omerflorent

[omerflorent]

"Perhaps. You are quite verbose." Omer's words came to him as easy as the smirk that followed. They were not raised as brother, they were barely raised to see each other with warmth. Not that it mattered in the long run. It was loyalty. House Florent's loyalty was infamous depending upon who was asked the question. And Omer's answering of the call continued to show the depts of loyalty. Omer used to crave something deeper before he released when he craved existed. In their darkest moments, they could find the other. He supposed. He knew.

Omer didn't argue, he did not know if he missed war. If ten years of fighting turned Omer into a man who needed the song of steel or was it the fighting and being knighted in the Vale? Was it the knightly adventures he took himself on to prove his status and worth in the Reach? Or was it just Omer? Did Omer crave the victory, the glory, and the peace of mind that came with surviving again? How could a man crave battle and have a family? How selfish did it make him to miss glory?

"Blame the Lannisters."

To him it made the most sense. Why allow the spoiled King of dragon bones to think he had the upper hand when he could think he was being betrayed. "You don't have to say it was the lion but," Omer shrugged, "people hear what they want to hear everyday." He folded his arms behind his back, he would go back to his office and he would have a drink and read over his books, perhaps find a bard to play the lute as he disappeared within himself.

"The Lannister Prince and the Princess of Dorne are close. My men have seen it. And the Dornish killed his dragon." Omer didn't get involved in this part, he was certain Cedric would know what to do. "Because that is what you do well, cousin. A tapestry of words and all are entranced." Omer could admit some admiration for the way the other could make anyone think anything with just a few words.

"I'll speak to Cargyll. See what is known, what concerns he may be willing to share."

♠

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

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

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

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

“he will not. he is a targaryen. reason only reaches him when it is convenient.” he let his hand drag across the parchment now, slow and deliberate, as though he might feel the fault lines of a greater game hidden there. “so we play defence. for now. but not forever." he looked to omer then, the flickering torchlight catching the sea-glass hue of their shared eyes. “you may want to be speaking to the high commander of new valyria, lest this becomes some arms race. what's his name again? cargyll?" cedric asked, the sound of his ring knocking against the wooden surface of the desk, bouncing his thoughts against omer as naturally as he could ever.

[omerflorent]

Omer didn't speak, he sat there and listened to her as she spoke to him and he expected her to have this reaction. His wife lost everything in her young life; countless siblings, her brother, her mother, her father, and the last tie to her father was her aunt. And while at least one Hightower remained she did lose the one she was closest to and in that this child was important to her. Mattered to her. And in some small way he suppose he cared for the girl as well, not as much as he cared for their sons. And while he didn't want to imply she didn't care, grief blacked out everything.

"I have been speaking to no one. I am speaking to you. I would not bring up such a thing without talking to you first." And that would not make it easier or make this conversation better. "We have to consider many things and that includes, above all else, our children. There is a clear and present danger for our children. There is also the threat that matters more than the doing." And he wasn't suggesting they dash her head against the castle wall. He was suggesting they make themselves aware of the risks.

The stream of smoke he blew out was long as he thought about before looking toward the ground and then back at her, fingers moving over the messy of raven curls. "Girls need mothers. Girls need to be protected for it is the only way our daughters, sisters, and mothers will know peace in this life." Omer fell back on the wording of the seven tenets of Brightwater faith.

"If Rhea decided to marry a man from the East, left her daughter with me, and her husband decided to play pirate because he abandoned his children I would have a very similar reaction to you, I won't deny that. I would be angry and I would say she is my sister and that is my niece." But Garland was not your brother, was what he wanted to say but he didn't say. He didn't say her not brother treated her like she was less than the dirt on his shoe.

"But what of our children, Lucrezia? What of their futures?" Omer didn't want to plan this but Omer understood certain parts of court that perhaps his wife did not understand. Children and women were pawns in war, unkind to them in unimaginable ways and unfortunately it was still true in peace.

Was Rosie a hostage? Had the question from the girls mother riled him up because it was true? Yes and no. The baby was the ward of his wife but until the matter was resolved she was a hostage. A bargaining chip. The person needed to dangle before the Vale and the East that she nor Oldtown would fall in their waiting hands.

"I would rather talk about this." They were going to fight, he could feel it and he needed a drink.

∞

lucrezia had smiled when he spoke of the boys, that radiant kind of warmth that spread across her whole face, softening the angular line of her cheekbones and warming the subtle flecks of green in her hazel eyes. she laughed under her breath at his mention of callum being “spirited,” her shoulders giving a small shake, not with mockery but with the kind of affection only a mother could possess for a child who drove her mad.

"spirited," she echoed, the word tasting sweeter on her lips when it came from him. "he’s a menace, omer. a lovely, biting little menace. and gods help us if he gets your charm and my wilfulness both. we’ll have a mutiny in the nursery." she sat down finally, curling one leg beneath her and watching as he poured his drink; affection in her gaze as she was about to will for him to come and sit beside her. "arlo will love the ship. he’s been talking about sails lately, thinking the wind listens to him. and callum…" she trailed, smiling again. “he will love the bunny, and probably try to eat it.”

the idea of home, of their sons playing in gardens and chasing foxes under his watchful eye, softened her further. the thought of omer taking them, truly taking them, being there, made her ache with the kind of hope she didn’t allow herself too often. perhaps, she thought, perhaps things were settling. perhaps there would be calm, and they could be as another other family within the realm. focus on creating the household they had wished to, in the manner they had discussed so many months ago now; what they would continue from their parents, and what they would leave behind in their chapter as parents. it all seemed so close, the bliss; at her very fingertips. so when he said it—casually, as though it were a matter like any other—she froze.

she didn’t even realise it at first. it was as if her mind had erected a wall between what had been said and what it meant. the moment slowed to something dense and quiet, her eyes fixed on the smoke curling from his lips, watching it drift up and up like a veil between them - her hand moved to move the smoke away, and that seemed to almost bring her from her spiral. "rosie?" she asked, though she already knew. her voice had changed; not sharp, not yet, but hollow. she had tilted her head slightly, like a bird startled mid-perch. she did not speak again for some time, her gaze dropping to the carpet beneath her feet. it was absurd, surely. a mistake. he would correct himself. he would say he meant something else. she waited for him to laugh it off, to say of course not, to pull her into his arms and soothe the crack now forming in her chest.

but he didn’t. her hazel hues narrowed as she looked at him, waiting for him to admit that this was some joke. some wrong, twisted, joke. but she stared at him nonetheless, feeling a sense of coldness settle into the back of her neck - goosebumps. just some weeks ago they had laid in bed looking at the canopy speaking of the things men were willing to do in war - what was that? some sort of preshadowing? "who will you use her life as a bargaining chip?" she asked, no - she demanded, sizing him up from where she sat. there was something uptight about the way she spoke, as though the ways she had been taught to think about florents from oldtown had emerged from the tip of her tongue. "you?" she asked, her hand resting over her mouth in utter shock. and judgement. "tell me, will you do that to me?"

