rememberences

[rememberences]

♟

he heard her before he truly saw her as she switched her positon on the court. not just the words, but the way they were thrown—casual, confident, but sharp beneath the surface, like a dart hidden in a fan’s flick, all masked in some form of a song. it made his brows furrow for a moment, wondering what strange nonsense warped riverlander he had found himself competing against in this tournament. her voice didn’t carry the tone of someone simply playing to pass the time. there was something flintier in it, something crafted. she wasn’t here for the sport, not truly. and gods, she had moved fast. too fast.

when he’d served low, he hadn’t expected her to reach it, much less strike it back with such precision. most lords he’d faced today had bumbled at that serve like they were chasing hens with gloves on.

but her? she’d turned her whole frame, legs steady beneath that cinched skirt, and caught the return like she’d known it was coming from the moment he wound his arm back. he narrowed his eyes, shifting his grip on the racket, watching the bounce of the ball as it spun back toward him. the shot wasn’t vicious—easy enough to recover—but it gave him pause. she didn’t look like the sort who should move so lightly. not in that borrowed belt and bunched skirt, sun-pink skin shining at the neck like she’d wrestled the sun itself and lost by half a breath. yet she’d danced across the stone with the force of someone used to striking.

there was no doubt about it. not a lady idling through an afternoon match. she had the spirit of a soldier in her bones, even if her voice lilted like a songbird’s. he caught the return with a calm, fluid sweep, less brutal than his last serve, more controlled, as though testing rather than punishing. he needed a second to think. he needed to ensure he did not send a ball straight into the face of this woman, regardless of how strange she was; it would be unbecoming of him, and the last thing he wanted to deal with was the sight of her running nose with crimson and trying to understand her hysteria through the thickness of her accent.

it picked at his mind, because there was something else now, tugging at him like a burr caught in the cuff of his thoughts. that face. her face. he knew it.

"i'm not tired, my lady" he answered, letting the ball fall with a dull thud against the stone as he caught it again with the edge of his boot, bouncing it once. “you don’t play like a lady of the court,” he said at last, stepping forward, catching the ball in his palm and weighing it. “and you’ve not got the carriage of a knight’s daughter either. you don’t flinch when the ball’s high, and you’ve no fear of running, which tells me you’ve done more chasing in life than you’ve let folk chase you.” he tilted his head, eyes narrowing further. “but i know that face. who exactly are you girl, and why do you seem to be aiming for my face rather than my racket?" he asked, his tone blunt, as inherently dismissive and judgmental as he always was.

he let the ball fall again, racket poised, expression unreadable but far from careless. “still,” he called, “let’s see what you’ve got left in you. unless you’d like to forfeit instead. racket up!”

fiadh had been watching from the edges of the court for the last few rounds, watching as the impromptu tournament grew all the more competitive. she'd wandered here out of curiosity, and yet, a reachman had pressed a racket into her hand, and she had found herself on the court. she'd never played this particular game before, but she was fond of camogie, a clover game that involved a stick and a ball and running around a court for an extended period of time, and the ability to know where the ball was going to land and whack it hard enough to get it back across the court was evidently transferable. and so she'd borrowed a belt, used it to cinch her skirts so she could freely move her feet, and joined the match, not caring for the sweat on her brow or the fact the sun had turned her skin a light shade of strawberry pink.

she might not have gotten involved at all, had it not been for the man standing opposite the court. graham royce called across the net, reminding fiadh that she was not playing to win. she wasn't normally one to hold a grudge - forgiving to a fault, those who had wronged her personally granted understanding, even when they did not deserve it. here was the exception. she would never have forgiveness in her heart for graham royce after what he did to keira, gutting her heart and walking away with nothing more than the dust on his boots.

"i wasn't aiming where you'd been," she said, taking a moment to push her damp curls from her face. "i was aiming where i wanted you to be." there was no smile to match it, the normal twinkle in her eye replaced with a cold sort of fire. it was a lie. she was aiming there, not because she wanted him to return it over the net, but because she wanted the pleasure of seeing it bounce off the dome of his head. it was unlike her to wish hurt on another, but gods help her, she wished it anyway. she wished for the sound it would make as it smacked him in the face and the resulting lump it would leave behind - no blood, something she could claim she didn't mean, because she would never dream of causing harm to the king consort of the vale, but a good, honest, tender bruise all the same, something keira would hear about and they'd laugh together over back in the riverlands.

she wondered if he knew what she was thinking, as he sent a vicious serve her way that she had to sprint to even attempt to hit back. it was a surprise even to fiadh when she caught the ball on the racket, sending it back to him. it would be an easy shot for him to return, but it bought her enough time to get her balance back. had she been playing with hugo, or near enough any other man, there'd be a laugh on her lips right now, but she remained silent, save for her own breath.

"you're looking a little tired, your grace," she called, in that sing-song way she did. "would you like to pause for some water? or perhaps you'd like to give up for the day." he was good at that, she thought, silently. the rest of the world may be content to forget how he had given up on keira florent, and it were not her place to make them remember, but the words were said for her all the same.

[rememberences]

what: open starter setting: the gardens of highgarden, upon a tennis court, graham royce enters the fifth round of a spontaneous tournament he had not quite expected to become so serious. context: idk what this is but im lowkey giggling at it number: 3/3

the sun lingered overhead like a sovereign in its own right, casting its gold across the manicured lawns of highgarden’s famed terraces. in the distance, lutes and pipes played some courtly air graham couldn’t name, but here, within the ivy-walled cloister of the garden tennis court, the world felt stripped of ceremony. stripped of sense, too, given how many rounds he’d now found himself playing; there was sweat lining his forehead and his shirt, and if he went another few rounds, there was no doubt he would soon take it off. round five. he'd only meant to humour it.

just a bit of sport to fill the afternoon, to stretch the legs and show these reachmen that the vale bred more than hawks and high cheeks. yet now, with sweat along his brow and the linen of his tunic clinging to his back, it was clear the tournament had grown teeth. and he—perhaps out of pride more than anything—had bitten back. the court was nothing like the angular alleys at runestone. this one was rounder, the walls ivy-bound and fragrant, the stone uneven beneath the leather of his soles. the game here was older—court tennis, they called it, though in truth it was a cousin to war, with rules barely spoken and ever-shifting.

a heavy ball of tightly wound cloth, near a fist’s size, hurled not over a net but against angled walls, arched windows, and sloped roofs, each bounce spelling fortune or folly depending on how you played the rhythm. it was not a gentle man’s pastime. he surged forward, boots grating on stone, just as the ball came low and fast from the corner. some devil had cut it sharp—too sharp—and the cloth almost kissed the flagstones. graham dropped to his side knee with a grunt, the force of his body lurching to catch the stroke, arm stretched fully as his racket caught the ball just before it sank to the ground.

the crack echoed off the garden walls like a bowstring loosed - and there came the sound of gasps, and even graham letting out a noise as he managed to whack it back. one of half laughter and relief.

"tight angle, that," he called, rising in one fluid motion, not looking to see who stood across the court. "but not tight enough." he liked the weight of it. the game. the court. the air thick with rose and sweat and the occasional jeer from the gallery of bored ladies and sharper-eyed lords. it was honest, this. no titles. no brooding councils. just grit, and how fast you could think on your feet. how quick your wrist could turn. he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, glancing up through the lattice of leaves where a sliver of the sky showed pale. his opponent—a shadowed figure in white—watched him in silence, racket poised like a blade. graham didn’t know the name. didn’t care to, either. not now.

"you're not bad, you know," he called, shifting back into stance, controlling his breathing as he wielded his racket carefully, watching the other's movements. "but you’d fare better if you stopped aiming where i’ve just been." and with that, he served again—low, vicious, deliberately off-centre—racket slicing through the air as though he meant to draw blood. the game, after all, was still his. for now.

[rememberences]

who: @vilde-harclay when and where: the verdant concord, graham royce crosses paths with a woman whom he thinks is a complete stranger - only, he has no clue their paths have crossed before. context; a year ago, whilst cleaning up the mountain clans invasion within the vale of arryn, graham royce slayed vilde's brother.

he caught her watching him. it was faint at first—little more than a prickling on the back of his neck, that sense a man develops after too many years with blades drawn behind smiles. she was standing near the vendor’s stall, eyes like mountain frost, hair like wheat in the wind—unbrushed, half-plaited, too stubborn to be southern. northern. highlander, more like. he recognised the look. not the woman—no, she was a stranger—but her bearing. proud, half-wild, as though she’d bite your hand before she let you kiss it.

he didn’t like being stared at. not by lords, not by peasants, and certainly not by women who stood like they didn’t fear consequence.

graham turned to face her, slow, deliberate, a flicker of disdain already curling at the edge of his mouth. the verdant concord was busy, but not enough to mask intent. he stepped forward. his boots pressed into the soft grass, and a few bystanders shifted out of the way as they sensed the change in air. he paused, shifted his weight as if to study a cart of fruit, but really to draw her closer into view. she was standing by the edge of the market, near the tent where the grain sellers had gathered. arms crossed. watching him like a crow does a corpse—neither drawn nor repelled.

