someone breaks their nose. that’s the trouble with wrestling—too much hugging, not enough bleeding. now boxing? boxing’s where you find the truth of a man.”

his voice dipped a touch then, quieter, but still easy. “you ever box, your grace? not just roll about on the floor like a bear cub in heat?” his grin widened, knowing full well what sort of answer would come, half ducking to get away from owen's fist before it came. but beneath the humour, beneath the swagger, amir watched. not the match. not the laughter. but owen himself, the way his eyes moved, the way he leaned into the room like he belonged to it entirely. a king without his crown, and yet—somehow—still heavier than iron.

who: open starter where: winterfell, owen's birthday ball notes: takes place before the reach gathering.

The Great Hall of Winterfell roared with life. The longtables groaned under the weight of roasted boar, venison pies, and trenches of steaming stews thick with barley and herbs. Horns of ale and spiced cider passed from hand to hand, and the music—pipes, drums, and old Northern fiddles—rolled through the rafters like a storm threatening to never end. The fires were high in the hearths, casting golden light across the faces of warriors and lords, ladies and singers, even the occasional knight who bore no love for snow yet found themselves drawn north for the name day of a king.

King Owen Stark stood at the center of it all, shirt discarded, sweat at his brow, and a grin spread wide across his face. A goblet of dark beer was raised in one hand, while the other was being shaken by a red-faced northern knight who had just been bested in a wrestling match.

“Next time, Ser Harwin, keep your knees under you!” Owen laughed, clapping the man on the back with enough force to stagger a lesser soul. “You almost had me before your arse kissed the flagstones!”

Owen Stark had sent invitations far and wide. To bannermen and strangers, allies and rivals—even the lion’s kin, should they dare enter the heart of the wolf’s den. His message had been clear:

"All are welcome, if they come in peace. I was born in winter. Let’s see if fire and frost can drink from the same cup."

There was no crown on his brow tonight, no heavy cloak about his shoulders. Just the man, the king, and the wolf in him all laid bare for the feast. His dark hair was tousled, his beard damp with drink, and his laughter came easily—too easily, some might say, for a man with enemies watching from the shadows of his hall.

Owen grabbed a fresh horn of ale and found a place close to the dias but not on it, he didn't want to feel apart from it all, he wanted to be in the thick of it. "I've coin on the big lad there, who do you think will win?" Owen asked as he watched two new fighters enter the open space.

[amirofmanderlys]

[amirofmanderlys]

❅

the music drifted into a different tempo, a plucked string here, a ripple of harp there, something dainty and very western in its bones, but lord amir manderly had never much cared for dancing by someone else’s rhythm. the beat was fine—light, floaty, inoffensive—but it wasn’t his. still, he adjusted his step, only just, enough to let the thread of their shared movement remain taut and unbroken as he led minthara estermont across the floor. she moved like she had a secret tucked beneath her ribs and it might escape at any moment if she laughed too hard. that, of course, only made him want to keep her laughing.

"carnival, is it?" he said, a grin already rising on his lips. “is there a reason it happens when it does back home, or d’you lot just pick a day and decide it’s time for feathers and half the island drunk before noon?” his tone was curious but light, teasing—like he was inviting her to lie to him if it made the story better. “because if there’s method to the madness, i’d love to hear it. if not—well. no shame in pleasure for pleasure’s sake.” he spun her lightly, just enough for her skirts to catch the air before he pulled her back in, close again, the press of her hand still firm in his.

“speaking of,” he chuckled, shaking his head as if already amused by his own imagining, lowering his voice so only she could hear; it was in that moment, seeing the way the candlelight reflected from her skin, he confirmed in his own mind he did find her attractive. “i’d kill to take over this music right now. give me five minutes and i’d switch it up enough to get the crackers on the edge of the floor bobbing their heads—then just when they start feelin’ themselves, switch. throw off the beat. leave ‘em lookin’ confused.” he was laughing now, not softly either, a warm sound that rumbled low in his chest as though the thought delighted him entirely too much. “it’s a kindness, really. man's just keepin’ them humble.”

minthara had said something about storms earlier, about dancing through them like it was a part of her, and that—he liked. that was the sort of talk that made him take a second look at a woman. but still, the smile playing across his face bent into something more mischievous as he leaned in slightly, voice lowered with fond amusement. “stormlander, is it? funny. ‘cause from where i’m standin’, you’re all island, minty. white sands, hot sun. the kind of girl who don’t flinch from heat, who probably learned to dance with the tide rolling in behind her.” his dark eyes glinted, like he could see it—the image of her barefoot and laughing on greenstone’s shores—and liked it enough to linger there a moment longer than was strictly polite.

his free hand, the one resting at her waist, flexed just slightly as they turned again with the music. “i’ll confess, i’ve got no rum aboard my ships these days, been cutting back,” he said, voice full of mock regret. “there’s nasty liquor for the sailors—burns goin’ down and makes ‘em forget the taste of salt—but i wouldn’t put that in your hands. tastes awful.” the look he gave her then was entirely deliberate: flirty, but not crude, warm with a kind of chivalry he’d been raised to wear like a second skin. “not that i’d expect you to get drunk with a man you just met. wouldn’t be proper.” and yet the grin that followed didn’t seem too fussed with proper at all. he swayed with her a beat longer, the rhythm easing between them like it had always been there. it was strange, how natural this all felt—how easily she kept pace with him.