“omer,” she said finally, slow and careful, as though she were testing the shape of the world now that it had tilted on its axis. as though she tread carefully before some other realisation would emerge from the watery depths; a part of her felt as though her heart was in her mouth, and she were ready to throw it up. “do you hear what are you saying? who has put this idea in your head?" she stood then, not abruptly but with purpose, her fingers running through her hair, dislodging a few pins. there was a stirring, and she fought to keep the panic from her voice, and to stop herself from overthinking - there was no need to start overthinking.

"who have you been meeting with? speaking to?" she asked, a hundred and one questions slipping from her mouth - she stared at him as though he had grown another head. as though he were meeting with some whores in the dead of night.

her kaftan shimmered as she moved—dark wine-red velvet catching the firelight, the gold embroidery around her collar now looking almost like armour, as though she lunged. but she pierced the personal space between them, pointing at him as she spoke, before pointing at her own chest. “rosie is my family. mine. she is not some chipped coin to be traded for sea peace which can be achieved anyway, she is an infant. a girl, and girls need mothers. not that… creature who abandoned her. not the shadow of some vale court that would turn her into something white-eyed and possessed.” she stared at him again now, her stomach twisting. "i told you, i did not expect you to care for her like she was your own. she is not. she is mine. what befalls her is not your concern."

"all this, and i know...if i had ever suggested we ever use rhea's children for some sort of gain, you would tell me to watch my mouth."

[omerflorent]

who: open starter what: during the verdant concord omer is demonstrating the reach's new invention the repeating crossbow where: one of platforms in a garden

"Many of you have never seen the ships from the lands further east have these attachments, they are large and cumbersome. Think of the scorpions from Dorne but not half the size of them. And this, gentleman and the few fair ladies in the crowd." Omer smiled toward the crowd before pointing toward pages who hurried over to remove the emerald green covering for the crowd to witness. "And here is what I have done, what the Reach has done. We intend on continuing our efforts toward progress and the betterment of society." And, of course, the improvement of Reachly armies. A grand display that martial might and intelligence were at home in the Reach and among Reachmen.

"Do you see what we have here." Omer turned his back to the crowd as he looked at the weapon before he raised it up and looked it over, turning to face the crowd. "Built by the hands of Brightwater from my mind." He wrapped his right hand firmly around the curved wooden grip of the repeating crossbow, fingers settling into the smooth indentations. His left hand slides beneath the weapon’s stock, cradling its weight and steadying his aim. "And this lever, with pull." The first bolt shot out and with a second so did the other and continued until the weapon was spent of five of it's ten bolts.

"My squires will be here continue this demonstration and perhaps a lord of luck will take a turn." Omer stepped to the side and off the platform as the crowd pulled in tighter, their group muttering sounding like a steady him. "I've a man's thirst." He spoke to himself as he walked over to the table where Brightwater whisky bottles lined the table in place of sweet wines.

[omerflorent]

[omerflorent]

"Callum is quite spirited isn't he?" Omer replied with a bit of a smile on his face, he knew the boy could be difficult; he didn't like to sleep, didn't like to eat without being held, and didn't like anything that made days far more difficult for Lucrezia and the nursemaids. While away he wondered how his boys were, then he wondered how Callum was for he knew Arlo was quiet more of a mother's boy. "I've got something for them. I bought Arlo a little ship, you've seen how his eyes light up when he sees sails and of course, Callum has a little bunny. You know, when we go home I'm going to take him to see the foxes. Maybe Arlo will like that as well."

As she made her "admission" of not drinking he smiled a bit if only to ignore the guilt that gnawed within him. Omer wished he could say he only had wine with dinner or savored sweet fruit juices around the realm but he had not. He had drinks in his quarters, a few nights on the road, and a bottle in the Riverlands. These were not things his wife needed to know, he didn't want to worry her. "Farewell, LuLu will have her Arbor Gold another day."

As their conversation carried on and he brought up the name he knew would bring pause he waited and listened. She asked what happened and while he would tell her everything, he knew there was more to say.

"She claimed to not know about these pirates, a lie at best and perhaps we are expected to believe that someone in her family cares so much they would send pirates against the greatest naval force in Westeros." He said it with pride, something that other houses could once claim and now it was just a passing tale of history. "I learned a few things from the interaction but nothing of substance."

There was another problem with little Rosie. His wife loved the baby, his boys played with her the way babies play. And perhaps he didn't hate seeing her there. Her existence brought them danger. Omer did not think she should go East or even live with her Uncle. Omer thought there was one way to deal with such things and bitter taste of the words filled his mouth before he said another word.

"I need to discuss something with you, that may be brought up in a private meeting with Ced or council." He leaned toward more having the conversation with Cedric than the council but if it came up then he would say it, it was his nature. "There is a risk in keeping her..." He took out a smoke and placed it between his lips and then put it down. "While I disagreed with her characterization of Rosie's being here, she is not a hostage in the typical sense. And she is your ward."

Omer would just have to say it, he could see in her face that his rambling was starting to worry her. "One day, there may come a time when her life is the bargaining chip." A life to keep the mother in line or her behavior would be the direct cause of her own child's death.

∞

there was no helping the way her hazel hues glimmered and lit up with a giddy mischief when he teased her, the warmth of his voice settling into her bones in a way that made her feel giddy, despite herself. “silent like the dornish?” she repeated, laughter light as she tilted her chin up, mock appraising him as if she could see the stealth in the way he carried himself and yet her nose wrinkled at the notion of her husband comparing himself to a dornishman. gods could only forbid. “i don’t believe you, love.” with that, she playfully whacked his arm, shaking her head.

“you always breathe too deep when you’re trying to be quiet. no, instead you stand here like some phantom, or djinn in front of the hearth.” she shuddered slightly, pulling a face as he unwound his arms around her and began to make his way over the drinks station.

the joy of having him home had not yet faded, nor had the way her body naturally leaned into him, as though closing whatever infinitesimal space might have lingered between them. her fingers brushed his wrist as he turned away, her eyes lingering on him, drinking in the details—the way the firelight cast flickering shadows across his features, the way he moved through their home with the ease of a man who belonged. her brow arched as he spoke of the pirates, her lips pressing together in a thoughtful line. she did not have his ease with war and bloodshed—never had—but she listened, always. even when she would rather not hear it.

her mind flickered to security matters, to council sessions filled with men who sneered when she so much as mentioned naval affairs. would she burden him with it now, when he just got home?

but his next words had her exhaling, her head tilting back in quiet exasperation. “well omer florent, your callum is a headache,” she sighed, shaking her head before she even found the words to follow. what was there to say? the boy had his father’s stubbornness, but not yet the discipline to temper it. he was spoiled, by the looks of it, refusing to settle. “i do not know what to do with him,” she admitted, though there was no true bite to her words. “he would sooner challenge me to a crying duel than listen to a word i say, still.” she trailed after him as he moved to pour himself a drink, not even noticing at first that he had only poured the wine for himself before he hesitated, filling a second goblet.