“you’ve got a look on you, woman,” he muttered, just loud enough to know she would hear it; his tone inherently dismissive. there was nothing she would have to say to him that would be of any genuine use; and therefore he knew there would be little reason for the two to interact. even for the two to know one another; no, he was sure he did not know this woman. perhaps she simply was twisted in the mind, or had something wrong with her eyes. and so when he spoke, he spoke in a tone that was dismissive, as though she were a mere fly he would swat away. “like you’ve something to say but no sense to say it.”

there was something behind her eyes, something unreadable. not admiration. not fear. something older than either. he’d seen it once, he thought, in a woman from wickenden who’d lost her son to the sea. cold, steady hatred that wasn’t loud or sudden but settled. deep-rooted. the clansfolk of the north believed themselves to be different to the clansfolk from the vale, though graham royce did not believe such a thing - wilderness was wilderness, and if not tamed, it remained a threat to order and stability. something in her gaze unsettled him slightly, as though he wished to ask her openly - what did she want? “clan, ain't you?"

[rememberences]

who: @younescorbray when and where: the eyrie, in the days preparing to leave to travel to the reach for the verdant concord, set some days following the ambush on lord percival templeton context: graham knows it was domeric who orchestrated the ambush on percival.

the mountain wind bit sharp through the folds of his cloak, tugging at the hem as king graham royce guided his horse along the narrow stretch of old road. the reach loomed still days away, but the land already felt changed—less rugged than the vale, yet not yet soft. steep, brambled slopes to one side, sheer drops to the other. any number of boulders could shift, or worse, the clans that had long hidden among these half-forgotten ridges might test their luck. that was why they rode ahead. the crown couldn't afford another incident—not now, not with eyes in every corner watching what he would do.

his gaze drifted toward lord younes corbray, riding just behind him, closer than the others. graham still thought of him as he’d been years ago: all elbows and oversized armour, trailing after him with a sword nearly as long as his legs. loyal, wide-eyed, eager to please. the kind of lad you could trust to polish your armour and never steal from your wine. he'd grown, of course—broader in the shoulders, voice settled into something weightier—but graham rarely noticed the difference. to him, younes was still the squire from runestone. “you sit straighter than you used to,” graham remarked, keeping his eyes forward as the hooves clattered over loose stone.

his tone was wry, the trace of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, though it didn’t reach his eyes. he wasn’t much for jokes, but it felt expected—something an older knight might say to a younger one. camaraderie, of a kind. the path narrowed, and graham slowed his horse, rising slightly in the saddle to glance at a crumbled edge of cliffside. loose rock. nothing recent, but worth remembering. he made a note of it in silence before speaking again.

“not many still care to ride out first like this. send squires, scouts. young men with something to prove. lords these days prefer to wait in the rear, sip their wine, arrive last and act like they planned it.” he exhaled through his nose, the faintest huff of disdain. “but it’s always better to see it yourself. men lie. stone doesn’t.”

he didn’t look at younes, not really. he didn’t need to. he assumed the lad was nodding, the way he always did. always had. “i told your father once you’d make a decent knight. glad you’ve come to prove me right.” that part, at least, was honest. graham didn’t give praise easily, but he believed in men earning their name. younes had earned his, even if graham still thought of him more as boy than lord. the silence that followed was longer, the wind louder. graham didn’t notice the way younes’ gaze lingered on him a little differently than before, nor the thoughts brewing behind it.

he didn't bring up what happened to percival. he hoped younes wouldn't either.

[rememberences]

♟

graham didn’t stir. her voice hung behind him like the last thread of summer, delicate and quiet, but not enough to move him. he remained by the door, arms crossed over his chest, the weight of his maille still on him even though the war was over—at least, the kind fought on open fields. he stared at the wall, at the pattern of soot and time marking the stones, as if it could explain something he couldn’t. “aye, still - i’ve never much cared for company,” he said finally, his tone flat, deliberate. he had already made it abundantly clear he did not wish to be here in this moment; to sit opposite her and be wholly aware of her empty womb, and the fact they were both in this with little choice of their own. “not for the sake of it.”

he didn’t look at her. hadn’t properly in the days since he returned from the frontlines, if he was honest, though the thought didn’t bring guilt, only a dull sort of resignation. keira had always had the sort of voice that crept in softly, like the first cold wind before the frost. never demanding. never loud. and that was part of the trouble—he didn’t know what to do with softness. never had. she meant well. he knew that. she always had. and yet, it didn’t change the way her presence started to feel like another duty, another weight he couldn’t shift. she asked for so little, but in that asking, reminded him how little he gave.

“not much use in watching stars, lass.” he muttered, more to himself than her as he put down the napkin on the table. “men go out lookin’ for omens in them. answers. don’t tend to find much more than what they brought with them.”

he shifted slightly, his gaze still on the stones, as though they might crack open and swallow him whole. it was easier, thinking about weather or duty or the slow repairs to the outer wall. things he could measure, fix, make sense of. not whatever it was she wanted from him—connection, maybe. or warmth. “stars are just stars,” he muttered, jaw tightening - not because he was irritated, but rather because he too was uncomfortable. “folk like to pretend they mean something. but they don’t. they’re just there.” things he had no training in. there was a time he’d tried, briefly. a summer after their wedding, when the fields were golden and her smile hadn’t yet dimmed. but war had come too soon. and he’d changed on campaign, hardened in ways that didn’t peel off with armour. “i’ve enough to think on without chasing stars,” he added, adjusting his stance, the way a man does when he wants to signal the conversation ought to end. “you go. i’ll stay.” he didn’t say it unkindly, but there was no invitation in it either.

still, he glanced her way—not fully, not directly. just enough to see the outline of her in the firelight, her profile all quiet hope and soft defiance. she hadn’t stopped trying. that was her mistake. still, he silently unclasped his own cloak from around his shoulders and stepped forward, closing the distance between them when offering her his cloak. he put it loosely over her shoulders, his hands not lingering a moment longer than needed on her skin - something she would have noticed. it would not have taken long for her to notice that he were not attracted to his wife; that the sight of her did not cause his heart rate to raise, or make him feel that sense of restlessness which always resulted in him going on hunts rather than take to women that lingered on the ends of war camps.

he didn’t add anything more. he meant it practically—like a man advising a stablehand to close the gate—but her silence lingered like disappointment. he thought, not for the first time, about how this was meant to be easier. they were married. they shared a roof, a name. the war was behind them. and still, each word felt like hauling stone uphill. his fingers flexed briefly at his side. she hadn’t asked, not directly. but it hung there. not just the silence—but the shape of what was expected. they ought to be trying, by now. it had been long enough. too long. a child would settle matters. give her purpose that was more than just wafting around him like some creeping child. give their some union weight.

they ought to be doing their duty, plain and simple. the bedding act wasn’t just ceremony. not now. a child would put things right. or at least, make things simpler.

but he didn’t know how to bring it up. couldn’t imagine sitting down beside her, saying it like it was weather or supper. he couldn’t picture reaching for her in that way, not when they’d barely spoken, not when the distance between them felt like a gulf. so he didn’t. and a part of him grew irritated with himself for thinking too much on the matter; it were a duty between a man and his wife. it was expected of her, and surely she knew that when exchanging their vows. “don’t stay out long,” he said, and it came out gruff. too sharp, maybe, for what it meant. he turned, the door clicking shut behind him, and left her to the stars.

end of thread.

keira lingered in the warm glow of the fire, her hands loosely clasped before her, thumb idly brushing over the soft fabric of her sleeve. the flickering light caught in her auburn hair, casting it in shades of copper and gold, but her expression was subdued, thoughtful. graham hadn’t turned to face her, not fully, but he hadn’t left either. that, at least, was something.

his words sat between them like a stone in her palm—solid, heavy, and not quite what she had hoped for. she understood him well enough by now to know he wasn’t trying to be cruel, only distant. and yet, keira had never been the sort to leave things untouched just because they were difficult. if she had been, she’d have folded into herself long ago, let the world carry her where it willed rather than trying to carve a place in it.

“aye, i suppose they do,” she murmured in response, lifting her gaze toward the high, arched windows where only the faintest glimmers of starlight could be seen. “perhaps can be comfort found in that itself. no matter where you are, no matter what’s changed, they’ll always be there, shining just the same.”

she let the quiet stretch between them, the only sound the occasional pop from the fire, the distant murmur of the household settling for the night. then, she exhaled a breath, tilting her head slightly. “maybe that’s why i like ‘em. steady things are hard to come by in this world.”

the tension in the space between the two of them remained thick, but she caught the faintest flicker of something in his expression—thoughtfulness, perhaps, or an awareness of the weight in her words. keira didn’t expect him to answer, not really. he was a man built on silence and steel, on duty and unspoken burdens. but she hoped, at least, that he might hear her.

at his mention of rain, she let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. “always know before it comes, don’t you?” there was a quiet fondness in her tone, though she did not press it. “i’ll dress warm, then.”

her fingers brushed over the edge of the table as she turned slightly, hesitating before she took a step away. then, glancing back at him, she offered, just lightly, “you could come with me, y’know. you don’t have to find peace in it. just... company.”

she didn’t expect him to say yes. but she offered anyway.

[rememberences]

who: @domericstone when and where: the eyrie, set after the ambush which happened to percival templeton. context: hmmm.

graham found him in the solar, the fire long burned down to nothing but smouldering ash, though the air was warm still—too warm, like it had been trapped there with the silence. domeric hadn’t moved. not when the door opened. not when graham’s boots scraped over the stone floor. just sat there, hunched slightly over some paper he hadn’t read, or had read too many times. back straight, face stony, shoulders drawn like a man preparing for a blow. it reminded graham too much of how he used to sit when their father was still alive, pretending to be asleep so malcom’s wrath might pass him over for once.