his eyes dropped to her face again, studying the line of her jaw, the curve of her smirk, the spark in her eyes that said she was enjoying this just as much as he was. “so,” he said, voice softening with genuine curiosity now. “tell me something else, minthara estermont. not about carnival. not about storms. just something—anything. i like talkin’ with you.”

her lips twitched, caught somewhere between a grin and a laugh. there was something about the way he seemed to take everything in his stride with effortless confidence that drew her in, his way of countering her quite unlike anything she had ever really experienced before. it threw her off balance, but perhaps that was why she liked it so much. all who knew minthara knew she was a force, one that could be utterly unpredictable in its nature, but he was matching it, and for once, she found herself having to keep up rather than running rings around who she found herself speaking with.

she did not need to think, did not even hesitate when he took her hand and tugged her to the dancefloor, fingers weaving effortlessly with his own. "i don't need your help to dance," she snorted. "no rhythm," the look she shot him would have been reproachful, if not for the light still sparking in her eyes. "you ain't seen me at the estermont carnival."

the weight of his hand at her waist kept her in place, and they began to move. "i'm not worried," a toss of her head sent her hair flying over her shoulder. "i'm a stormlander, yeah? i'm used to dancing through storms. just wondering if you can keep up." it was clear from the expression on her face that she was thoroughly enjoying this, the playfulness, the competition, the way they were skirting around the edges of flirtation. it was a feeling that left her cheeks flushed, and in that moment, it was all minty could think about ; so much so that she did not notice the typical awkwardness or missteps that usually came the first time two people danced with one another.

what she did note was the weight of his hand as it encircled her waist, the way he stood a little too close to be proper, and she had to remind herself not to let the moment carry her away. when it came to it, she didn't really know amir manderly. this may not have been unusual behaviour for him, even if it felt to her like something far more consequential. she glanced up at him as they danced, doing her best to conceal what was running through her mind with the same playful smirk she had worn since they had encountered one another again, and the sort of confidence that matched his.

but when he spoke again, all thoughts of the façade of bravado was banished from her mind, because amir had once again thrown her for a loop. she did not need to examine the meaning behind the words - it seemed, to her, all too plain. it made the grand ballroom around them suddenly feel much smaller, much more intimate. her head tilted to one side, the momentary surprise on giving way as her mouth curled into a knowing grin, and she shifted on her feet to lean in to the warmth of his body as her hand gripped his a little more firmly. "utter disaster," she agreed. "could you imagine? i'd have to sit next to you at every family feast, watching you chew with your mouth open." her eyes rolled, as though such a thing were a trial to be endured. "think i'll leave you wondering what i'll call you, though."

the swell of the music took her briefly away from him, spinning out before returning to her original position, though her eyes never left him the whole time, her neck craning to keep him in her sights until she was once again in front of him, laughing in a way that was both loud and unapologetic. "rum?" she repeated, shooting him a look of disbelief. "more chance of finding mammoths in dorne than a decent rum in the westerlands. they ain't the type for all that," she pointed out. "unless you've got one of your northern ships tucked away somewhere filled with barrels of it, we'll have to make do with the shit wine and suffer."

[amirofmanderlys]

@amirofmanderlys @naaijas

[amirofmanderlys]

❅

there was something altogether satisfying about the way her mouth hung open, caught between outrage and laughter, as he let the last beat thud against the table. amir thought he might like that look on her—a moment stolen from all the sharp edges, a glimpse of something unguarded before she locked herself back up tight again. but gods, he didn’t dwell on it. he had far too much fun watching her wrestle with whatever words were about to leave that smirking mouth of hers. he didn’t give her the chance to come up with a retort. instead, with all the confidence of a man who did not care for the whispers of a room, he took her hand in his own.

“come on then, minty of greenstone,” he declared, weaving their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world. “if you’re going to stand there swaying like that, like you ain't got no rhythm, you might as well do it proper.”

there was the barest flicker of hesitation before he pulled her towards the centre of the floor, but not enough to call it true reluctance. the others had already begun their dances, moving through the steps with the careful formality expected of them. but amir had never been one to move stiffly through life, and he had no plans to start now—not when the music was lively, not when the air felt thick with something far more electric than candle smoke. not when minthara was looking at him like that. "what, y'worried?" he teased, turning to face her, a playful light in his dark eyes as he set her in place with an easy press of his palm.

"i’ve got my steps down. i’d bet i could dance through a storm and still come out with my pride intact - all whilst i'll have you enjoyin' yourself.”

his hand found its place at her waist, the other still tangled with hers as he led them into motion. it was too easy. too seamless. he didn’t even have to think about it—his body moved with hers, the rhythm as natural as breath, and it caught him off guard in a way he did not examine too closely. because that was the thing, wasn’t it? talking to her had been easy. too easy. and now, falling into the steps of this dance, it was just the same. he did not stumble. neither did she. they moved through the crowd as though they had been doing this forever.

his grin sharpened at her words regarding her mother, he found himself chuckling as he ensured to stand too close against her body.

"y'know," he mused, voice dipping lower, just enough that the words were meant for her ears alone. "it’s a good thing we aren’t kin, as lovely of a woman your mama probably is." he let the words settle between them, let the meaning sit there, unspoken but clear. his grin was all confidence, all teasing ease, as though he wasn’t saying anything of note at all. "tied together by blood or law. horror." he laughed then, full and warm, shaking his head as if the thought itself was too absurd to bear. "much better that i can call you lady minthara and not have to suffer the weight of being related to you." he tilted his head, considering - that was not what he meant by such things. he would not expand, or explain. he might tilt his head, watching her with a knowing gleam in his dark eyes before exhaling a dramatic sigh, as though suddenly stricken with some great and terrible thought.