"he bit me multiple times, and said he wanted you when i told him off. arlo just tells him to be quiet." she reached for the goblet instinctively, only to pause before the glass ever met her lips.

“you know, i actually haven’t drunk since you left,” she admitted, her voice light but firm, as though she were trying to ensure he did not think this was about him. there had been ample nights where she had a glass of wine whilst sat beside him. “i’ve been preparing for fasting, and, well… i don’t feel the need for it anymore.” her fingers brushed the stem of the goblet in his hand, and she offered it a teasing smile, as if bidding it farewell. “perhaps this is it - goodbye, old friend.” but then he spoke again, and her lightness dimmed. the name— the implication of it—curled around her thoughts like a vine. her expression fell before she could stop it, the mirth in her gaze flickering away like a candle snuffed too soon.

she had been looking forward to simply being with him, to slipping into the quiet comforts of their home without the weight of politics pressing against them. but instead, she had to hear about zialla. she did not speak on it. she did not let the disappointment settle into words, for what good would that do? instead, she forced herself to exhale, to smooth away whatever tension had crept into her shoulders that caused her to stiffen. “...what happened?” she asked, keeping her voice measured. if other married couples lived like this, she did not know how they bore it; her hands came to her forehead briefly as she remained stood. "it's her, isn't it? she dares attack me, as though i do not provide and care for the daughter she left behind when she couldn't keep her marriage?" lucrezia's voice grew increasingly incredulous, a hand resting upon her bust as though she could not believe what it was she was hearing.

"well, what a story to tell rosie one day, honestly. your mother and her wretched kin attacked the king and then demanded for you to be raised in the seventh hell that is the vale court before seeking to ship you back to oldtown." she looked at omer there, knowing the corbrays were his kin - the one exception she would pass. she was half laughing, at the mere prospect of it. at the reality of it, as she unclasped earrings from her ears. "one day, she can see her mother and ask her what is wrong with her, how about that?"

[omerflorent]

Omer’s lips curled into a dangerous smile as he listened to Elys wax poetic about bastards and theatrical pain. He picked up his goblet again, swirling the wine before taking a long draught that left a dark stain upon his lips. Setting the cup down with deliberate force, he folded his arms across his chest and regarded Brax with narrowed eyes.

“So charming,” he drawled, voice low and mocking, “to see a man so thoroughly at home in the weeds of scandal.” He paused, letting the words settle. “You fancy yourself a connoisseur of private failures, Brax, yet you prattle on as though your own house were spotless.” A single eyebrow rose as he leaned forward, the flicker of candlelight dancing across his stern features.

Omer picked up his goblet once more, pausing before he drank. “You speak of my wife again and I'll take this goblet and ram it through your head.”

He moved around the table, each step measured, until he stood inches from Brax. To an outside viewer they were on the verge of a fight but Omer knew that neither of them were that foolish. Afterall, things were so tense between their realms. “I do so enjoy our little talks, too,” he said, voice a whisper edged with steel. “They remind me why I keep my blade sharp.” He raised a gloved hand, tapping Brax’s goblet with his knuckles. “Now, tell me—will I get the pleasure of unseating you or will you observe from the stands like a woman?”

"Chair, boy." Omer spoke to one of the men at the table as if they were a small child, barely sparing a glance. "I'm catching up with an old friend."

omer's words did not cause elys to bristle or rise to anger. if anything, he seemed entirely satisfied with the turn the conversation had taken, a slow, deliberate smile spreading across his face. omer's sharpness was almost predictable at this point, and elys did so enjoy a man that could be counted on. he swirled the wine in his goblet, with all the leisure of a man who had all the time in the world.

"my, my, omer," he said, deliberately dropping the term of address he had formerly used, the lord florent of his polite greeting. "still so quick to bear your teeth. it's almost charming, really. almost." he took a measured sip of his wine, and set the cup down upon the table. "such a gallant knight of the reach, truly, standing here talking about shoving your cock into an open flame. delightful. though i must say, the fact you would so willingly burn it to a cinder does not paint your wife in a favourable light."

his eyes gleamed, for all intents and purposes giving the impression of a man who was very much enjoying this conversation, and had nowhere else that he would rather be. "do not concern yourself with my sister's bastards," he raised a dismissive hand, though inside, he bristled at it. "if i wanted to waste my time chasing down bastards, why, i'd only have to visit the reach, wouldn't i?" he leaned forward, as though sharing some grand secret. "i do so wonder how many of your fine, upstanding lords would squirm if a true ledger was kept of whose seed had been sown where."

he picked up his goblet, tipping it to omer in a mock salute. "i do so enjoy our little talks."

[omerflorent]

Omer’s expression remained unreadable as Cedric’s frustration settled between them. He tipped his head slightly, meeting his cousin’s gaze with a flat, measured tone. “Yes. Someone is several steps ahead, it would seem.” He let the words hang in the air. If she’d been executed, there’d be no whispers in the gardens, no stray threads to follow. Yet here we are—loose ends and hidden hands pulling at every secret. He folded his arms, refusing to elaborate on a point he knew Cedric grasped all too well.

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

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

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

Returning to Cedric’s side, Omer placed a hand on her should and spoke one final time. “We may argue method, cousin, but our goal remains the same: uncover the hand that strikes unseen and end its game.” He inclined his head with quiet courtesy. “Once we find it, we’ll know exactly where to strike be it with quill or steel.”

♠

cedric’s grip on the chair tightened, his nails pressing against the carved wood as omer’s words settled between them. he did not flinch, nor did he let his expression betray the flicker of something taut and bristling within him. a failure, was it? an accusation levelled so easily, as though cedric had been sat idle, twiddling his thumbs while chaos unfurled. his gaze did not waver from his cousin’s, but there was something sharp, something irritable in the way he studied him now.

“if i have failed,” he said, his voice quiet but edged, “it is not because i overthought. it is because for the first time since the dance ended, something has happened regarding a reach house that i did not have a hand in.” he leaned forward, the firelight casting flickering shadows along the angles of his face; and for brief moments, the fire light caught the reflective hues of vivid ocean blues that seemed to look right back at him.

“you think i’m rattled because alicent is dead? because she deserved a noose, not an arrow? no, cousin, i am rattled because this was not mine. do you understand what that means?” his fingers drummed against the armrest, slow and deliberate, his thoughts moving faster than his body could keep up, an action he always done when he began to think fast. faster than he was even consciously understanding. “if i could sit here and tell you who strung the bow, then this would be mine. then i could shape the story, lay the pieces as i see fit - but i can’t.” his lips pressed into a thin line. “alicent hightower was murdered in a crowd, in broad daylight, with a clean shot that no one saw loosed. that is not accident. that is not luck.” he exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening.