“you’ve got that same look he wore before a lie,” graham said, voice low, not unkind, but not soft either. he didn’t wait for a response, didn’t expect one. “and gods help us, look at that, you’ve got his stillness too. like a wolf waitin’ for the wind to shift.”

he let the door close behind him with a dull but impactful thud. the light from the window was thin, gold-veined with dust, the sort of late-afternoon hush that always made things feel older than they were. graham crossed to the table and poured himself a cup of wine, though he didn’t drink it, just held it between his hands. he studied domeric’s face, the too-sharp line of his jaw, the shadow under his eyes. malcom’s face, but younger. leaner. with more hunger. not for food. for place. for certainty.

“they’re sayin’ it was you,” graham said, tone low and flat, but firm. “that you ambushed lord templeton out past the lands of longbow hall. had men waiting. blades drawn. no chance for talk.” he didn’t look at domeric when he said it. couldn’t. not yet. he stared instead at the bare hearth, as though fire might flicker there if he looked hard enough. there was a simmering irritation which grew within graham royce, for it had been him who had plucked domeric from the dangerous situation he had found himself in the north; it was him which had found him a position at court, and watched him grow. would he now attack percival templeton, one of graham's long standing allies? as though the royces and templetons had not known one another since they were boys?

he swallowed, jaw tightening. the words didn’t come easily, not when it came to malcom. not when the man still echoed in every corner of their bones. “father was a cold bastard, and that’s puttin’ it kindly. but you know what he never was? subtle. a man like malcom would’ve ridden up with a banner and made a feast of it. but this... this was clever. hidden. calculated. you can’t imagine how much worse that makes it.” the words were laced with accusation now; as though he were offended domeric thought he would merely ignore and pretend this never happened. he turned then, slowly, to look at domeric proper. the boy—no, the man—he’d fought to raise higher than his bastard start. a brother by blood, if not name. his mother had been gentle, graham remembered, in the few whispers he’d heard of her. a grafton girl with soft hands and softer eyes who died too young. not like their own mothers, beaten down by malcom’s rage or by the world around him.

domeric had something else in him. something graham had always tried to protect. or deny. “you’re my blood,” graham said, voice rougher now. “i’ve never spoken it aloud, not where ears could catch it. but that doesn’t make it less true. i’ve shielded you like a brother, because that’s what you are. and gods help me, i still see you as that scrawny boy with cut knees and too much pride, standin’ outside the tilt yard just to watch me train.” he stepped closer, the fire of his gaze searing now, the lines around his mouth carved deep. “but if you touched percival... if you ordered it... domeric, i need you to tell me."

[rememberences]

♟

graham royce did not often feel unsure of his footing, but there was something in the presence of lady zialla antaryon that made him tread slower, speak more deliberately. not out of admiration, nor distrust, but because she reminded him of the sort of things that didn’t belong on a battlefield: patience, calculation, waiting for wind instead of charging through it. there was nothing stormy about her—she was still water, hiding depth beneath silence. and yet she stood here, in gulltown of all places, on the edge of the vale, pretending as though she had nowhere else to go. his inner instinct, that same instinct which knew more of wielding a blade than small councils, sought for her to be gone.

he found that difficult to believe. a woman like her did not simply end up somewhere. she chose her ground; and it was made abundantly clear to him by her returning across the narrow sea, regardless of her tensions with the reach - she chose her ground. even if she wore the air of one merely following a path.

his eyes did not leave her face as he spoke again, slower now. “it’s not just the men of the vale that want you here. it’s their ambitions.” the words were factual, almost detached as he spoke, his words wrapped in the natural highland ring of the runestone which he never bothered to try and strip down. “they want coin. they want the iron bank. they think your name and your presence will open doors faster than letters ever could.” he did not roll his eyes, but the weight behind his voice made his disdain clear. all of this, was what a king need focus on; need to understand and know of. he did not. “and they’re not wrong. even your silences speak of gold, or the hint of it.” he shifted his weight, a quiet exhale through his nose.

the idea of the vale being impenetrable no longer felt like truth. once, he had believed these mountains, these narrow passes and high keeps, made them unassailable. but the world had cracked open in his lifetime. dragons burned far-off valleys; men with foreign tongues whispered promises in gulltown’s taverns. even the weather felt less sure. nothing was impenetrable anymore. not even him. and so, he was not even sure of this woman who claimed to be here to just try and be closer to her daughter, and yet also claim she were not involved in the physical bloodshed which occurred on the narrow seas between the braavosi and the sailors of the reach. most would do anything for their child, would they not?

no true parent would willingly abandon their child, not at least trying to make a stand for when that child came of age. perhaps zialla hoped that, by being wed in gulltown, her daughter would grow to realise her mother tried her hardest. he heard the way zialla spoke of her daughter. not in fear. not even in mourning. but in consideration. like something to be returned to. as though the child was a puzzle piece waiting for the rest of the picture to take shape. “hmm,” graham said, voice low, almost a grumble of acknowledgement.

his jaw tightened as he remembered his father, malcom, that bastard-making lord who had thought himself untouchable, who had left domeric behind in the north like some forgotten blade in the snow. graham would never understand how a man could make a child and not carry the weight of them. that one act had undone the image of his father, entirely. graham had built himself in the gaps malcom left behind. fatherhood, when it came, did not make him soft—but it had made him true. everything he did now was through that lens. that duty. it was not something you paused for, not something you weighed against ambition or waited to consult with others over.

her history in highgarden still hung about her shoulders, light and silken, but heavy too. the garden snakes had turned on her. of course they had. it was the kind of court where poison and perfume were passed with the same fingers. yet she had survived that, and still she was cautious, speaking of fights and futures and birthrights with too much polish. zialla was not lying—but perhaps she was still holding back. perhaps that was her way. perhaps that was all she had ever known. he looked to the harbour, then back to her, something like resignation moving through his posture.

“i’ll not pretend to understand all the reasons you’re still in westeros,” he said, “but i’ll not ignore what your being here means, either. if your presence helps my people hold what we’ve won, if it brings trade, brings order—then so be it. i’ll bear it. but the moment it turns sour, the moment the cost outweighs the coin—i’ll end it. i won’t let my realm bleed for someone else’s unfinished business.” there was no threat in his tone, only promise. and it was not cruel. he simply could not afford to treat strangers as kin, no matter how finely dressed or finely spoken. he would not be his father. he would not lie to himself about the nature of things. and that was a sure promise; graham would deal with the grumblings of his lords the same way he dealt with cowardness on the battlefield. “until then - it seems you’re welcome here, lady antaryon,”

she took some comfort in his words. it helped soothe her that the vale was not blind to the risks. she had not expected them to be, but at least now they could not claim to not knowing what chances they were taking. she wanted this alliance to hold, and she believed it was strongest with honesty. zialla was not surprised that graham had already clocked the real reason why she was back in westeros. “i am here because my personal ambitions aligned with those of braavos, i will not deny that — but both matters are important to me.” rosaria was the reason she was here. she could have found a braavosi nobleman and married him, if she had simply wished to move on with her life. zia could not deny that she had considered it briefly. but every time she had thought about it, she remembered the sweet face of her daughter, of how she had kissed her forehead and walked away. it was the worst thing she had ever done, and she was punished for it when news of garland's death reached her, and she realised that her daughter was firmly out of her grasp.

zia did not believe it to be impossible to strike a deal with the reach, but she already knew it would involve signing all of rosaria's claims to oldtown and the hightower away. in her mind, they were merely waiting for an excuse to strip away rosaria's rights to oldtown, so the hightower line would continue through gael. sometimes in her desperation for her child, she would find herself writing a letter to king cedric. but then she would remember the feeling of the tip of the sword slicing across her back during the attempted coup, how she had been a target even as a child just for belonging to house antaryon. she thought about her childhood spent sitting by the window and gazing up at the tower of her ancestral home, while its shadows fall upon their lowly villa in comparison. the antaryon seat had never belonged to her closest family. it had always been occupied by an uncle, while her father had stubbornly clawed his way to some power. zialla would not condemn her daughter to a life of peril and envy due to having a powerful name but limited power. and so she always ended up throwing the letter into the fire, the words transforming into ash.

“you have my father's support among the keyholders, and the gratitude of the sealord, and that is worth a lot in braavos. i struggle to think of a reason the iron bank would choose another kingdom to grant this boon to. i have heard of no suggestion of any other but the vale.” zialla was tired of pretty words that meant nothing, lies that poisoned every conversation until there was no trust left. her entire life in oldtown had been a lie. when she stepped aboard the ship to gulltown, she had promised herself that it would be different this time. “i could lie and promise you a bank in your lands is a done deal, your grace, but we both know that decision is not up to me, not even solely to my family.” while her uncle was sealord, he did not control the iron bank. he had influence, yes, but there were no guarantees. “however, you will have my support and i will make that clear to my father and uncle, i can promise that.”

she could not hide the humourless smile that appeared on her lips. “i am not planning on marching an army through the reach to reclaim rosaria.” the very idea was absurd. she had no army, no bargaining chip, and zialla understood that made it impossible to make any moves. her only idea had been to send someone to steal rosaria for her, but even making such a move from the shadows was dangerous. ripples, as graham called it, could quickly turn into tidal waves, and she would not be able to control them. even if she was succesful, the reach would know who was responsible. “as long as i am assured my daughter is alive and safe, i will wait until i am married to decide what action to take. i am sure any lord i marry will have an opinion.” she needed to be secured in westeros before she could start moving whatever pieces available to her.

zia understood the king's reasoning. she would not accept danger to her family either, not if she had a choice. she gave a quick nod, as if they were not speaking of such personal matters. “i understand, your grace, but those are the assurances i can give, and if that is not enough, i will return to braavos tomorrow.” as steadfast as graham was in not endangering his people, she felt the same about wasting her time. every moment wasted was a moment that she was not with her daughter. while she felt her life was on pause, she knew rosie's was not. each day her daughter grew and was raised by people that zialla had no love lost for.