"though, i suppose we’ve wasted enough time talking about tragedies that never came to pass. let’s discuss a real one instead." he could pause there, just long enough to catch her interest, to make her wonder. then, with the same air of mock solemnity, he’d shake his head and declare, "the absolute state of your wine choice, minthara. truly, i expected better. where the rum be?"

minthara raised an eyebrow at his teasing, the corners of her mouth twitching as though she was deciding between a smirk and a laugh. the crowd parted them briefly, and still, she did not let him slip away, turning to look at him until he was back at her side with the same spark in her eyes that had been there since they started speaking this night. it would have been easy enough to do - to allow herself to be swept away, and yet she did not want to. she wanted to keep talking to him, to extend the conversation even though there had been the promise of another to come.

"oh, i don't have you figured out at all. annoying, really," she admitted, her tone dismissive. "that's actually an issue, you see, because usually i got everyone worked out. you, though," she paused, raking her eyes over his figure unashamedly, her words taking on the same tone his did when he had used the same on her earlier in the conversation. "you ain't fitting in any of them boxes, amir manderly. but i'll get there. i always do." it was a promise and a threat in one.

i'll give you one right here, he said, and minthara laughed again, sure he was joking. "steady now," she said, cheekily, though she allowed curiosity to carry her to the vacant table he made his way to, tucked into a corner of the room untouched by all but the servants. "what you doing?" she asked, but stepped closer all the same, head tilting as she tried to anticipate what his next move would be. was he going to scratch it in to the table?

there was no scratching. his next move had her chuckling, nodding her head and swaying her body in time to the beat he drummed on to the table top. it was only half-mockery - she found herself genuinely wanting to move to it, until the words tumbled from his mouth, in an accent that was such a perfect mimicry of her own, and she suddenly stilled, mouth hanging open a little as she listened to him speak words that came from the top of his head, cracking himself up all the way.

for a moment after he had finished, minthara said nothing. a breath of silence, and then she was cheering, loud enough to draw attention, but she cared not whose. she was laughing again, one hand braced upon the table to hold herself up, and when she spoke again to give her feedback, her accent was stronger, the tones she would use if she were back on estermont with her own people, rather than leagues away in the lions' den. "you bin practising yuh greenstone accent since di las time wi meet, manderly." she managed to get out, before she was laughing again.

"you got something about you, i'll give you that," the grin was still wide on her face, and she took another sip of her wine to compose herself a bit. "you just raised the bar on this, you realise that? i ain't about to go banging my hands on the table, but next time we meet, i'll need to have something up my sleeve to top that."

she had let confidence and bravado carry their conversation, but when she looked upon him again, minthara could not help but feel a sudden surge of something that wasn't entirely familiar. it wasn't shyness, or uncertainty, far more akin to anticipation, but still not quite on the mark. it had been he who had broached the idea of seeing on another again, but in that moment, she found herself hoping for it, even though this meeting was not yet done. she knew not when or where, but she would see him again, would make time to capture his attention next time she saw him in a crowd, and hope he still wanted to give it to her.

"now cut that shit out. my mother has too many children. keep talking like that and she'll get all confused and try and take you back to greenstone with us."

[amirofmanderlys]

❅

amir huffed a quiet laugh, though it lacked its usual brightness, the weight of the evening pressing against his ribs like the tide before a storm. he knew better than to laugh outwardly in such situations, and yet as he glanced to the side to look at her from behind his hands clasped together, he noted emira approaching her. the room was thick with it—low murmurs, flickering candlelight, the heavy scent of beeswax and old stone. grief sat at every table, in every cup of untouched wine, in the way no one quite met each other’s eyes. it wasn’t unfamiliar; loss rarely was, not in their world. but this one was different.

his hand curled around the stem of his goblet, rolling it absently between his fingers, though he had no real intention of drinking. beside him, emira’s presence was a quiet anchor—familiar, steady, though he could feel the tension wound tight in her. he knew her well enough to recognise when she was trying not to come apart. he smirked at her words, though it was softer than usual, more an old reflex than true amusement. “you’re going to have to be more specific,” he murmured, voice low, though there was an unmistakable warmth beneath it.

“which solemn-faced lord, exactly? because they all look the same after a while.” his gaze flicked to her, catching the way she toyed with the edge of her veil, fingers restless. he sighed, tilting his head back slightly, letting his eyes drift toward the candlelit ceiling. “yeah i’ll stay,” he said after a beat, because he would have anyway. because it was her. “not that i think you’ll actually throw yourself into the sea. too dramatic, even for you.” his smirk deepened, an easy, teasing thing, though the glint in his eyes was softer. “but i’ll stay, unless naija leaves.”

the weight of grief still hung heavy between them, in the silence that stretched just a second too long. amir wasn’t good with silence—not like this, anyway, when it felt like something unsaid pressed against his throat. he shifted, reaching for levity, as he always did. it felt all too common these days, to be sat in small rooms and preparing for burial rites. “you realise, though, if i stand beside you all day, they’ll start asking me how i feel instead.” his tone was light, easy, but his fingers drummed against his goblet, betraying a quiet restlessness. his gaze found hers again, watching the way the candlelight played across her features.