“that is someone else’s design.” cedric rose then, his movements slow, calculated - and one could easily hear how angered he was at the mere concept of it. “we have been the ones behind the curtain, shifting the stakes with a word or a quill? we decide what is a battlefield and what is a parlour game. and yet here we are, reacting to someone else's move, as though we are just another piece in their game.” it was rare cedric showed his frustration; and yet, this were truly beginning to cause his thoughts to darken and his patience to thin. being a piece on the board, was a bitter taste in his mouth: being in the unknown, was akin to being stabbed in the side.

he moved towards omer, stopping just within reach, his florent eyes burning with something that was not rage, but drive. "i will not take your lesson on how to act with a soldier’s certainty when it comes to matters of state, as though the swing of a blade is always the answer. because if you do not know who to cut, when to cut, then all you are left with is a bloodied sword and the wrong man’s corpse.” his head tilted slightly, his voice cooling, controlled; almost as though he were now pushing his older cousin.

“you want to find the hand behind this, so do i. what's the issue? that i refuse to play the fool, lashing out at shadows while our true enemy watches and waits.” cedric watched as his kin reached out to ignite his smoke, a telltale sign that he were beginning to lose his patience more in this moment; usually, if it were any other, cedric would try to find ways to smoothen out the conversation, and yet with omer he would leave him in a mood if he decided to be in one. "itching for a fight, that's your issue. we've been at peace for so long it's winding you up." cedric's voice was blunt here as he sat down upon his desk, one of his boots going up upon the chair as he continued to look over at omer. a soldier turned politician didn't work; he thought like a commander rather than anything else. was that now spreading to other areas of their lives? "foreign braavosis not doing it for you?"

[omerflorent]

Omer leaned forward, resting both hands on the edge of the desk as he studied Rhea’s steady gaze. “You’re right—no one’s flying pirate banners, but the true traitors always work in shadows,” he replied, voice firm. “I’ll need every whisper you can turn up.”

He swept a hand over the maps. “I’ll ride to Horn Hill first—Harlon's patrols will spot any unfamiliar sails. From there, I’ll press on to Storm’s End. The Stormlords have long memories when it comes to coastal raids; if coin is changing hands, they’ll know who’s buying it. After that, I’ll cross to King’s Landing, question the Blackwater captains, and then push into the Stepstones themselves. They day the Dragon King has been distracted by his Dornish war, it's a good time for me to reach across lines.” Omer wasn't a spy, he didn't have the skill for it, but Florents were known for making connections. They could claim relation to most every great house. The ones that mattered.

Omer straightened, offering his sister a half-smile that spoke of their fractured past and the trust they’d rebuilt. “Tell your network to listen for strange shipments or late-night ships leaving port. Any hint—no matter how small—send me word. I’ll move fast, but I won’t walk blind into this.”

He tapped the maps once more before leaning back. “We’ve come a long way since we could barely stand to share a room. I’m glad you’re at my side now, Rhea. Let’s see what we can unearth before the first tide turns.”

Rhea stepped into the solar, knowing she had not been summoned for pleasantries. f Omer had wanted a simple reunion, he would have chosen a different setting. Quick nods were exchanged between the siblings as a greeting, and the Mistress of Whispers made her way to the Commander's large desk. Her gaze moved over the maps and scattered missives before landing on her brother again. “No one is openly siding with the pirates,” she said plainly. “But men with something to gain rarely make their dealings known. Smugglers, merchants looking to protect their trade routes, or even those who bear grudges against the Reach might be willing to slip a few coins into foreign pockets for the right price”. Her voice was steady, matter-of-fact. “I’ll keep an eye out for anything that suggests such arrangements. If I find anything, I will ensure you learn about it”.

She crossed her arms, considering his words more carefully now. He would be fighting again. Omer Florent was one of the best swordsmen in the continent, and yet she did feel some concern quietly blooming in her gut. “And where will you go first?” she asked, quick to focus on the task at hand. “If I know your destination, I can start gathering intelligence before you even set out.”. The clever foxes could join their strengths that way: him wielding his sword, and her ensuring he never strode into battle blind.

[omerflorent]

Omer’s jaw tightened as Zialla’s final words echoed in the stone chamber. He reached into his tunic for a slender handroll, drawing it out deliberately as though gathering his thoughts. With methodical patience, he struck flint to steel and lit the smokes. The first curl of smoke rose slow and pale, drifting upward before he brought the handroll to his lips and inhaled deeply.

He exhaled a soft plume aimed half at the ceiling, half in her direction. “I know nothing,” he said flatly, voice echoing off the cold walls. “Lord Garland Hightower would have never forced anyone’s hand.” Beneath the steady tone lay a flicker of amusement, yet he reminded himself that council members, even in death, kept their silence.

He shifted his weight, smoke trailing from his mouth as he fixed Zialla with a steady gaze. “You would know of empty hearts, wouldn’t you?” The words came quiet but cutting, the smoke swirling between them like a veil.

Rising to his feet he flipped the cover of a small ledger closed, then returned the quill to its cradle with a crisp click. “Little Rosie grows every day. A beautiful child.” His tone held a touch of reluctant admiration. “There must be a great sadness in knowing you will never see these very important years.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. Then, with firm courtesy, he inclined his head. “We’re done here.” .

zialla's eyes narrowed as omer's words dripped with disdain, each syllable fuelling the fire of her indignation. she stood rigid, the crisp mountain air mingling with the storm in her heart, every breath a reminder of the loss and betrayal that had defined her life. a ward. omer had repeated it with an unwavering tone, as though that single word could encapsulate the tragedy of her daughter. in the quiet that followed his accusation, zia's thoughts roiled like the turbulent sea. how dare the arrogant folk of the reach, with their lofty airs and condescension, reduce rosaria, her only child, to a mere ward in their tales? a ward that was not allowed to be reunited with her mother was no ward at all. she knew deep within that her daughter was never meant to be guarded by false pretences or neglected by those who cared more for their own vanity than for a child's well-being.

zia felt an all-consuming anger at his insinuation that she had abandoned her child, a dagger twisting in her heart. her memories of garland hightower and the bitter taste of betrayal mingled with every word omer spoke. “i will not stand by and be painted as a negligent mother,” she immediately shot back, her voice low yet charged with a potent blend of grief and fury. “you know that he was the one who forced my hand, he did not allow me to take her with me, and i had nowhere to go but home. so i left my daughter with her father and the nurses i trusted to care for her, always meaning to return once new plans were laid. are you blaming me for not knowing garland would be murdered?” all of the artifice and polite conversation melted away, leaving behind a raw, unabashed emotion that she could neither hide nor deny. “and if i had known that he gave my daughter to your wife, you can trust that i would have returned from braavos immediately.” she would have rather be on the run with rosie, than knowing her child was being brought up by someone who hated half of the genes that made rosaria.

