ryonwyl

[ryonwyl]

"I've heard tale the men spend more time in their gardens. Crying over roses pricking their fingers. One must wonder what else they pricked with in those elaborate gardens." Ryon knew what he was doing and he knew what he was saying, if he was going to antagonized then he was going to really get under their skin and play with the many rumors about Reachly knights. Some argued that the Dornish did this and that and perhaps there were some Dornish who did, but, the Dornish held a strength in their ability to not be shamed by people who were shamed out of raising children for Gods that encouraged such things. Northern Westeros was a strange place and the Reach was the strangest.

And briefly he paused in kicking to stare at those who watched them. He imagined these men thought too highly of themselves to strike a woman and he would wager they would find themselves embarrassed before the thought entered their small minds. It was an other weakness. An inability accept their ways were anything but perfect. They tore their own realm apart through small, petty weakness and he and his flourished in the raiding parties and abductions, so much the coin made during the dance came to House Wyl's coffers through ransom.

"They have marches they've no right to here as well. And perhaps when I finish with the Stormborn, I will turn my eye here." And then he grinned, laughed and kicked the ball as hard as he could toward the men and they would either scatter, attempt to catch, or be struck and take the bait. He wanted them to take the bait. Ryon could reach his blade before their fist touched his face. Always keep a blade in your boot, his father would say, you never know when one might have to cut a motherfucker.

the ball met the heel of her boot, and for a moment she held it there. she may not have played in years, but his kick had been an easy enough one to catch. her gaze flicked up to him, and though her usual aloof demeanour had not changed, there was a spark of something like amusement in her eyes that even those who knew her best might struggle to recognise. "perhaps if they're lucky, their tears will help their roses grow." her tone was deadpan as she glanced over her shoulder at the men of the reach. the truth was, the both of them were out of place here, and ryon's brazenness was a moment of familiarity within that. she would not say it out loud, but she was glad to see him. they don't know what to do with him, she realised, and that gave her a sort of satisfaction.

she scoffed, returning the ball to him with a kick that was clean, if not particularly skillful. peace. the very word felt foreign to her, a lie told by others who had nothing they needed to fight for. "it is theatre. as much a display as if king cedric decided to gather us here to parade his armies before us, just of a different kind," she said, eventually. "so that when we return to dorne, this will be what we think of when the reach comes into conversation." she would not say more on the subject, that in her suspicious mind, this was all intended to get people to look the other way. for if the king could craft a conspiracy such as the one she had been part of, what else was taking place under the shade of floral canopies?

halima was a woman who planned for violence, but did not often seek it out. not in the way that she believed ryon did. she could be brutal, but it was out of necessity. and still, deep down, she found she didn't mind the idea of it, a part of her welcoming the noise and the chaos and something she knew what to do with. "i'd put money on you starting a brawl before the week is out," she clicked her tongue, but her mouth quirked. "i'd not stop you. some of these reach lords look like they could use a boot up the backside. just choose your targets wisely. i don't trust this place." she didn't trust anything, but that was besides the point.

[ryonwyl]

"Finally, another Dornishman. I thought I would be blinded by the Andals who stand watch." Ryon spoke in his usual way, there was a mischievous tone to his voice and a smile on his face. They were unarmed or were meant to be and even in that he found joy in riling up those who wanted to use this pitch but they would wait until he was satisfied and then he would go or they would go. Ryon didn't know who would give up first but he was not the sort to walk away first. Though, there were days when it would have probably served him to walk away.

"I hear they weep into their flowers after battle." Ryon kicked the ball over to her, stretching his arms above his head as he waited for her to kick the ball back over. Ryon Wyl was unapologetic in the way he carried himself, proud to come from the lands where men and women did not bend their knee and remained unbroken. They could even claim themselves to be dragon slayers. Again.

"What are you making of this faff? Everyone walking around, floating back and forth with stupid arguments about peace and unity." Ryon thought it was just a display for the Reach king to demonstrate to the realm how much smarter they were than everyone else around them. Ryon never liked Reachmen, he thought they looked down their noses at everyone. Soft men, fat with fields of food and smallfolk to shield them from a real fight. Still. It wasn't worth fighting them. They were important. Something about bread.