there was something in her expression he couldn’t quite name, something just beyond his reach. he brushed it off, the way he always did. instead, he nudged her shoulder lightly, his smirk returning. "i've never even been to oldtown - and if we're all thinking the high septon did it, i'm not really feeling like having to look behind my shoulder all the whole time."

location: at a gathering in oldtown. the night before septon demir is to be buried after his murder @amirofmanderlys

the small gathering after dinner should have felt like a comfort. it was only family, only those of the old way, only people she had known her whole life. and yet, emira felt uneasy.

the air was thick with unease and quiet conversation, the dim candlelight casting long shadows along the walls. it was a somber thing, this gathering. there was no laughter, no music, no ease. it wasn’t meant to be, of course—tomorrow, they would bury septon demir. but emira hated the way the room felt stifling, how the weight of what had happened settled so heavily on them all.

she spotted amir across the room and, without hesitation, made her way toward him. she didn’t care if it was obvious—she had spent enough time lingering in tense, stilted conversations with others, making the expected rounds, offering polite words she didn’t quite feel. she needed something familiar, something steady, and amir had always been that for her. he stood slightly apart from everyone,his expression unreadable. there was a steadiness in him she admired—envied, even. she could be a storm, wild and untamed, but amir was the tide, constant, unwavering. and right now, she needed that.

settling beside him, she exhaled softly, her fingers instinctively reaching for the edge of her veil, toying with the fabric as she stared into the flickering light of a nearby candle. “this doesn’t feel real,” she murmured, her voice quieter than usual, lacking its usual dramatic flair. “even now, sitting here, it doesn’t feel like he’s really gone.”

her gaze flickered toward amir, watching the way the candlelight cast sharp lines across his face. she wanted to say something else, something more, but the words tangled in her throat. instead, she managed a small, humorless smile. “you’re not allowed to go far tomorrow,” she said, trying for something light, something easier. “i mean it, amir. if i have to endure one more solemn-faced lord asking me how i feel, i might throw myself into the sea.”

it was easier to joke than to admit that the idea of walking through oldtown into that sept without someone at her side made her stomach twist uncomfortably.

[amirofmanderlys]

who: @calla-lefford when and where: semi-flashback, the gates of lannisport during the gathering of the realms context: some years ago when the rpg was set in dorne, amir helped save calla from a sand storm; they had forgotten about it. until he saw a familiar face. and heard her horse freaking out.

the golden light of late afternoon stretched long over the stone walls of lannisport, gilding the air with that hazy warmth only the westerlands seemed to possess. amir manderly rode at an easy pace, the steady rhythm of his horse’s hooves lost beneath the clamour of the city’s gates—merchants barking prices, the clash of metal from distant drills, and the constant hum of the gathering swelling like the tide.

he sat tall in the saddle, the stark direwolf stitched silver over his dark cloak, though he wore the badge of his office—the merman of white harbour—at his breast as he talked to younes corbray to his left.

the sea was close. he could smell it in the breeze, that sharp tang of salt threading through the dust. but then came the sharp, panicked scream of a horse. amir’s head snapped toward the commotion near the gates, where a mare bucked violently, nostrils flared, hooves striking the air. her rider—a flash of sunlit hair, curls torn loose from their braid—struggled against the fraying reins. the horse twisted, dangerously near the stone edge where the cobbles dipped steep toward the ditch. one wrong step and—

amir didn’t think. heels to his horse’s flanks, he surged forward, the crowd scattering as his mount cut through with practiced ease. the mare was all wild muscle and terror, eyes rolled white, until amir’s hand caught the bridle in one hard pull, anchoring her mid-buck. “easy now—woah, girl—steady!” his arm strained with the force of it—the raw strength of the beast nearly tore free—but his grip held. what had he gotten himself into?

the mare’s chest heaved, lathered with sweat, hooves skidding against the stone before she stilled, trembling beneath his hold. the mare fought it, snorting thick and wild, but the pressure broke through her panic.

she staggered sideways, hooves scrabbling against the stone before her weight sank heavy beneath amir’s hold, breath coming in great, shuddering bursts. “seven hells,” he muttered, running a palm over her slick neck before glancing up at the rider. and there she was. the same fiery red hair, the same narrow emerald catlike gaze that widened in a face of panic. the memory hit quick—a storm in dorne, sand swirling so thick you couldn’t see your own hand. she’d been half-buried by it, her curls crusted with sand, skin raw from the grit, when he’d pulled her out, coughing and cursing the gods. he hadn’t thought of her since.

“you again?” he drawled, mouth quirking as he patted at the horse, half hearing something from younes corbray about being hungry and not having the time for this. “didn’t think i’d be pulling you out of trouble twice. does nature have it out for you?” he didn’t wait for an answer. he tugged the mare’s bridle once more for good measure, before tossing the reins back her way.

[amirofmanderlys]

@younescorbray

[amirofmanderlys]

❅

amir let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. the fire crackled in front of him, the golden glow casting long shadows over the river’s edge. the scent of fried fish, crisping skin, and soft, buttered potatoes filled the air, mingling with the damp freshness of the water. it was a good evening, the kind that made a man feel settled in his skin. “aye, i remember,” he grinned, shaking his head at the memory.