as omer continued with his patronising justifications, and the supposed wisdom of entrusting rosaria to his wife’s care, zia's disdain only grew. she knew that omer's tongue would never truly offer her the solace of genuine information about her daughter, only more of the same arrogant prattle that attempted to justify their cruelty. he was exactly like his wife. “i am not here to play your petty games or to listen to your lies,” she declared, her tone icy. “i learned long ago that the words of your kind are as empty as your hearts.” her mind raced, each thought sharpening her resolve to protect what remained of her heart, even as she scorned his every insinuation.

zialla was done with the conversation. she felt beyond done with the realm of the reach, and would be happy to never talk to a single person from there again. but she could never be truly done, not when her daughter remained there as the heiress of oldtown. there was also something else inside her, a feeling so conflicting that she did not know what to call it. what if rosaria was happy there? what if the side of her that came from garland was enough for her to be considered one of their own? she would grow up rich and connected, with a powerful title and keep of her own one day, probably wanting nothing to do with her mother if lucrezia whispered in her ear. rosie would have far more than zia could ever give her. but it hurt deeply to think about.

“you have nothing to say of my daughter, and i have nothing to say about your pirates, so i assume this conversation is done?”

she already knew that her next step would be to send a letter to her father, to demand an explanation. her words were simply one last desperate attempt to have omer reveal anything about rosie. zia doubted he was happy to leave the vale without any new information about the pirates that caused trouble in their sea, just as she would hate to leave this room without one single piece of news of her child.

[omerflorent]

Omer’s eyes narrowed at the sight of Elys Brax, and his voice came out low and rough. “There’s no pleasure in seeing your face, Brax,” he spat, his tone laden with venom. “I’d get more pleasure from tucking my cock into a fireplace and letting it roast off. No milk of the poppy needed—I'd rather feel every bit of that over standing here and wasting my time with you.”

A bitter laugh escaped him as he shook his head, recalling the brutal tavern brawls of his youth, when blows were traded before fists even started flying. Things were raw and unvarnished then—no room for pretense or delicate courtesy. Now, these men are older, bound by wives, families, and alliances forged by kings. The rough and tumble of old is a luxury long past, replaced by a far sterner reality.

He took a long swig from his cup and then slammed it down on a passing tray. Fucking Braavos. “Venison's alright—bit shit if you ask me—but I imagine you don’t get such nice things out in the West. After all, when your tongue’s wedged so far up the King’s arse, there’s hardly room left for any decent spices.” His words were blunt and biting, a reflection of the years of rivalry and poor sportsmanship from that damned tourney.

Leaning in as if to deliver his final jab, Omer growled, “So, what do you want, Brax? Shouldn’t you be skulking off in some dark corner, looking for more of your sister’s bastards?”

closed starter for @omerflorent setting: during omer's trip to king's landing, elys also finds himself in the city, and can't resist doing what he does best.

elys brax did not like to be the centre of attention. he was a man who operated best when he could do so unseen, even at a feast like this. the hall was alive with the hum of conversation, the clink of goblets, and the occasional ripple of laughter. candlelight reflected off of jewels and fine embroidered clothing, the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine in the air, and yet, elys stood to the side of the hall, goblet in hand, watching the room with the air of a man perfectly at ease, though his sharp gaze missed very little.

it was then that he spotted omer florent across the hall, a familiar figure amidst the crowd. their paths had crossed on the tourney grounds, long ago now, but it would not be a stretch to say there was no love lost between the two. rivals was perhaps the kindest word for it. if there were any in this room who understood the trickery and treachery that elys would resort to, it was omer. elys' lips curved into the faintest smirk as he made his way toward him, his steps unhurried, his expression pleasant, even as he knew his very presence would likely do little but get on omer's nerves. that was, after all, the point.

"lord florent," elys greeted, just enough civility in his voice to pass as polite. "what a pleasure it is to see you gracing king's landing with your presence. the reach must feel your absence keenly - though i suppose even the most steadfast of knights deserve a reprieve now and again, don't they?"

he sipped his wine, his eyes glinting with a spark of amusement. "you'll forgive me, of course, for assuming you aren't here for your leisure, though. with men like you, always some noble cause to be charging around trying to put to rights, isn't there?" he gestured to the nearby table, almost lazy in his movements. "do try the venison, by the way. i hear the spices come from braavos. then again, i suppose not everyone has the stomach for foreign flavour." it was undoubtedly a dig, a nod to the fact elys knew full well the issues the reach's water were facing at the hand of braavosi ships. still, he delivered the comment lightly, his tone deliberately innocuous.

[omerflorent]

"A ward." Omer repeated, his tone firm and unmoved by her rage. He raised a brow and tilted his head ever so slightly, fighting back a smirk. "This is exactly what I mean when I call the people of the East uncultured—so emotional, loud, and completely off the mark."

He leaned forward, his gaze steady and cool. "When my wife's cousin Garland Hightower needed help putting things in order, he entrusted his daughter to my wife. And we thank the Gods for that wisdom, for he knew she could be trusted above all else—after all, her own mother abandoned her, left her alone. Without our dear, late Lord Hightower's sense, that precious child might have ended up nothing more than a corpse."

Omer paused, his thoughts turning briefly to the Braavosi pirates who had fled with the child. They were no strangers to our waters, he mused silently, but it’s the coin behind their boldness that still nags at me. It wasn't a secret he and Garland weren’t on the best of terms in his final years but he was murdered, not negligent of his child. Was she truly a ward? In some ways, yes; in others, she was nothing short of a hostage, living with her cousins until she’d come of age and, if fate allowed, returned to Oldtown.

Omer’s tone grew coldly dismissive. "With that said, do not accuse my house of such crimes. The father of the child gave her to his cousin because the mother—if we can even call you that—was elsewhere."

A smug smile crept onto his face as he added, "Play the fool if you wish. I’m certain your hand’s already in this game of pirates. No matter. Should you learn a modicum of self-control, we can discuss the daughter. And if not," he shrugged nonchalantly, "well, it's not as if she knows you."

the immediate rise of rage and frustration in her heart took her a little by surprise. finally she had made it back to westeros, and yet she knew next to nothing about her daughter. she was rosaria's mother, and she had more a right than anyone else to know how her child fared. but of course, the husband of lucrezia redwyne would not care. zia had to bite her tongue not to immediately come with an angry retort. then he kept talking, and both her worry and anger flared. this time she could not hold her tongue. "a ward? my daughter is not an orphan nor have i given my permission for you to keep her." she would not allow them to spin the story any differently. zialla had left her daughter with her father, convinced that they would be reunited in the near future, and instead garland had gotten himself killed and rosaria was with the people, who she least wanted to keep her. all without her having a say. "she's not a ward of house florent, she's a hostage."

she had no interest in talking to omer if he would tell her nothing of rosie, and she was about to tell him so until he revealed the reason why he was there. zialla's initial expression betrayed her surprise at omer's words. braavosi pirates? she knew enough to know they were active in the narrow sea, but to sail all the way to the sunset sea seemed unusual and risky. she knew pirates went wherever there was coin to be made. it did not seem to matter whether that coin came from whatever they could steal or plunder, or from the lining of a rich man's pocket.

zia felt a sense of unease at his words. there were many explanations, several of them she hoped were not the truth. she had begged her father and uncle many things to make a move, to do anything they could to reunited her with her daughter. while she had felt their outrage, none of them had taken action. and now that she was working on her own, they might suddenly have decided to do so? "the reach is rich and they are pirates, what other explanation could there be?" her tone of voice was cold, but she had gotten more control of her anger. it was better if it was omer who brought up the reason that they both obviously suspected.