[rememberences]

♟

graham exhaled slowly, watching the stag disappear into the trees, its antlers a fleeting glint of pale gold against the rain-dampened green. lady ginevra’s words sat between them, poised, deliberate. she was smiling, but it did not reach her eyes, and he had seen that look before—the careful arrangement of pleasantness meant to conceal some small slight. he wondered whether she even realised it herself. “never dull,” he repeated, though there was no mirth in his voice. for a moment, his thoughts drifted back to the court of king rowan, and the phrase felt almost absurd. there had been nothing dull about those days, but neither had they been entertaining.

every few weeks, there had been some shadow slithering through the halls, some treachery to unearth, some fresh wound to salt. men had spoken in whispers, afraid of what might come crawling through the door next. and yet, she spoke of it as though it had been some great, lively spectacle. did she not know? or was it simply that she preferred her world framed in a more agreeable light?

his fingers tightened briefly around the reins before he forced himself to loosen them. “aye, there was always something to be dealt with,” he said at last, his voice level, though the weight of memory lingered beneath the words. “a knife in the dark, a friend turned foe. enemies in the halls. i suppose some might have found it... engaging.” his gaze flicked towards her then, measuring. did she seek such things? intrigue for intrigue’s sake? he had seen too many who did, people who treated the game as though it were merely that—a game. but court had never been a place for idle amusement. not for him.

he considered her more fully now, this half-relation of his brother, though to call her kin felt strange. axell’s mother was not his own, and the distinction had always been clear. she was not family to him, not truly. and yet, standing here, her presence was unavoidable, woven into the fabric of his court. he supposed it was only natural that she should be here, that she should wish to speak with him. but he had never given her much thought before. she was simply another lady of the vale—proper, poised, and, he imagined, intent on finding her place within these halls. was she married? he could not recall. perhaps there were plans in motion for such a thing, some match being arranged behind closed doors. court was no place for a woman, not in his mind. too many dangers, too much deception.

if he had a sister, he would not have let her linger in such a place, subject to its intrigues. better for her to be at home, tending to her own household, away from all this. but perhaps ginevra had other ambitions.

his gaze turned back to the trees, watching as the last of the hunters disappeared into the thicket. “certainty isn’t something one is taught,” he said finally, his voice thoughtful. “it comes from knowing what the world is, not what one wishes it to be.” he glanced at her once more, the drizzle catching in her hair, her expression carefully composed. “court is many things, my lady, but it is rarely kind to those who linger in uncertainty. you seem as though like it, though.” he cared not for his tone, nor the way his usual judgement seemed to lace through his words as he looked toward her. his natural stance and approach was to assume she did not know what it was she was doing - no, she wished to be a lady, and shoot for the highest ranking lady in the realm beneath the queen.

Ginevra tilted her head slightly, her lips parting in the softest of smiles, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. There was something about Graham Royce’s tone; cool, distant, that seemed to deflate her usual charm. She knew that men like him, stoic and unmoving, rarely responded to the warmth she tried to infuse into a conversation. But this… this was different. There was an aloofness about him, an air of calculated detachment that irritated her more than she cared to admit.

Her gaze followed his, still watching the stag, her amusement flickering as she replied, “I suppose the world I imagine is just a little too simple for you, Your Grace.” Her voice was smooth, though the edge of challenge slipped through. She considered his words, the weight of them settling uncomfortably between them. Innocence was a fleeting illusion, she knew. But to speak as though it could never exist in such a world... it stung in its finality.

“Perhaps,” she said, her smile returning with a practiced grace, “it’s because I have not been taught to view the world with as much certainty as you do. It is easier to imagine the world as simple when you see everything so clearly.”

Ginevra allowed a brief moment of silence to linger between them, feeling the drizzle soften against her skin. She considered his words carefully, knowing how deftly the King Consort wielded his bluntness. “My brother may ride true, but his path, like yours, is not without its own burdens,” she replied, her voice smooth, but not without a subtle firmness.

She took a slow breath before answering his question, glancing over at him with a trace of curiosity. “I attended court with my brother sometimes, though rarely under King Rowan’s rule. My presence there was fleeting, more of a guest than a participant. It is only in the last few years that I have had more occasion to visit.” She offered him a small, knowing smile. As one of Queen Ravella's ladies, she had much more reason to spend time in the Eyrie now. “I was not as invested in the court’s intrigues then as I am now. But I have certainly heard enough stories to know it was never dull."

[rememberences]

♟

do you believe your neutrality can withstand that? graham’s brow lifted slightly at her question, the frankness of it catching him off guard as his expression remained as blank as it usually did, one hand resting behind his back and his grey orbs merely fixed upn her. it wasn’t often someone spoke to him without the usual coating of formality or caution, especially not someone like lady zialla antaryon—a braavosi with all the careful elegance of the free cities behind her. yet here she was, speaking as though they had known one another for years, her tone direct and unflinching - he were not enough of a courtly man to find offense at her words, but he began to understand just how she may have found herself being bitten by the garden snakes within the countless mazes and walls of highgarden.

he let the silence stretch for a moment, his gaze sliding past her to the dark waters of gulltown’s harbour below. lights flickered along the docks, ships swaying gently in the night tide. there was a calmness to the scene, but beneath it, the currents ran deep—much like this conversation.

“the vale’s weathered its share of enemies, lady zialla, the most significant being those who were once our own.” he said finally, his voice measured but clear. he took the time to ensure his royce highland accent did not wrap too tightly around his voice, maintaining eye contact with multiple of his fellow knights of the vale in passing - time and time again, they offered one another the same nod. “dragons once soared above these mountains. rebels hammered against the bloody gate. and yet, the vale stood. it always does.” his tone wasn’t boastful—there was no need—but it carried a simple truth. “we don’t bend easy.” he glanced at her then, studying her expression. she was sharp—he’d gathered that much—and her question wasn’t without merit.

bringing the iron bank into gulltown’s affairs would shift the balance. it would draw eyes—some curious, some hostile. but alliances, true alliances, always did, as far as he understood. “you’re not wrong to ask,” he admitted, his thumb brushing thoughtfully against the hilt of his sword. “siding with braavos puts a mark on us, whether it’s plain to see or not. the lyseni will take it as a slight—they already have, if their attempt on my life says anything.” there was a flicker of dry humour in his voice, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes - a sense of dry smugness which rang true in many knights from this corner of the world. “and their friends won’t be far behind, if they were true to their word.” jaehaerys targaryen, was not. he was not a traditionalist when it came to alliances; he would not cause issues upon the continent of westeros which would disadvantage him further, not when he were dealing with the dornish borders.

he shifted his weight, the creak of leather from his doublet filling the pause. “but the vale isn't a land that lives in fear of new enemies. we choose them carefully, aye, but we don’t shy from them when the cause is worth it.” and that was it, ultimately, just like how strategic decisions needed to be worth it on the battlefield, as they did when making political dealings across the table. his gaze hardened slightly as he listened and considered her deeper purpose here. “i know you’re not in this for braavos alone. it’s your daughter, isn’t it? her birthright. oldtown.” he didn’t soften the words, but there was understanding there. the fight for family was something he knew well—too well. “that’s not the sort of thing a mother lets go of.” his own never would have done such a thing so casually either.

“still, it was how you said it—‘fight’—that caught me. so i’ll ask plain: how do you plan to fight for her? is it through coin? backroom dealings? or somethin’ bloodier?” his eyes narrowed, not in accusation but calculation. “and more to the point—whose fight is it? yours? or your father’s? the sea lord’s reach runs long, and his coin longer. is it his ships that’ll set sail for reach waters, or are you leadin’ this yourself?” he asked directly, and did not expect to hear the truthful answer; only, he wished for her to know there allies. she could trust him, for he were a man of his word; but they were not akin enough for his realm to entangle itself in something that was simply not worth it. he could see the lines of tension in her, subtle but there. it was a fair question, and one that mattered. “i’m traditional when it comes to alliances,” graham continued, his voice firmer now.