“them girls had no shame, man. beautiful green-eyed one had my fish in one hand, my heart in the other, and she ain’t even break a sweat.” he exhaled, feigning wistfulness as he tilted his head towards jalabhar. “alisha. that was her name. remember her? curly hair, little dimple when she laughed. on gods, i’m gonna find her one day and bring her home to my ma.” he barked out a laugh, slapping his thigh.

he turned his gaze back to jalabhar, but the way his friend sat—too still, too measured—made something in amir pause. ja had always kept himself close, his thoughts buried deep where no man could dig them up, but when he did let something slip through, it was like the floodgates burst all at once. too much. too fast. amir had seen it before, once upon a time when ja had first fallen for his wife, and now again. amir stood there, rod still in hand as he looked at his friend: why he ask the most random things?

amir exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes fixed on the fire, watching the embers spit and rise into the cooling evening air. he knew better than to bring up the past, the things ja didn’t speak of, the ones he carried like weights around his ankles. he glanced at him then, arching a brow. but he also wasn’t going to dress this up pretty. ja didn’t need pretty; he needed straight. he was on one, and amir would make sure his friend didn't get himself another ruined face.

“...i'm still avoiding the sword of the morning for the first time. i won't survive a second.”

he was unsure of how best to go about the conversation: mainly because despite amir being the more social of the two, he had not felt such things. he could give all the advice he could muster, but considering he'd never dealt with it first hand, there was only so much he could understand - and he knew ja knew that.

“i don't know about love, let alone falling out of love man.” amir said finally, voice steady as he toyed with the fire. “i reckon you just firm it and keep it pushing. and one day it don't hit the same.” he reached for a stick, prodding the fire absently. “thing is, you got a bad habit of putting all of yourself into someone when you finally let yourself do it. you don’t do things halfway. all or nothing, you've always been that way. like...ask yourself. did you actually love her? did you just really like her? 'cause caring about someone don't mean you love them." amir did not need to ask if it was only physical, matters of lust: he knew it was not, if ja was bringing this up to him. he knew it before he said it.

he’d seen the way ja got when she was mentioned, like a man who didn’t know whether to move toward the flame or put himself out in the river before it swallowed him whole. amir leaned back on his hands, shaking his head. “too complicated - why you like giving yourself an issue?” he grinned then, trying to cut the weight of it, but his voice held something softer beneath it.

Jalabhar let out a slow breath as Amir settled beside him, the weight of his friend's presence a reminder of days long gone. He allowed the teasing to wash over him, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes as he glanced at the canoe he had been working on. His hands, calloused and steady from years of hard labor, unexpected of a highborn lord and yet he loved the peace it brought to him. "Do you remember that summer those girls were on the river's edge and when we got close enough they took our fish and ran?"

Jalabhar let the silence linger before answering, thinking about how he'd been and he would argue not well. His voice was quieter than usual, almost reflective as he looked back at his friend. "How does a man fall out of love when it’s all lost?" He paused for a moment, his fingers brushing against the edge of the canoe as if seeking some sort of grounding. "When you’re the one responsible for destroying it?" His words were oddly spaced, his tone remaining neutral, careful, as though he were speaking of something far removed from himself. And yet, the rawness of the question hung in the air, undeniable.

His eyes flicked toward Amir, though his expression was unreadable. The weight of the question, unspoken yet understood, lay heavy between them. It was a question he had asked himself countless times since that fateful moment—the moment everything had changed. His thoughts drifted to Myriam, the Princess Dowager of Dorne, and to the weight of the words he had said to her in the past. So emotional. He behaved like a woman and he could hear the mocking laugh of his fathers and brothers in years long gone by at how sensitive little Ja could be.

A flicker of self-mockery passed through him, but it was gone as quickly as it came. He looked at Amir, though he didn’t expect an answer. The question, as much as anything, was a confession—an admission that even someone as adept at manipulating fate as he was could not undo the damage he had caused. And now, in this quiet moment beside the fire, there was nothing left to do but sit with the knowledge that he had failed.

"You should have gotten here sooner," he said in an attempt to lighten the mood once more, smiling a bit, "you know I've the thirst of a riverman and the heart of a reachman." He laughed and took another drink.

[amirofmanderlys]

who: the old way when and where: set after the assassination and burial of septon demir, the lords and ladies of the old way gather in a room in highgarden. they have traveled for the funeral.

the scent of incense clung to amir’s clothes, thick and suffocating, masking the colder truth beneath—blood, earth, and death. his hands still bore the raw sting of labour, of washing septon demir’s broken body, of wrapping him in linen that could not hide the violence done to him. reverence had guided their hands, but it had not undone the horror. stepping into the starry sept, he felt the weight of expectation settle upon him. the women had remained behind, waiting in veiled silence, their grief heavy in the air. he did not speak at first.

he only walked, slow, deliberate, the echo of his boots swallowed by the vastness of the space. light filtered through stained glass, casting fractured gold across the altar where demir once stood. once preached. once defied. his voice, when it came, was quiet but unshaken. “it was not thieves.” he did not need to say more. they all knew. “we put a man in the ground today for speaking truth.” his fists curled, dirt still beneath his nails. his gaze swept over them, unwavering. “the high septon ordered this. whether he held the knife or not, it was him.”

[amirofmanderlys]

❅

amir listened quietly as naija spoke, her voice steady but tinged with that soft hesitance he’d come to recognise over the years. the cold wind swept across the beach, pulling at the loose strands of her hair, but she didn’t seem to notice. she never did when her thoughts were as heavy as they were now. amir shifted his weight slightly, his boots pressing deeper into the black sand, and when she finally looked at him, her question hanging in the air like a storm cloud, he exhaled a slow breath.

his boot moved to unearth a pebble from the sand, lining himself up and running up as though he were playing a sport, rather than speaking of this matter.