[omerflorent]

Omer’s gaze hardened slightly as he listened to Garrick’s measured words, though in his mind he quickly filed away his concerns about the Braavosi pirates—pirates weren’t unusual, but their boldness in coming so close had him wondering about the coin behind their moves. My words are not the thoughts of my King, he reminded himself. He wouldn’t speak for Cedric unless ordered.

Turning back to Garrick, Omer’s tone was blunt and unadorned. “I see a realm struggling to rise above the weight of its own glorious and tragic histories,” he stated evenly. “The alliances here are as fractured as ever. And if we let these divisions fester, they’ll tear us apart further.”

He paused, letting the tension in his words settle before continuing. “I hear the pirates aim for the Steps. And while we’re not allies, it’d be a damn shame for Westeros to lose even an inch of land to savages—little more than rat-catchers in the East.” His voice grew firm.

Omer’s words were straightforward—no grand speeches, just the hard truth. “I’m not here to speak on behalf of my King, Garrick. I’m simply offering what I see, from one warrior to another. We must stay sharp, and in our own way, try to build bridges without letting our backs be turned to danger.”

He met Garrick’s eyes steadily, his blunt certainty a quiet challenge. “That’s all I have to say, and I stand by it.”

Garrick clasped his hands behind his back, watching the clashing knights with an expression that gave little away. Omer Florent was not a man easily impressed, but neither was he one to waste words without intent. That, at least, Garrick could respect. The Reach as a whole appeared a maze of duplicitous thorns to him, but there were some, like the Commander, who were direct in a way that the Cargyll lord appreciated. “Thank you, my lord,” he accepted the praise with a quick nod. It was the sort of compliment that led to some growing pride, having come from a season knight and warrior like the Florent lord.

“The borders of the Stormlands are always restless,” he stated plainly, for it was a matter well-known through all of Westeros, he was sure. “It’s their natural state. The Dornish strike, we strike, and on it goes”. His gaze shifted to Omer then, a heavier, more serious air settling around them for a moment. “What I see for New Valyria is what my king sees. The triumph following the Dance, the cost of it all finally settling, materializing into something worth it”. He had to believe it was, hold on to what was built today as some sort of meaning, of reason, for all that was lost. “I see the tension, too,” he added, lest the Florent lord thought him blind or naive. He was not. “A realm grown from two strong kingdoms remains a threat to some, I know”. Some antagonists, like the Dornish, were overt. Others, less so.

There was a brief pause, as Garrick glanced towards the men skillfully sparring on the field, honing their skills to perfection. “And what does the Reach see in this realm, Lord Florent?” he asked in turn, curious to learn what the Commander of the Reach would say, and if he'd approach his answer with honesty.

[omerflorent]

Omer’s gaze softened as he listened to Ronan, and a wry smile tugged at his lips. He set his goblet down with a gentle thump and pounded his fist lightly against the carved table. "To a wife and friends to keep the lad steady, aye." He raised his goblet again, letting the whiskey's burn roll down his throat—a fire that warmed him from within. In that fierce burn, he found a small pleasure, a reminder that life, though hard, was not as cruel as it had once been.

"Far too long since I heard this sweet song," he murmured with a grin, taking another deep swig. The amber liquid lit a spark in him—a fleeting ease that lifted some of the weight off his shoulders. Ronan's words about Fiadh stirred memories and mischief alike, and though Omer was all for encouraging his cousin to seize the moment, he couldn't resist a bit of teasing.

"You know, Ronan," he said, voice firm yet playful, "if you're gonna chase that fire in your belly, you might end up burning the whole house down. But still—Hughie is a good lad, and you'll be a good man, and a good husband if you learn to rein in that wild streak." Omer clapped his hands together sharply, the sound echoing in the lively room. "Enough of that. Get some cards, Nannie. Let me clean your pockets."

His tone was light now, tempered by years of shared banter and the unspoken understanding of their hard-lived lives. Omer's eyes shone with a blend of honest encouragement and brotherly teasing—a reminder that even amidst the bitterness of past battles, there was always room for a moment of levity, a chance to let the simple joy of friendship and family ease the scars of the world.

ᕯ

ronan bracken poured a generous splash of whiskey into omer’s goblet, his grin wide and teasing as the amber liquid swirled. “that’s the spirit, sage florent. none of this ‘juice’ shite anymore. ye’ve a wife to keep ye steady and friends like me to pull ye out the gutter if ye ever slip. no shame in enjoyin’ the drink when ye’ve got the sense not to drown in it, aye?” he clinked his goblet against omer’s, the sound crisp and satisfying in the quiet between them. there was nothing as natural as the sound of the clover goblets clinking against one another, like music to his ears. "how long's it been since you had a drink?"

his laughter softened as he leaned back, fingers tapping idly on the arm of his chair. “ye know, i didn’t expect ye’d ever say it outright, but it’s good to hear ye call me out. waitin’ for the ‘right moment’... aye, it’s a coward’s game, isn’t it? but fiadh... fuck, man. she’s somethin’ else.” his hand rested upon his neck as he thought about it; his words were casual, relaxed the way they always were when he was around omer florent. who else would he be so naturally relaxed around? ronan’s voice dipped, quieter now, as though the name itself held a weight he wasn’t sure he could carry.

“she’s not just a pretty face, though, gods know she’s got that. it’s the way she’s got that fire in her belly, like she could stare down a storm and come out smilin’. makes a man think about things he’s never had—home, peace, maybe even... more.” he shook his head, the grin faltering as he stared into his goblet. “but aye, family. duty. all that shite we lads can’t ever quite run from. i always said i’ve no business marryin’ a riverlander, not when there’s trade to be secured, allies to be won. but what’s the point of it all if ye can’t stand the sight of the woman ye’re wed to, eh?”

his gaze momentarily seemed as though he were thinking of another instance: if he married a riverlander, that would mean brianna would need to be the one to secure a close association with another house beyond the riverlands. and in all honesty, he preferred the idea of his sister remaining in the riverlands - so he could give her husband a box around the head if he ever needed to. ronan looked up, meeting omer’s gaze with a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “i’ll speak to hugo, aye, and i’ll figure out what to say to her. maybe ye’re right—no ‘right’ time’ll come, so i’ll have to make one. but i’ll tell ye this, omer: if i lose her by waitin’ too long, ye’ll never hear the end of it. so drink up. here’s to courage, and here’s to makin’ a bloody fool of meself.” he let out an exasperated sigh.