“if i give someone protection, it means somethin’. and if you’re here, under my roof, making moves that ripple through the realms, then i’m already involved—whether you dress it up pretty or not., lady antaryon.” he exhaled slowly, weighing the thought as he turned to look at her. there was no silver linings, he spoke to her as he would speak to one of his men when he asked him what move he would make next. “i need to know if a risk is worth the taking. if your presence here brings real benefit—if it secures trade, influence, stability—then i’ll weather the consequences.” his tone was clear, each word deliberate. “but if it’s hollow—if it’s all danger with no gain—then it’s not a weight i’ll ask my people to bear and i'll have you on the next ship home.”

zialla scoffed at the mention of lys. she would not be braavosi if she did not. “the lyseni are arrogant, and arrogance can only get you so far. a fast rise is a sure path to a great fall. whereas braavos and the iron bank were both build brick by brick to withstand challenges and endure with time, the lyseni bank will soon find themselves in trouble.” this was the belief of her father, at least, and she agreed with him that soon there would be some kind of reckoning.

she observed graham curiously as he answered her question. it was interesting he noted his limitations, and it was just as intriguing the way he presented himself as just a soldier, a knight, when that was no longer his title. his response seemed to be truthful enough, but it was clearly also a selling pitch, and she respected the ability to combine the two seamlessly. “a branch of the iron bank in your lands will make you plenty of enemies and friends, your grace, do you believe your neutrality can withstand that?” she thought it was a fair question. zia knew the lyseni would not be pleased, and she suspected their allies would not either.

graham did not have to specify what he meant about matters in other realms. “you are speaking of my trouble with the reach,” zia concluded as her expression darkened. it was no secret that her daughter was the reason she had returned to these shores. she wanted to be nearby, even if she could not see the child that she had been forced to abandon. “i doubt my house have any expectations of the vale in that regard. there are no invisible strings attached to your kind invite.” the words had double meaning. there was an understanding that gulltown would receive the favour of house antaryon, but there had been no promises made. she wanted the support of the vale against the reach, of course, but the agreement had not been made with that in mind, and she would not ask for it. in the end, whatever favour gulltown would receive from braavos would not be dictated by house antaryon. her family could influence some decisions, but not enough to ask a kingdom to turn against another. no one would be against a branch of the iron bank in westeros as another way to fight against the lyseni, it was merely a matter of interests aligning on where to put it. those were the decisions her uncle and father could sway in favour of gulltown to varying degrees. but zialla could not promise anything. these were matters far beyond her powers.

zia believed the king consort had been honest with her, and she wanted to offer him the same. “as you say yourself, then gulltown has enough positives to speak for itself, but i am sure it will get recommended by my house as a fine candidate for the new branch of the iron bank, even if you should take no stance on the matter of my daughter.” once again, she promised nothing. how far her family would go for gulltown and the vale was unknown to her.

she took a few steps closer to the window, the light of the moon lighting up her face. “with that said, i do have to warn you that i fully intend on seeing my daughter's claim as heir to oldtown through, and i will fight for her to be returned to me until she's older.” zialla thought it was best to show her hand fully. no hidden intentions, no schemes. she wanted to play it differently this time around. “i will not involve you in it, but i cannot promise others will not accuse you of being involved because you are hosting me, your grace.” she supposed that she should be nervous of being rejected, but truthfully, she had nothing left to lose. in her mind, she was preparing to enter a fight, and she wanted to make that clear to those who had taken her in. he had spoken about being a soldier. what else was there to fight for if not your child? she turned her gaze to him again, this time there was determination to be found in her eyes. “you have a daughter of your own, i hope you can understand why i do not plan on backing down.” it was a strange position to be in. zialla was there to seek a new start, but she could not wipe the slate clean as well, not while rosaria was kept from her.

[rememberences]

♟

graham paused at the door, his broad frame silhouetted by the dim, flickering firelight that cast long, uneven shadows across the stone walls of the great hall. his hand hovered near the doorframe, fingers brushing the splintered wood as though he could anchor himself in place. keira’s words lingered behind him, soft and tentative, carrying an air of quiet hope. they were not a plea, not exactly, but there was something raw in her tone, something vulnerable that made his chest tighten.

yet he didn’t turn around. his gaze dropped to the worn stone beneath his boots, its grooves and cracks a testament to the countless generations that had walked these halls. tonight, those stones felt heavier than ever, as if they carried the weight of the legacy pressing down on his shoulders.

he felt trapped between the echoes of his father’s voice, now little more than a rasp in the throes of illness, and the unspoken expectations of a wife who waited in silence, her words soft but deliberate. the fire crackled behind him, and he imagined her standing there, framed by its warm glow, her hands likely folded in that careful, measured way she always held herself. keira was delicate—too delicate for the life she’d been bound to, or so he often thought. she didn’t understand the weight of it all, not fully. how could she?

she had not lived through years of bloodshed on foreign soil, hadn’t seen what he had seen, hadn’t felt the fear that came with knowing that every decision he made, every swing of his blade, carried the fate of men and their families.

and yet, a part of him recognised the unfairness of it. she had her own burdens, though she never spoke of them aloud. her softness was no shield; it was an armour of a different kind, though he didn’t know how to reach beneath it. he told himself she was doing her duty, as was he. but as the years wore on, it seemed her presence, her attempts to close the distance between them, only sharpened the divide. her burdens were her own to carry, as women did. his were his carry, as men did. that was the way the world worked.

graham shifted his weight, crossing his arms over his chest as if to put some barrier between them. “i’ve seen enough skies to last a lifetime,” he added after a moment, his tone lowering despite himself. not softer, but quieter. “stars look the same no matter where you are. they’re no different here than anywhere else.” how many stars had he been forced to look upon as his dark grey gaze looked upon the sky, back on the mud of the earth, getting what limited sleep a man needed before he fought for king and life the next day. even then, he thought his words weren't entirely true, and he knew it. the stars over runestone did feel different. they were steadier, brighter somehow, more alive.

the words felt heavy in his mouth, awkward and stilted. graham had never been good with feelings—his own or anyone else’s. he glanced at her briefly, just for a moment. the firelight danced in her wide eyes, and for a fleeting second, he thought of how she had looked on their wedding day. she had been so full of hope then, her gaze so open and trusting. now, there was something quieter in her expression, something tempered, like someone who had learned not to expect too much. “but i’m not the sort to find peace in all that,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, almost as though he were speaking to himself. it were clear, this marriage was one of sorrow.

but he wasn’t about to admit that to her, or to himself. not yet. there was something about the way she looked at him, her expression open and searching, that made him feel unsteady, vulnerable. he didn’t like it. “you should go,” he said after a long pause, his voice gruff but not unkind. just dismissive, even when he did not mean for it to be. did he care if it seemed it? “if it helps you, then go. it’s good to have peace where you can find it.” and perhaps that was the reality of the matter; she deserved a partner, someone able to show her what it was she clearly wanted. he deserved what he needed. "it'll rain within two hours though, so dress warm." such was the strange trait of graham royce; being able to guess when it would rain.

keira had long understood that her marriage to the lord of runestone would not be a tale of romance. it had been a match forged by duty, an alliance planned with precision rather than passion. yet, in the quiet of her chambers on the night before their wedding, she had allowed herself to dream of something more—a shared respect, perhaps even affection. she had imagined small, fleeting moments of warmth between them, a partnership built, not if on love, on mutual understanding.

reality had proven harsher than her dreams. graham was a man of few words, his cool demeanor a wall she had yet to scale. but still, she admired him. his steadfastness, his quiet resolve—it was impossible not to respect such qualities, even if they left little room for her to reach him. lately, though, his silence had grown heavier, weighed down, she suspected, by the war and the looming shadow of his father’s decline.

she moved slowly as she cleared the table, her motions deliberate, unhurried, each plate and cup lifted as if she might coax words from the quiet that hung between them. keira glanced toward graham now and then, hoping to catch his eye, to find some flicker of connection in his cool, distant demeanor. Instead, he rose from his chair, the scrape of wood against stone loud in the stillness, bidding her a gruff farewell for the evening.

she paused mid-motion, her hands resting on the rim of the tray she had begun to fill. her heart sank, but she refused to let it show. as he stepped toward the door, keira turned slightly, her voice soft but purposeful.

"my lord," she spoke out softly, her tone gentle enough to slip between the walls he so carefully built.

she exhaled slowly, steadying herself. "the stars are clear tonight," she said, letting her voice take on an almost casual lilt. "i was thinking of going up to the parapet for a little while. the air is crisp this time of year, and… it’s peaceful up there."

she smoothed her hands over her skirts, an almost nervous gesture she disguised as absent-minded. "i thought perhaps you might join me. just for a little bit, if you are not too tired."

keira took a step closer, the firelight catching the warm copper of her hair. "i imagine the stars look different from where you’ve been," she continued, her voice quieter now, as though sharing a secret. "maybe they’ll remind you of here. of home."

her words hung in the air like a fragile offering, her gaze resting on the tension in his stance. she didn’t press him, but neither did she move to clear the table further.

"i find it helps," she added softly, almost to herself. "to look up at them, to feel small for a while. the burdens feel… less heavy that way."

[rememberences]

who: @pressedxpetals when and where: flashback, the future ruling lord of runestone has spent his third day back in the keep after being back from the frontlines during the dance of dragons. after a silent dinner with his wife, graham royce stands to leave. context: once upon a time graham and keira were married during the dance of dragons. it did not end well.

the dining hall at runestone was cloaked in silence, save for the faint crackle of the fire in the great hearth. the evening meal had been simple—a soldier’s fare, more suited to the field than the hall of a noble house. yet graham royce barely touched his trencher, his appetite dulled by the thoughts that churned ceaselessly in his mind. the low, flickering firelight caught the edges of the tapestries on the walls, their ancient threads frayed and faded, much like the house they represented.

keira sat across the table, her strawberry curls glinting in the dim light, her soft voice breaking the quiet now and then as she offered attempts at conversation. her words floated past him, unacknowledged but not unnoticed, falling into the gulf that had grown between them. her pale hands, folded delicately on the table, lingered a moment longer than they should have when passing the wine. graham did not meet her eyes.

he had returned to runestone weary, the war clawing at his every thought and decision, and now the weight of what awaited him here crushed down on him. his father was dying; that much was plain. the once-great malcom, ruling lord of runestone was a husk of himself, too frail to lead and barely able to speak. the title of ruling lord loomed on the horizon, but instead of pride or readiness, graham felt only dread. the silence after the meal stretched unbearably long. keira rose quietly and began to clear the table, but her movements felt slow and deliberate, as though she hoped he might say something—anything—to her.

he didn’t. instead, he leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the fire.

the air between them was heavy, thicker than the stone walls surrounding them. keira had not quickened again, and though graham would never have voiced it, the disappointment festered like a wound. every childless month deepened his unease, the thought of leaving runestone to his brother axell gnawing at him like a hungry wolf. his lips pressed into a thin line, and he stood abruptly, the legs of the chair scraping against the flagstone floor. keira glanced up at him, her wide, questioning eyes catching the firelight. he offered no explanation, no words to fill the emptiness she must have felt.