"...you’re not wrong to worry," he said after a moment, his voice low but certain as he measured his run up again, sending the pebble darting straight into the rumbling tides of the shivering sea. "this isn’t just some ceremonial title they’ve handed him, naija. being hand of the king—especially when we’re as unpopular as we are right now—it’s like stepping onto thin ice with a thousand wolves beneath it, all waiting for the crack." his hand moved to scratch idly at his his stubble as he spun around to meet her gaze again, his dark eyes following the shifting tide. "and nasir... he’s brilliant, no doubt about that. sharp as a blade. but he’s not invincible. none of us are."

he looked at her then, his expression softening, though his worry was plain. the man's face was and always had been an open book, one where one did not need to squint to read the pages. "do i think they could hurt him? aye, i do. not just could—they would if it served their purpose. the north isn’t what it used to be, naija. it’s restless. fucked. karstark’s absence, that was a statement. and statements like that..." he paused, his jaw tightening briefly. "i'll speak to aleks when i see him." and amir did not notice that even in the midst of discussion such tension, nature itself had him referring to his friend with his name.

amir shifted closer to her, his voice dropping to something more intimate as the beginnings of a grin crossed his features; if there was one thing he enjoyed, it was talking about how his brother loved the game far more than he let on. "but you know nas. he’ll play the game, and he’ll play it well, and come home complaining about it. i think he's just decided to go with it at this point." he reached out then, lightly brushing his knuckles against her arm, an unspoken reassurance in the gesture. "so no, don’t let go of your worry. it keeps us sharp. but don’t let it drown you either. nas isn’t alone in this, and neither are you."

he looked back at the waves, his thoughts running deeper than he cared to admit. "he’ll need us. and we’ll be there. that’s what we do...man like team seconds." he cracked a grin there, positioning himself to kick another rock into the ocean.

remembrance brings with it a wave of nostalgia that naija tends to push out of her mind when it hits her. not that she doesnt enjoy looking back on the days of their youth, time spent on this shore slowly shaping who she is at her core. its the missing stones in their strong family foundation that make each memory as bittersweet for the manderly as shes sure it is for her mirror. "all too well," humor is evident in a heavy tone, "she asked why i hadn't returned the favor, and told manal and i that the next time anyone aside from she lay a hand to us, kin or otherwise, that we come to our own defense." thinks fondly for a brief moment of silence on the vision of regality that was and still is manal manderly i. lessons from the woman held a wide range of knowledge, from that still fresh on shivering lips to the poised way she holds her posture even in the presence of said kin.

"yes, yes, i know." favors a knowing mumble for her typical inflection. irritation doesnt plague her, as the assurance mught suggest, but rather a hesitation that stifles what she wishes to say until words are nothing more than a dull, constant ache in her chest. brows furrow in response to both that ache and her brother's daming insinuation. hand raises to instinctively lay a soft, yet pointed blow to his shoulder, disappointment evident when it doesnt connect. "gods no, amir, what is wrong with you? me with a bolton? i think this family has suffered enough don't you?" momemt of levity before returning to the thoughts lingering in the back of her mind. perhaps there are things nasit needn't hear, like the fracture in her faith or the fear she carries within at the very thought of his departure.

"does it worry you?" asked frankly, though she doesnt break a gaze intent on ebbing and flowing tides. "the position nas has found himself in. it is an honor of the highest. a blessing from the gods hands directly to his, yet i cannot feel the pride i know i should over the.. dread." a carefully chosen word to cover every conflicting emotion. "lord karstark was not present at the ceremony, and you would be bereft of my truth if were to say his absence doesn't unnerve me." blame cannot be placed upon the lord, if she were in his shoes she might not be in attendance for the person thats replacing her. she can, however, worry about the implications of his absence with the current northern turmoil. "i worry that there may be retribution and that our dear brother will be at the core of it."

squinted, misty brown hues finally lower to the dark sands before making a familiar path to amirs. "do you think that they could hurt nasir?"

[amirofmanderlys]

@mintharaestermont

Jessie Burton, The Miniaturist

[amirofmanderlys]

❅

amir landed with a thud as he leapt effortlessly over the fallen tree, the dirt kicking up behind him. he grinned wide as he landed, the familiar thrill of movement settling in his bones. “aye, still pretending to work?” he teased, offering a quick flick of his wrist in greeting as he ambled over to his friend. without skipping a beat, he slapped his hand against jalabhar’s shoulder, the gesture easy and familiar, one that spoke of years spent in each other’s company.

he dropped to the log beside jalabhar, glancing around as if taking stock of the scene. the campfire crackled, sending the scent of roasting fish and potatoes into the air, mingling with the fresh wood scent. it was a smell that always brought him comfort, a reminder of their shared past.

it was then he looked up and down at the scene; there was more than one canoe, the smell of freshly carved wood fresh as he looked upon the scene before him. not many would think they would find ja mooton of all people carving wood, and yet this was different. “well shit. you really did all this already, man? i’d have thought you’d at least make it interesting and rope some poor fool into helping.” amir quirked an eyebrow and took a deep breath, letting the evening air fill his lungs as he looked around at his friend's work, as though he were inspecting it and was incredibly impressed. "damn."

he gave jalabhar a sidelong glance before shrugging, his hands coming together in a slow, dramatic clap. “fish and potatoes sound like a deal. i've got rum coming our way." he had assigned the task to a serving boy, one of maidenpool's boys no doubt; who tried to hustle a gold coin from him for the favour. "if the little short fat boy remembers to drop it off. man said, "at least one gold, yes? i do dis work for you, make your life better, sah." amir seamlessly slipped into the maidenpool accent as leaned over to the frying fish, poking it with the clean rod ja had used to set it up.