[omerflorent]

Omer’s face twisted into an annoyed grimace as Cedric mimicked him. He fixed his steely blue gaze on his cousin, his eyes narrowing. "I’m asking you to acknowledge the woman you know," he said, his tone low and blunt. "Not the ideas in your head about what she would or wouldn’t do. Yes, she’s got a temper. But tell me—has her temper ever led her to make a foolish choice, or did she simply blow up in her first fit of rage?"

He paused, his expression hardening further. "And sure, she’d do it by riling up an unstable man child with a dragon. Brilliant, isn’t it?" His words were laced with irritation as he shook his head in disbelief. "It’s all a battlefield out there, little cousin. There’s no honor on a field of battle—only in songs do men carry the weight of honor. In the roads we walk between fights. You talk as if we were destined for any other end. She could’ve died a quiet death, smothered in her cell or poisoned. Instead, we’re here because the guards failed to keep their eyes open for an old woman. I failed by not running more checks on the guard. And you failed, by treating it as some great godsdamned think-piece."

His voice dropped to a steely murmur. "This isn’t cyvasse, nor is it chess. Sometimes it’s cold steel and mysteries. My wife didn’t do this. I didn’t do this. But mark my words—I will carry out my investigations and find where the trail leads."

Omer’s words were direct and unyielding, his frustration clear. There was no sentimentality here, just the hard truth of battle and duty—an unvarnished pledge that he’d see justice done, regardless of the cost.

♠

cedric’s eyes didn’t waver from omer, though the words provoked a flash of frustration behind them. “what a stupid statement,” he mimicked, leaning forward slightly in his chair, one hand braced on the armrest as he flawlessly copied the brightwater accent of his kin, of his own mother that would once ring through the halls in what felt like another lifetime. “then what would you call this? a spectacle? justice? because someone out there, cousin, thought it worth the trouble to make a show of it, and the arrow didn’t string itself.”

omer’s retort rolled over him, filled with that sharp, stubborn florent certainty. cedric inhaled slowly, his fingers curling and uncurling on the carved wood, the rose petals beneath his fingertips grounding him. “you’re right. lucrezia’s no fool. but you’re asking me to believe she wouldn’t act rashly in the heat of it? i know she has a temper, omer. everyone does. but maybe i’m the only one who thinks she’s clever enough to cover her tracks while doing it.” his tone hardened, irritation creeping into his words as he straightened in his seat.

“and i can’t sit here assuming she wouldn’t see killing alicent as the right way to reclaim her aunt’s honour. don’t insult my intelligence by telling me it’s a dumb question.” cedric leaned back in his chair, the light from the highgarden windows casting long shadows across the stone floor. his fingers drummed against the armrest as omer spoke, each word dragging like the draw of a blade over stone. when omer finished, cedric tilted his head, his florent eyes sharp as glass.

"this isn’t the fucking battlefield man. politics doesn’t come with a code of honour or a knight’s oath to keep the ground clean of blood. you’re speaking as though the rules of command apply here, but they don’t. there’s no order to this. there’s no line drawn where the fighting stops and you get to take stock. it’s just...endless.” he stood, pacing now, his voice gaining heat. he turned sharply, fixing omer with a hard look. “i don’t have the luxury of thinking the way you do, cousin. not here. and if you can’t see that, then YOU'RE the one who doesn’t understand where you are."

[omerflorent]

Omer paused for a moment, letting the quiet of Keira’s room settle over him as he reflected on the years passed. The Dance of Dragons—the brutal civil war that tore the realm apart—had taken so much from them, even though independence came at its own cost. There were scars everywhere, even among the Clover folk, who wore brave faces while secrets and old betrayals lurked in the shadows.

Then, with a soft, measured tone, he spoke. “There are no burdens here. If I found you burdensome, you wouldn’t be here, cousin. I check in because we are family and it is the spirit of the season.” His words were blunt, but there was a warmth behind them that betrayed the hard truths of their past.

Omer’s eyes softened as he continued, “I’m doing well, Keira. The family is alright. We’ll be having more children soon, by the grace of it all.” A brief smile played on his lips as he remembered brighter times amid the darkness. He knew that though trust was fragile—bonds forged long ago could shatter in a heartbeat—the ties that bound them still held strong, if only for moments like these.

He shifted his weight, his gaze steady on hers. “I’ve seen enough to know that nothing’s perfect. But tonight, we share this moment, we share our burdens, and we find strength in our kinship. We may carry our secrets and our scars, but we also carry hope.”

Omer’s tone was matter-of-fact yet sincere, his straightforward manner masking the weight of the past. “So, tell me, cousin—how have you been holding up? I’m here, as always, and I want to know that you’re doing as well as you can, despite it all.”

the firelight danced across the walls, its soft glow casting flickering shadows over the room. keira sat by the window, her hands resting lightly on her lap, a knitted shawl draped over her shoulders. her gaze lingered on the frost-glazed panes, the distant sound of laughter from the main hall barely reaching her ears. when omer entered, she turned slightly, offering him a faint smile, warm but subdued.

“omer,” she greeted softly, her voice carrying the faint lilt of the brightest of waters. “ye’ve caught me unawares. i wasn’t expectin’ anyone to check on me.”

she gestured to the chair by the fire, an invitation without words, though her own posture remained a touch reserved. her fingers fiddled with the edge of the shawl absentmindedly as she listened to him speak. his words, careful and kind, filled the space between them, and for a moment, she was quiet, thoughtful.

“ye’ve a kind heart, cousin,” she said, her smile deepening just a touch, though her gaze fell briefly to her hands. “but ye needn’t worry so much about me. i've found peace in what yule brings—found it long before this night, truly. there’s comfort in the love of family, in the traditions that carry on despite all else.”

her voice softened further, her eyes lifting to meet his. “but i won’t deny the feelin’s creep up on me now and again. it’s the way of things, i think. the shadows don’t disappear altogether, but they’ve less power than they once did. i suppose it’s a reminder of what’s been lost… and what still lingers in the heart.”

her gaze flickered to him, her smile tinged with something bittersweet. “but i’m fine, omer. truly. i’d not want my burdens weighin’ on the family. ye’ve all been so good to me. better than i deserve, if i’m honest.”

her hands stilled, her eyes meeting his. “what about yerself? surely, ye’ve been carryin’ more than ye’ll admit. tell me, how are ye, omer? your little brood?”