"sleep well." his voice came in the traditional low, runestone rumble; and instead of saying anything to clearly indicate he was in such a foul mood, he stepped away from the table, the thick soles of his boots echoing dully as he crossed the hall with the intention of further vanishing into the shadows of the keep and not seeing her until lunch the next day. he ended up pausing by the door however, upon hearing the sounds of her chair scraping; he did not turn around to face her. only paused at the door, as though to give her the chance. he needed to give her the chance.

[rememberences]

♟

graham royce’s eyes narrowed as he watched the woman move with practiced grace, her fingers brushing against the candles with an almost intimate defiance. the faint flicker of the flames cast long, eerie shadows on her face, but it was not the shadows that unsettled him; it was the deliberate calm with which she extinguished each one. the chapel, bathed in the dim light of dying flames, felt suffocating in its silence, and graham’s boots made no sound as he crossed the room. he didn’t trust her. not that he trusted anyone here, but her presence in this place, at this hour, set his teeth on edge.

he had come for solitude, for a brief respite from the cacophony of his own thoughts, but instead, he found her—undisturbed, as though the weight of the world could not touch her. as if she were above it all. the moment the door creaked shut behind him, he crossed his arms and let out a low grunt of frustration. there was something about this woman—her stillness, her control—that reminded him of the very thing he despised: a mind too calculating for its own good.

“aye, ‘tis late, and we know it, don't be wastin' yer breath speakin' the obvious,” graham said, his voice rough, thick with a highlander vale lilt that seemed to slice through the air like the edge of a blade. he moved towards her slowly, his boots scraping softly against the stone floor; not in the method that were intimidating, but as though he were trying to make sense of whatever it was he was looking at. “but ye seem tae be workin’ yer own kind of ritual, woman, and i cannae say it’s one that sits well wi’ me.” his grey eyes were fixed on her, unwavering, the cold of the stone walls seeping into his bones. his grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, the hilt slick with the dampness of the room, though he didn’t pull it. not yet.

he did not feel like he could pull his blade in the sept. why? what did it matter, when his hands were stained as they were?

“ye’d do well tae mind yer own business about why i'm here,” graham continued, his words low but edged with an undeniable force. “this isn’t yer place, nor is it yer time. the gods or no gods, yer actions, woman, they stink of somethin’ far less holy than yer pretendin’. he took a step closer, closing the space between them, his towering presence casting a shadow over her. “so, unless ye want me to think ye’ve come here for more than a prayer,” he said, his voice colder now, almost a growl, “i’d suggest ye leave yer dornish games at the door. this isn’t the time or place for whatever it is yer up to.” he stood still, waiting for a response, the weight of his presence pressing in on her. his gaze was as cold and sharp as the steel at his side.

halima had never been a woman of faith.

or if she had, she could not remember it. there was a portion of her life that was hazy, the time before yronwood had erupted into violence, lines were drawn, and her loyalty was defined, but that time was locked away in a cell in her mind, never to be released. all she had of it was hazy memories, like fragments of a dream you could hardly remember once you had open your eyes. her eyes were open now. if the gods existed, they had long since turned their back on the likes of her, and she could live with that.

she was here only to examine her battlefield, to observe every shadow that could offer her succor, to figure out the best path to and from the place her target would be. if opportunity arose, if for once, the gods did favour her, she would kill him tonight, but not before getting the lay of the land. a task so delicate would not be rushed. if she were too eager, she ran the risk of leaving loose ends, and the thought of that plagued her.

and halima was not a woman given to succumbing to whims. everything she did was with purpose, holding herself to high standards and under tight control. and yet, the sight of the candles at the altar stirred something in her. each flame was a prayer to the gods, a sin asking to be cleansed, and for some reason, that made her angry. for halima, there would be no answered prayers. she had cloaked herself in too many sins to ever be cleansed of it. why should others have what she could not?

she got to work, extinguishing flames with her bare fingertips, relishing the way the fire kissed her skin, before overturning the candles completely, as though she were directing pleas for divine guidance away from the heavens, and towards the hells, and she would continue doing so until every light was out. and then the door creaked open, footsteps filled the silence, and she glanced over her shoulder, pausing only for a breath. she had been seen, but if she stopped, it would only make it obvious she was doing something she ought not to be. and so, halima continued on, acting as though her strange task were the most natural thing in the world.

"the hour is late, your grace." she held little interest in who wore andal crowns, but she paid attention to these things. he would not know her, for few outside of dorne did, and that was the way she preferred things, but she knew of him. the kingslayer who became a king. that, at least, was interesting. she thought of dante uller, the slayer of her cousin the prince mors who had sought to seduce his widow, and failed. such a thing would never have happened in dorne. it led her to deduce that rowan arryn had been a bigger fool than even mors had been, that the mountain men would take to his killer.

"only a troubled mind would seek the company of the gods at this time of night."

[rememberences]

♟

the rain hammered down, a relentless drumbeat on the stones of the yard, soaking through graham's tunic and chilling him to the bone. his blade trembled slightly as axell’s words hit harder than any strike could. the accusation—the insinuation—gnawed at him. axell, with his smirk and his venom, always knew how to twist the knife. graham held his ground, his jaw tight, his eyes burning despite the cold rain that dripped into them. how was it the tree had split and fractured in such a way, strangled by the weight of their mighty ancestors...how was it the brothers of runestone had all but burned the bridge they stood on?

“you think this is a game, axell?” graham growled, his voice low and steady, though there was a tremor in it, a fracture he couldn’t quite hide. his knuckles whitened on the hilt of his sword, the leather slick beneath his grip. he pointed the blade at his brother, closing the distance between them, his voice cutting through the storm. “you stand there, smug as ever, like none of this matters. like you don’t matter.” there was a mighty echo in his words, as though it were more than just graham speaking; as though it had always been more than just graham speaking. it were malcom, it were duncan, it were every man of house royce looking at the weak link. axell’s sneer was like a lash, his words deliberate and biting. grief is a weakness. graham could have laughed if it weren’t so damn bitter.

he knew grief too well—knew it could break a man or sharpen him. but this… this was not grief. axell’s indifference was a black pit, hollow and unnerving.

“weakness, you call it?” graham asked, stepping forward, steel raised but not striking - suddenly, this no longer appeared as though the brothers were sparring. this no longer seemed like practice. “you think you’re strong because you don’t care? because you hide behind that sneer and pretend nothing touches you? gods, axell. you’re not strong. you’re empty.” the word hung in the air, heavier than the rain, heavier than the steel that clashed between them. their blades locked again, the force of it jarring graham’s shoulder, but he held firm. his brother’s face was inches from his own now, the smirk still etched there like a taunt. “you need me to say it?” graham hissed, his breath visible in the cold.

“i do think you had something to do with her disappearance. your carelessness. the way you’ve made it so bloody easy for everyone to whisper about us. about you.”

he pushed axell back with a forceful shove of their blades, stepping back just enough to catch his breath. his chest heaved with the effort of the fight, but it was the weight of his words that truly drained him. the rain blurred the edges of his vision, but he didn’t look away from his brother, not for a moment. “but it’s not just her, is it?” graham continued, his voice quieter now, though no less intense. “it’s everything. it’s the way you laugh when the world’s on fire. the way you act like nothing matters. like we don’t matter.” his sword lowered slightly, though his grip didn’t relax. his shoulders sagged, just a fraction, the weariness catching up with him. he stepped back further, lowering his sword entirely now, though his eyes never left axell’s. “so you do what you must,” graham said, the edge returning to his voice.

“send your men. play your games. but if she doesn’t return—if this doesn’t end—I’ll make sure the whispers find their truth. and when they do, axell…” he trailed off, shaking his head. he didn’t finish the thought. he didn’t need to. the words hung between them like a blade, unsheathed and poised to strike. without another word, graham turned and strode away, the rain streaming off his armour as he left his brother standing alone in the yard. "but it doesn't change what i think of you. what all the family will think of you. you are a lost cause." there was a finality to his tone - as if to say, i know what you are.

.

the rain hammered down on the courtyard, turning stone to slick shadow and pooling in shallow rivulets at their feet. axell moved like a predator, his strikes powerful and deliberate, forcing graham to counter with a precision honed over years. graham's skill with the blade was undeniable and so was axell. the sharp clang of steel against steel echoed through the storm, the sound cutting through the sheets of water as if it were a language only they understood. despite the ferocity of their blows, neither pushed too far. they knew each other’s movements too well, a dance rehearsed since childhood—but this time, the stakes felt heavier, like a storm brewing beneath the surface of their sparring.