"how you been? chat to me."

who: @amirofmanderlys what: flashback; after returning from the crownlands coronation.

The sun hung lazily over the Red Fork, its golden light glinting off the river’s surface and casting shifting patterns on the half-finished canoe Lord Jalabhar Mooton worked on. His chisel bit into the wood with practiced precision, but his thoughts wandered far from the task at hand. The quiet murmur of the river had always been a balm for him, a place where the noise of duty and expectation fell away.

He didn’t need to turn around to know who had arrived—there was only one man who walked with that particular heavy-footed swagger. Without looking up, Jalabhar called out, his voice light with humor.

“Late as always, Amir.” He grinned to himself, setting the chisel down and stretching his arms over his head. Turning, Jalabhar leaned casually against the dugout, his hands brushing off stray wood shavings. His smile was wide and teasing, but there was genuine warmth in his eyes. “You know, when I invited you to join me, I assumed you’d be the one hauling logs while I supervised. Yet here I am doing all the work. Seems like I got the short end of the deal.”

He gestured to the riverbank around them, where tools were strewn about and the unmistakable scent of freshly carved wood mingled with the cool breeze off the water. “Go on, tell me you’re here to help. Or better yet, that you’ve brought something to drink. I've already started the campfire, fish and potatoes roasting. Summer spiced as always.

The lord walked away from the canoe and sat down on a log in front of the fire and rested his forearms on his legs. "It's good to see you again old friend."

[amirofmanderlys]

Maidenpool, a vibrant town on the southern shore of the Bay of Crabs, holds a unique cultural identity rooted in its geography and history. Known for its bustling harbor and pink stone walls, Maidenpool is the seat of House Mooton and a central hub for trade and life along the waters. The rivers and forks near Maidenpool have shaped the lives of its inhabitants for generations, creating a deeply ingrained connection to watercraft and aquatic livelihoods. You can find more in the tag here.

The Canoe Kids and Riff Raft Tradition

Children in Maidenpool and its surrounding lands are affectionately nicknamed "Canoe Kids" or "Riff Raft," a playful term that reflects both their adventurous spirit and their connection to the rivers. The people of Maidenpool, descended in part from Summer Islander settlers, inherited an exceptional knowledge of crafting dugout canoes, rafts, and riverboats. This heritage has blossomed into a vibrant tradition where children grow up exploring the forks of the rivers, fishing, swimming, and even lounging in these simple yet effective watercraft.

It's not unusual to see groups of children paddling along the waterways, diving into the river from their rafts, or laughing as they race each other in their hand-carved canoes. For these children, the rivers are both a playground and a proving ground. Building and maneuvering these watercraft is a rite of passage, teaching them resourcefulness, teamwork, and a respect for the natural world.

Children orphaned by the dance make their livelihood along the rivers through fishing and clam digging then selling their wares. Traditionally, children who make it to the keeps Lord Market are able to sell out their stock to the Master of the Lord Market. Which isn't truly a market, it's a place Jalabhar created after the war to allow children a chance at earning coin.

Friendship and Freedom

A favorite local tale recounts the childhood of Jalabhar Mooton and his best friend, Amir Manderly ( @amirofmanderlys ). One sunny day, Amir, captivated by the skillful paddling of the "Canoe Kids," declared he could row one of their dugouts just as well as they could. Despite his confidence as a son of House Manderly, Amir quickly capsized, plunging into the river. Jalabhar and his brothers, momentarily panicked, feared they had drowned their friend. But to their relief (and Amir's later embarrassment), he was fished out, spluttering but unharmed. That day, Amir learned that swimming came as naturally to the children of Maidenpool as walking on land, their ease in the water honed by countless hours spent in its embrace. This anecdote is often told with a mixture of humor and pride, symbolizing the carefree and adventurous childhood enjoyed by the youth of Maidenpool. Jalabhar himself was a part of this tradition, spending his formative years navigating the forks of the rivers with other "Riff Raft," relishing a freedom that contrasted with the responsibilities placed on his elder brothers.

A Legacy of Craftsmanship and Survival

The watercraft of Maidenpool are more than just a pastime—they are a testament to the ingenuity and survival skills of the town’s ancestors. The Summer Islander settlers who contributed to Maidenpool's founding brought with them advanced knowledge of woodworking and shipbuilding. Over time, these skills adapted to the rivers of the Riverlands, leading to the creation of uniquely Maidenpoolian designs for canoes and rafts. Fisherfolk northwest of Maidenpool still use leather coracles and hand-carved rafts for their work, collecting clams and fishing the waters. The tradition of crafting and using these vessels has persisted, not only as a practical necessity but also as a cherished cultural heritage. The rivers themselves have become a living classroom, where each generation learns the art of boat-building and the rhythms of the water. No man or woman should fear starving in Maidenpool for the rivers feed them and house them in their floating houses.