[omerflorent]

"Did I startle you, love?" Omer asked with a teasing smirk, his arms still gently holding her as he pulled back just enough to catch her eye. "I walk quiet—almost silent, like the Dornish."

He stepped away for a moment, pacing a few paces as if checking that every detail was still in place. "Aye, it would have been longer, but pirate, Braavo, or Iron are all the same. Once ye learn their ways, it's easy to drown 'em like dogs. And Connie put in good work—he's a good lad, getting better every day." In his mind, though, Omer couldn’t shake a worry about Connie. The road he’s on is a rough one, and while the lad’s talent shines, the weight of the seas could yet drag him under.

Turning back to her, Omer’s tone softened just a notch. "I missed you more than words could say, you and my little warriors. How are they? Callum still fighting naps and all the other mischief? And what about Arlo—can he hold that tiny wooden sword yet?" His eyes crinkled in a brief, fond smile as he spoke.

Omer walked over to the side table, poured himself a goblet of Arbor Red, then paused and stared at the pool of deep, red warmth before filling another with fruit juice. Handing her the goblet of wine, he added with a wry chuckle, "Oh, and in the Vale, that Braavosi cu— woman is a real piece of work." He shook his head lightly, a hint of dry amusement in his eyes, as if daring the world to challenge his blunt truths.

His words were straightforward, unembellished—a promise that no matter how rough the road or how many battles were fought, he was home, and he was here for her and their children.

∞

lucrezia stood frozen for a heartbeat on the steps leading downward into the audience room of their chambers, hand momentarily on the railing as she looked within the space directly in front of her, stood below the arched alcove; she had realised there was someone standing directly before her, and considering she had not been made aware of any intended visitors, there was a brief moment of panic as her hands held onto the railing.

it slipped away the moment she heard the man take a deep breath, as did her hand from the railing. her breath released from her throat as her gaze continued to lock onto a familiar figure stood within the middle of their apartments. the soft glow of the yule tree cast a golden light around him, making the moment feel almost dreamlike. his familiar silhouette, the way he held himself with that quiet confidence—it was as though the months of his absence had melted away in an instant.

though she had not yet seen his gaze, every feeling of insecurity and tension seemed to ease from her, akin to rain washing it all away. "omer?" she called, the word a whisper, barely audible over the crackling of the hearth, as though this was some strangeness. before she could think, she was moving towards him, her feet all but pounding on the polished floor for the way in which she darted down the stairs and across the wooden floorboards. her heart pounded in her chest, a mix of disbelief and overwhelming joy surging through her.

when she reached him in a mutual collision, her hands found his face, tracing the familiar lines of his jaw, his cheekbones as she looked upon his features, as though trying to look within every crevice to see if he were well. to try and quietly assess his health, as though she were a maester. "gods, you gave me a fright," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion as she rested her chin upon his shoulder, her grip tightening around him as she used one hand to playfully, half halfheartedly, whack the middle of his torso.

"i thought you wouldn’t be back until after yule?" his arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, and she melted into his embrace. the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart against hers—it was everything she had missed. "me and keira were saying it'd be so different this year." she pressed another kiss to his cheek once their lips parted, then his temple, her fingers tangling in the fabric of his cloak as if afraid he would need to vanish again. her hands slid down to his shoulders as she looked at him, truly looked at him as though she were worried he would need to leave again.

"i’ve missed you so much," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper though unable to hide the light laughter that slipped from her, thinking back on how shocked she had been. she rested her hand upon her forehead, her laughter louder now, refusing to allow him untangle from her. "the boys will be so happy to see you; arlo has been asking for you to every dark haired man he passes."

[omerflorent]

Omer leaned back, absorbing every word Fiadh had said. His thoughts turned to the cherished bonds of the Clover tradition—a legacy born in the Reach and nurtured among those who settled the Riverlands. He remembered the warmth of those shared ties, the sense of belonging that he had long craved ever since his youth, when his family was split apart by circumstance. Even now, the memory of that unity, sparked by the Florents, filled him with a quiet strength.

He cleared his throat softly and began, "Fiadh, you know I hold you and our clan in the highest regard. Your words—your truth—matter more than any polished court talk. Any man who doesn’t want to hear what you have to say isn't worth speaking with." His tone was measured and sincere.

He paused, a small smile tugging at his lips as he recalled what Lucrezia always told him. "That’s just it. Man or woman, one must be themselves. When you marry, the masks eventually come off, and you’re stuck with who you picked. You’ve got every right to speak your fill, Fiadh."

Omer’s eyes twinkled as he continued, "I won’t name who I suspect you’re talkin’ about—people should speak for themselves, and let their actions show their true worth." He let out a hearty laugh, lightening the mood. "And as for your suggestion about a maester—maybe a nice one, or a fine young lad of 5 and 60," he teased warmly.

Omer’s gaze was earnest as he concluded, "You're not alone in this, Fiadh. We'll weather these storms together, as kin and as friends." His words, simple yet steadfast, hung in the air—a true promise from a man who had long sought the comfort of family in a cold world.

"me writing love sonnets is nothing new. there's at least fifteen in this room alone just about you and lucrezia," fiadh pointed out. it was no secret that she took inspiration for her writing from what was around her, the people and the world influencing her words, and omer had a better marriage than almost any she knew. it was why she did not mind talking about him about this, even as she had the heels of her hands pressed against her flushed cheeks as if to will away the colour in them. "go ahead, laugh all you want. rare as gold, he says. if you're trying to make me combust after all this flattery, you're well on your way," she peeked at him from between her fingers, but she was grinning, fondness in her expression. "you're too kind to me by far, you know that, don't you?"

when she dropped her hands to the table, leaning back in her chair with a soft sigh, her expression had become far more serious. "it's not that i don't know my own worth, omer, though i thank you for reminding me." she wasn't trying to be boastful, nor was she an immodest sort of woman, but fiadh had long carried with her the sort of confidence that came with knowing who she was, and being comfortable with it, flaws and all. "it's just..." she waved a hand in the air vaguely, trying to search for the right words. "you know i talk too much. every time he's in front of me it's ten times worse. it's hard to tell where kindness ends and something else begins, and what if i say too much and ruin what we already have? it isn't like he's some stranger i'm looking at from across the room. we spend time around each other. he's... important to me."

she had all but named the object of her affection, but that was a line she would not cross - not just to save herself a bit of embarrassment, but because doing so would put omer in an awkward position. when she smiled at omer again, it was warm. "i missed this, you know. you giving me advice," she was only half-teasing. "maybe i am tying myself in knots for no reason. it you say to lay it plain, that's where i'll start."

her spirits were lifted, and she let out a laugh. "if it all goes wrong, i'll be holing myself up in wayfarer's rest at least until next yule. that should be long enough to forget my shame. it'll give you time to line up a bold knight or clever maester, won't it?"