“dragging our name into whispers?” axell laughed. “it has never left the whispers. it’s always there” axell rolled his eyes. he raised his sword pointing it towards him. “you’re just lucky people tend to focus on what i do rather than what you do. you should be thanking me for taking the heat off of you” he smirked, perhaps just wanting to get a rise out of him.

the ghost of runestone rolled his shoulders as the rain streamed down his face, slicking his hair to his scalp. the sting of graham’s blade against his own vibrated up his arm, but it didn’t bother him. it never had. he smirked, just as his brother had accused, even as his muscles tensed beneath the force of the locked blades.

“and my wife?” he snorted. “let’s not pretend she was anything other than what she was. a convenience. a match made on parchment, i married here because you and ravella wanted me to. said she would be a good match yet she spoke to lords from other kingdoms as if she wasn’t wearing our name. if she ran, good riddance. if she was taken, then let someone else grieve her.” he sneered as he broke the lock between them.

axell lunged, steel crashing against graham’s sword in a calculated strike that forced their blades to lock once again. this time, he leaned in, close enough for his words to only be heard by him. “you think i’m unaffected?” his voice dropped, laced with venom. “maybe because i learned something long before you did. grief is a weakness, graham. and i can’t afford to be weak. would you like me to weep for her like a baby? to fling myself out the fucking moon door?” he laughed. “i am dealing with this my way. if she is out there my men will find her.”

he shoved hard, breaking the lock and stepping back, pointing his blade at graham’s chest. “so ask yourself, brother. what’s really bothering you? is it her disappearance—or….what? you think i did it. say it. come on i know you fucking want to. you think i killed her.”

[rememberences]

♟

graham royce adjusted the fit of his cloak, the fur-lined edge brushing against his shoulders as he stared out at the heavy gray clouds cloaking the vale’s skies. the council chamber at runestone was quieter than usual, the distant sound of servants bustling through the halls muted by the thick stone walls. he had summoned mariela egen, the spy mistress of the vale, not out of formality but necessity. yet as she stood before him, calm and composed, his own thoughts felt jagged, the weight of the conversation pressing down on him more heavily than the steel of his armor ever had.

"mariela," he began, his voice a low rumble that seemed to echo in the stillness. "ye’ve been at this longer than i’ve been consort, yer loyalty’s not in question. not to me, not to the vale. but i need ye to understand what we’re up against here.” his tone was measured, but there was an edge to it, one that even he could feel cutting through the air. he clenched his hands behind his back, the leather of his gloves creaking softly.

"prince rhys arryn is a threat, whether he intends to be or not. and he’s not the only one. the realm’s full of folk who’d see our work undone for the chance to claim what they think is theirs. it’s not just my daughter’s birthright at stake—it’s the stability of this entire kingdom. the arryns are a name that carries weight. too much weight to ignore." his gaze moved to mariela, meeting her sharp eyes. the spy mistress always had an unflinching air about her, one that both impressed and unsettled him. she was a woman who thrived in the shadows, weaving through secrets like a spider through its web. yet her silence in the face of his words made him falter, if only for a moment. “i know ye’ve set ears to the riverlands, to the lithia festival,” he continued, his voice firm.

“and i know ye’ll watch him wherever he travels, but i’ll be blunt: that’s not enough. rhys isn’t just some lad wanderin’ the lands. he’s a piece on the board, moved by hands we can’t always see. ye’ve got to stay a step ahead of him. no missteps. no assumptions. he's predictable, finds himself swayed by women - act on that.”

graham paused, his jaw tightening as a flicker of frustration sparked in his chest. he hadn’t meant for the words to come out so harsh, but he couldn’t pull them back now. he exhaled sharply, glancing away. “and guinevere…” his voice dropped, quieter now, though the tension lingered. “i shouldn’t’ve brought her up. that wasn’t fair to ye.” they had both worked to betray the trust of guinevere lannister; there was no forgetting in the mind of the bronze lord, how he had once spoken to the golden queen of the vale of their king's closeness with the dragons. his lips pressed into a thin line. graham was not a man who apologized easily, and the words stuck in his throat like shards of glass.

he looked back at her, his gaze softening, though his expression remained guarded. “i know what yer capable of, mariela. i’ve seen it. but i also ken the toll it takes. yer role isn’t one i envy, not for a moment. and if i’ve pushed too hard, it’s because i can’t afford to do less. not now. not with all that’s at stake.” for a moment, the tension in the room seemed to ease, but graham couldn’t shake the lingering weight of his own missteps. he straightened, his posture rigid once more, as though retreating behind the armor of his rank. “ye’ve my trust,” he said finally, his tone steady.

“but trust doesn’t mean i won’t demand more. that’s the burden you carry, and if you cannot handle it, then step down.” the heavy wooden door creaked as he pushed it open, the cool air of the corridor rushing in. graham paused for the briefest of moments, his hand resting on the frame, before he stepped through and let the door close behind him.

mariela stood as still as a statue, the faint chill in the damp wind biting through the fine weave of her cloak. she tilted her chin slightly at the king consort’s final words, the barest movement betraying the knot of resentment tightening in her chest. the air between them seemed heavier now, weighted with the expectations he placed upon her. a flicker of offense burned in her chest, sharp and undeniable. what more could she give? how many pieces of herself had she already surrendered to the realm? it was a quiet betrayal, one that stung more deeply than any accusation from a stranger ever could.

the lady of moonhill took a steadying breath, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her garment, as though grounding herself in the stillness of the moment. she lowered her gaze, her voice soft yet resolute as she addressed the king. “i must apologize for allowing the whispers to cloud my judgment of the circumstances, your grace” she said, her tone carefully controlled. “i overstepped, let personal concerns blur my focus. that will not happen again.” she paused, meeting his eyes briefly before continuing, the weight of her words heavier than she intended. “i will handle the matter, as I should have from the start. i will only bring forth anything further if it is absolutely necessary.” she inclined her head, a silent acknowledgment of her own missteps and the need to right them.

his reminder of guinevere struck a nerve she was careful not to show. her hands, gloved in black leather, clasped neatly in front of her, betraying nothing of the turmoil his words stirred within her. he would not know how deeply that wound cut. the knowledge that a woman who had once been so close had kept such secrets from her made mariela wonder how well she truly knew her. the sadness was overwhelming, more than any sense of betrayal. it was the loss of a friendship she had never imagined could fade.

her back straightened, thoughts settling back into their rightful place. she would no longer let herself be swayed by personal history or lingering emotions; there was far too much at stake. her eyes shifted towards the horizon where the prince’s presence loomed larger with every passing moment. the weight of his potential was not lost on her, nor was the threat he posed to the stability she had helped work to so carefully to preserve.

mari's gaze remained steady as she met his own. “you have my word, your grace,” she said, her voice firm. “i’ll watch the prince closely." she rolled her lips. "i've set ears in the riverlands, he had visited for lithia," she did not think the river queen would turn against the vale for the prince's sake, but with an unwed queen and princesses, it was not something to let slip idly by. "and i'll ensure my eyes in the vale and wherever else he travels to are extra vigilant."

[rememberences]

♟

"aye, the braavosi have vision. and the lyseni be blockin it." graham royce stood beside lady zialla antaryon, his tall frame still and stoic against the soft glow of the moonlight streaming through the wide windows. his gaze flickered between the twinkling lights of gulltown below and the poised braavosi woman at his side. her words were measured, deliberate, but the weight of her inquiry was not lost on him. he crossed his arms loosely over his chest, the faint creak of leather from his doublet breaking the quiet for just a moment.

“what do i envision for gulltown?” he repeated, his highlander lilt rolling low like distant thunder. he let the question linger, drawing in a slow breath as if the answer might reveal itself in the view below. “i’ll tell ye plain, lady zialla: i’m no merchant, nor banker, nor lord with silver coin flowin’ through my veins. i’m a soldier, a knight—what i know best is steel, bronze, runes and the sweat it takes to hold a place like this. coin and commerce? that’s another battlefield entirely.”

his brow furrowed as he shifted his weight, the moonlight catching faint lines of weariness on his face. “but even a soldier can ken the worth of what’s bein’ built here. gulltown’s not a city for extravagance, nor do i want it to be. it doesn’t need marble towers or gilded streets to stand out. it needs roots—strong ones. a place where folk can trade honest, live well, and find somethin’ solid to hold onto. it’s not about rivalin’ king’s landing or oldtown. it’s about somethin’ that can endure. that’s how the vale stands, after all. solid as the mountains themselves.” he glanced at her, his eyes sharp but not unkind.