A Culture of Exploration

The rivers that flow near Maidenpool connect the town to the wider Riverlands, fostering trade and exploration. For the youth, these waterways are a gateway to adventure, leading them to discover new places, meet new faces, and develop a sense of independence. Even the nickname "Riff Raft" reflects this spirit—a lighthearted acknowledgment of their rough-and-tumble antics and the scrappy resilience that defines the people of Maidenpool. This culture of exploration and craftsmanship has shaped the identity of Maidenpool, making it a place where the rivers are more than just a feature of the landscape—they are the lifeblood of the town and its people, weaving together past, present, and future in their flowing currents.

[amirofmanderlys]

❅

amir’s grin spread wide, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards with genuine amusement as he caught the flicker of certainty in minthara’s tone. the way her eyes met his, unflinching and steady, had a way of settling and intriguing him all at once. there was something about her—sharp as a stormlander gale but wrapped in a warmth he wasn’t sure she even knew she carried. “you think you’ve got me all worked out, don’t you?” he teased, tilting his head and letting his voice take on a mock-serious tone.

“northman who can’t handle his drink, can’t keep his wit sharp under pressure, gives away his carriages, and, what, now you think i’ll need hours to pen a verse worthy of your standards? insulting. absolutely insulting.” he stepped to the side to allow her to push through a bustling crowd first, standing behind her, though he maintained her eye contact each time she briefly turned around to look at him until they were able to walk in step once again.

he gestured grandly with his drink, nearly sloshing some of it over the rim before catching himself; it was enough to make him laugh as he looked down at the drink, making sure he did not send any flying over her skirts. no doubt that would be enough to end this interaction with the swiftness of a click of his fingers. “but here’s the thing, lady minthara. i don’t owe you a poem next time. i’ll give you one right here. right now. no quill, no parchment, no hiding behind drafts.” amir tilted his head, flashing a grin that was all cheek and confidence as he set his drink down.

he then approached a vacant table where some serving staff were dealing with the tables. "i'll be quick, i'll be quick." he assured the servants who spoke of how they were needing to use the table to sort the desserts, and instead he pushed up the table cloth, as though he would use the wooden surface to play a beat. amir leaned forward, his grin widening as he lifted his hands and began drumming out a steady rhythm on the table with the flats of his palms. the beat was infectious, but able to heard only by the lady who he ushered to stand closer to him. his warm dark gaze stayed locked on hers, full of mischief.

and when he spoke, he had suddenly adopted the estermont accent of green isle with such perfection it was enough to make him laugh himself.

“minty estermont, stormy and wild, but mi cut through yuh banter wid a smirk an’ a smile. sea breeze nice, but mi frost nah mild, mi tek yuh sharp words an’ flip dem in style.”

his fingers tapped out a sharper rhythm, and his grin grew wider, leaning into the fun. his laughter slipped from him as he spoke, one hand resting on his torso.

“talk yuh big talk, yuh quick wid yuh wit, but mi fire nah cool, mi nah back, mi commit. call me bold? yeah, dat suit me fine, ‘cause mi melt yuh storm vibes wid one good rhyme.”

he ended the beat with a soft thud, leaning back and raising his eyebrows in challenge, his grin still firmly in place as he moved around the table; he didn't care who heard him speak, as this was amir to his core. “what yuh say now, estermont? yuh ready fi surrender?” he was still using her accent, and the laughter still slipped from the bottom of his stomach as he passed her another goblet of wine.

she gave no response to his accusation of attempted murder, just a sweet smile that was almost completely at odds with his words. she knew not why, but every laugh she managed to coax from him felt like a victory. without knowing exactly when, she'd begun measuring the night by the sound of his laughter, rather than each song the musician played or the distant toll of the bells or how many times she'd refilled her cup. it was just the drink, she told herself, making her loosen her guard, and yet, it was difficult not to notice the way his smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, or the way his hair moved when he walked, or feel a flicker of satisfaction each time his eyes lingered a fraction longer than they should.

her steps slowed a little as she adjusted the glass in her grip, swirling the contents absently. "there's no rulebook, but if there was, calling me a liar and acting like i'm about to do you in at the first opportunity would probably be top of the list. you're playing with fire there." the way her eyes flicked up to meet his again was anything but serious. "anyway, ain't you northmen supposed to be able to take your drink? you can't be letting a stormlander show you up, yet here you are pulling faces like it's the worst thing you ever put in your mouth."

she took another sip, the drink going down a little easier now. it was more to keep herself steady, to prevent herself from letting out another laugh now that he had pointed it out. her lips pressed together, as though trying to hold it in, but it was a losing battle. it was something in his words, the way they seemed to have so effortlessly fallen into this rhythm with one another. he spoke as though he had her figured out, but she could not quite put her finger on him, though she knew she wanted to. "you'll be waiting a while. i admit to nothing." she looked at him again, and what she was holding in spilled over, face splitting into a wide grin. "all right. maybe you're not wrong."

she had not pegged him for a writer himself. it was strange enough that she had shared this with him in the first place, but the fact it was something they had in common made it even more bizarre. but it made sense - there had been no mockery in his tone when he spoke of her writing, the way she had always expected there to be if anybody went through her books and read what was written there. curiosity twisted at her. she wanted to read them, even if just to know him a little better, to get a glimpse into his head.

minthara blinked, his offer coming out of the blue. before she could truly consider his words, she was responding, her mouth running away with her as it so often did. "yeah." she said. "yeah, you'll see me again, amir manderly. don't you worry about that." this time, there was no trace of any teasing in her voice. she spoke with a sort of certainty, as though crossing paths with one another was a given. "and when you do, you owe me a poem."