“now, i’m well aware that other lords and lands will claw to bring a branch of the iron bank to their doorstep. they’ll promise gold and glory, flatter with words sweeter than honey. but gulltown’s appeal lies in somethin’ simpler. it’s a port with honest purpose, a gateway to both the vale and the broader kingdoms. it doesn’t need to be the grandest or the richest - our beacon of neutrality means our ports won't be closin' due to wars, we'll only strike to defend ourselves. the coin will be stable flow; that's what sells it and make it suitable.”

graham’s hand moved absently to the hilt of his sword, a gesture as natural to him as breathing. “i’ll not lie to ye, lady zialla. i don’t ken half of what makes a place prosper in the eyes of coin-counters. but what i do ken is loyalty. gulltown has that in its people, in the men and women who’ve weathered storms and wars for their home. and i’d wager that’s worth more than any gilded promise. the graftons overcame their issue with a traitorous lord some years ago, and came out stronger. their people benefit from that.”

he let the silence settle, his gaze returning to the view outside. “so no, i don’t expect gulltown to outshine braavos or any other city. i don’t want it to. i want it to stand on its own - 'tis not to dabble in matters of other realms." his dark grey gaze looked at her there, as though he too were hoping she would be able to understand what it was he was partly alluding to.

arriving in westeros this time around was vastly different to her first welcome. despite still feeling apprehensive about being on westerosi soil, she put on her finest dress for the ball and tried her best not to be seen without a smile plastered to her face. she was genuinely grateful. it made her feel more comfortable to know that she was surrounded by people, who respected her and wanted her there. she thanked the servant pouring filling her empty goblet with more wine before answering his question. “lord grafton is a kind host, your grace, we are getting along quite well. i am grateful for your hospitality since arriving here.” they were stood by the windows, and she had to admit that the view was perhaps even better than those overlooking the sea.

zialla was mesmerised by the sight below her for a moment, as she spoke without much thought. “gulltown reminds me of home in many ways. the sounds and smell of the harbour, the screeches of the seagulls.” she wondered if even the seagulls dared to venture this high up. she finally tore her eyes away from the sight of the night sky outside, how the moon illuminated the mountains of the vale.

her dark gaze landed on the king consort. with her focus on the reach the first time around, she had neglected the alliance with the vale. but she would not make the same mistake again. none of the antaryons would. “i am sure the city will prosper with the right investments. lord grafton seems determined to improve it.” she knew that the vale wanted something in return for sheltering her. she had left a trail of scandal in her wake when she had quickly departed from oldtown. she had enemies in the reach, and she was sure the words spoken about her were far from kind. she was also divorced now. if only garland could have dropped dead a few moons before, so she could have been spared that particular stain on her reputation.

but the vale had been willing to take her in, and she knew they hoped their ties with braavos would be profitable. it was different to be around westerosi with the correct respect for her people, for her home. “that is how braavos was built, free people with an indomitable spirit and vision of a city to rival all others. each generation leaving a greater city behind.” zia had long dropped the idea that she needed to become one of them to fit in. she was braavosi, and she would never be made to feel ashamed of that again.

“what do you envision for gulltown, your grace?”

zia thought it was best to know what the valemen expected, what they would be given in return for their kindness. she knew there had been talks of a branch of the iron bank opening in westeros, but she did not know much more thna that. it would be easier for her to do her part if she understood what her hosts wanted.

[rememberences]

who: @halimayronwood when and where: the grand sept of lannisport receives a late night visitor context: in which graham interrupts cunning plans

graham royce rarely sought solace in prayer. it wasn’t his way, not anymore. but tonight, the weight of guilt bore down on him with the heaviness of the stone walls around casterly rock. this place—it was a monument to power, soaked in history and ambition. yet for all its grandeur, it unsettled him. guilt gnawed at him, its claws sharper here, where whispers of unbroken lineages mingled with sins buried beneath gold.

the chapel called to him, not with faith but as a haven, its doors promising quiet and seclusion. the hour was late, the halls dim, the air carrying a distant, mournful hymn sung from another chamber. the voices were faint, wavering like ghosts through the cold stone corridors. the door groaned on its hinges as he pushed it open, the faint sound startling in the stillness. the room within was shrouded in shadows, lit only by the faint, flickering glow of scattered candles. the scent of melted wax lingered, and the air was heavy with a solemn chill that seemed to seep from the very walls.

and then he saw her.

a woman stood by the altar, her back to him, her movements precise yet unhurried. the faint golden light of the candles played across her dark braid, catching the loose strands that framed her profile. she was not praying. her hands moved deliberately, overturning the candles one by one with a grace that was at odds with the act itself. graham stepped into the room, his boots muted against the threadbare carpet beneath. he did not speak. his presence filled the space silently, a shadow intruding on the flickering warmth of the altar.

he watched her, his gaze cold and unyielding. she hesitated as her fingers brushed the next candle’s base, but the pause was fleeting, her composure slipping back into place with practiced ease. yet he saw it—an edge of tension, subtle but unmistakable. the hymns continued in the distance, their somber melody a quiet backdrop to the strange, calculated ritual unfolding before him. graham’s jaw tightened as he crossed his arms, his broad shoulders casting long shadows across the chapel floor.

he’d come here seeking a reprieve, a place to drown out the restless thoughts clawing at his mind. instead, he found this—a woman with purpose carved into every motion, yet no trace of reverence in her bearing. the air in the chapel felt heavier now, weighted by silence and the distant echoes of faith. his grey eyes stayed fixed on her, unblinking and unreadable, waiting for the moment when the mask might slip again. yet he said nothing, the hymns beyond rising and falling like the ghosts of prayers never answered.

[rememberences]

♟

graham stood tall, his eyes fixed on mariela, feeling the weight of her presence settle upon him like the pressing damp of the vale. it was strange, the way time had shifted between them—once companions in the same quiet halls of runestone, now separated by far more than distance. he had come to know her for what she was: a woman of secrets and shadows, a mistress of whispers, always holding her cards close to her chest.

yet in this moment, there was something genuine in her tone, a crack in the mask she so carefully wore.

he let her speak, his gaze unwavering, the stone walls of runestone still echoing faintly in his mind as her words curled into the cold air. "some truths are best spoken plainly," she said, and he could hear the meaning beneath the surface. mariela did not waste words. she had never been one for them. yet now, there was a quiet warmth beneath her formality, a hint of old understanding that made graham’s chest tighten, though he would not show it. he nodded slowly, his voice low, almost gravelly.

“axell is no fool,” he said. “and if he has gone silent, it’s not because of shock, mariela.” he turned his gaze toward the distant horizon, his mind working through the unspoken tension. the boy who once teased you, now lost in his own shadows. he had to admit, there was something unsettling in the thought of his brother—once so full of life, so carefree—becoming this. this shell of a man.

“i’ve heard the whispers. and i know where they lead,” graham added, a slight edge to his voice now. the thought of axell—indifferent to his wife’s disappearance—gnawed at him. had his brother fallen so far? he shook his head, pushing the thought aside. "but i will not listen to rumors, not until i have the truth. there are more obvious matters at hand, including that of the prince." the return of rhys arryn had been met with a resounding yet defining silence from the king consort.

“axell's indifference is no issue to the realm, mariela,” graham said, his voice low, deliberate. harsh. he demanded perfection. and the focus on personal matters was beginning to irritate him. “it’s prince rhys arryn. he is to many, the true heir. legitimate by every right, and that’s the truth of it. i’m certain i’ll hear whispers of it every step we take. every step.” graham let the last word hang in the air, heavy with meaning. “he could turn this kingdom upside down if it came to it, and rob my daughter of her birthright.”

“i do not trust him,” graham continued, his gaze returning to mariela, intense, calculating. “there’s nothing genuine about his intentions. nothing clear, because he too once sat on your seat upon the council.” his lips twitched with a barely concealed judgmental scoff. “watch what he does in the west." graham took a long breath, the weight of his thoughts pulling him back from the immediate concern. “and i remember how close you were to guinevere.” his gaze was sharp, almost predatory. “your loyalty is being tested. don’t let me down.”

his final words were nearly a command, though they carried with them a quiet thread of sterness, the tension in his chest unrelenting. as though he were not a consort and she a spy mistress, but as though he were stood amongst the ranks of the knights of the vale. and she were a soldier. in the end, graham’s eyes were still locked on her, his thoughts burning like a distant flame. he would be vigilant, in the westerlands and beyond.

mariela stood a few paces from the king consort, the damp wind brushing against her face, though she hardly felt it. it wasn’t the chill that had her unsettled. her gloved fingers adjusted the clasp of her cloak—a small, unnecessary movement—as she gauged how to approach the man who had once been as much a part of her youth as the stone walls of runestone.

“your grace,” she began, her voice smooth and formal. yet, beneath it, there was a faint warmth—an unspoken acknowledgment of the years they had shared. mariela had never been one for frivolous words; graham would know that. it was why this conversation weighed heavier in her mind than most. “i understand. i’ve only come to you because some truths are best spoken plainly, before they come to you twisted by others. these journey's have a way of spreading such things, quickly.” time spent in close quarters, weary and tired, made tongues far more loose and careless.

the lady of moonhill's thoughts lingered on axell, the boy who had once carried himself with a kind of effortless charm. she could still picture the way he’d tease her for spending more time reading than riding, his grin quick and disarming. now, there was no trace of that boy left. his indifference to his wife’s disappearance unnerved her in ways she dared not admit aloud. what had the mountain clans done to him? or was this darkness something that had always been there, waiting for the right conditions to emerge?

"i'll ensure it remains contained." she only need whisper sentiments to her the maidservants under her wing for what she willed to spread: that the high commander was in shock, that he were still processing the matter and working on his own to resolve it.

her amber eyes flicked back to graham. did he see it too? did he feel the same unease about the man axell had become? “I thought it prudent you hear it from me. i assure you, i'll speak to him directly to get to the root of the matter. perhaps i can be of help to him.” as she spoke, her words calm and deliberate, a knot of unease twisted tighter in her chest. she had been prepared for this—prepared to inform the king, to present the situation with all the polish her role demanded. but now, with his subtle nod of acknowledgment and the quiet expectation in his gaze, the weight of her next steps settled heavily on her shoulders.

she would have to speak to the high commander, alone. eyes drifted to the younger lord of runestone's figure off in the distance, tall and unwavering amidst the fog and damp. mariela almost wished she could voice her unease, admit to the faint tremor of doubt that now shadowed her resolve. but she couldn’t. her role was to act, not falter.