"I'm waiting for a fight to breakout, personally." Hoping. He was hoping for a fight.

the last time halima yronwood had visited the reach, she had left with blood under her fingernails. there had been no repercussions of the night in oldtown - whatever had come of the murder of septon demir, none had looked south of the marches for answers. she had kept her end of the bargain, and so far, cedric tyrell had kept his.

but that was of little comfort. returning to the scene of the crime so soon after it had been committed felt like a mistake to halima, and yet, there was no reason to stay behind. her control over kingsgrave was growing more difficult to deny as the months wore on, and all who mattered in dorne would be here. it would be more suspicious to remain behind, and so, here she was.

none of her apprehension was evident as she approached ryon wyll. she moved on silent footsteps, clad in dornish silks the colour of darkest plums, of a bruise, and for halima, that was positively cheerful attire. her spine remained straight, the jut of her chin proud and haughty. she carried herself as she always did, as though she had every right to be there and would stand to here nothing that would contradict that from any who would seek to question it.

"careful, wyl." she called out, but there was a touch of something in her voice that was not often present, a lazy sort of humour as she called out to him. she would not lie and say the sight of another dornishman here was not a relief. it was not as though she was expecting trouble, no more than she usually did. the thrum of anticipation for it that constantly ran through her, because that was simply the way it had always been, was still there, but she would never fully let that drop.

she came to a stop not far from him, her hands clasping together behind her back. "you're going to make the knights of the reach weep if you keep reminding them that you have better footwork than all their squires combined." she cast a glance over her shoulder to those that had been looking at ryon, eyes narrowing in a way that dared them to keep looking.

"kick it over, then. i've not played with a ball since i was a girl."

[ryonwyl]

what: open starter where: the concord event, in one of the training pitches.

The fields of Highgarden stretched out like a rolling sea of green under the soft afternoon sun, the air thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and blooming summer flowers. The banners of a hundred noble houses fluttered overhead, bright and proud, as the sounds of music, debate, and feasting filled the air in every direction. Everywhere was refinement — silk-clad lords and jeweled ladies exchanging pleasantries under the watchful eyes of courtiers and knights.

And there was Ryon Wyl, the Wyl of Wyl, cutting a very different figure on the edge of it all.

He was dressed for comfort rather than courtly display — loose-fitting linen breeches and a worn tunic rolled to the elbows, a far cry from the heavy velvets and gold chains littering the gardens. A simple dagger hung from his belt, the only nod to proper decorum, but otherwise he looked more like a restless sellsword than a lord attending one of the grandest assemblies in Westeros.

At the edge of the training pitch, his boots scuffed through the dirt as he kicked a leather ball back and forth with lazy precision, keeping it spinning at his feet without ever truly settling it.

Tap. Roll. Flick. Tap. Roll. Flick.

The ball moved like an extension of him, an idle dance beneath his boots while he watched the grandeur unfold around him with a look of mild disinterest. Highgarden was impressive, sure — a paradise for poets and pretenders — but it was not made for men like him. Men who had no patience for flowery speeches or empty toasts.

The sharp crack of his boot against the ball echoed across the pitch, drawing a few glances from nearby squires and knights, but Ryon paid them no mind. He simply smirked, keeping his rhythm, the faintest glint of mischief flickering in his dark eyes.

It was a celebration of peace, after all. And if Ryon Wyl had learned anything, it was that peace was just another word for boredom — and boredom, in his hands, was a dangerous thing.

[ryonwyl]

Ryon tipped his head back and laughed, the sound sharp and unbothered, cutting through the din of the celebrations around them. He wiped a thumb across the corner of his mouth as though brushing off the last of Myriam’s jabs, his grin crooked, almost wolfish. "Luck?" he echoed, flashing a look at her that was all teeth and mischief. "No, princess, not luck. Work." His voice was steady, a touch more serious beneath the usual rough charm. "Work, and a willingness to bleed for it when the pretty banners and feasts stop mattering."

He clinked his goblet back against hers with a little more force than necessary, though there was no heat in it, only the thrum of shared understanding. He liked that about her — that she spoke plainly, didn’t sugar the truth or expect him to either. "Nightsong’s shiny now because we’ve still got the fires lit and the gallows swinging," he went on, rolling his shoulder like he could shrug off the weight of it. "Give it a year. Two. They'll forget how it fell if we let ‘em. That’s what matters, Myriam. Not just taking something — making them forget it was ever theirs to begin with."

He dropped his gaze to his goblet for a moment, swirling the wine before looking back up at her, smirking. "It’s easy to conquer a thing. Harder to keep it when no one's looking. Harder still to make it yours." There was no bluster in his tone, no empty pride. Just the plain reality of it.

He leaned in a little, lowering his voice just enough that it felt like a secret between the two of them. "But don't worry," he added, grin sharpening. "I’m better at the long game than I look."

He lifted his goblet again, saluting her casually. "To work. And to madness."

❂

myriam arched a brow, the flicker of a smirk tugging at her lips as she swirled the wine in her goblet. “ah, yes, the wyl of wyl, basking in his moment of vindication,” she murmured, her tone laced with a teasing edge that only someone who knew ryon well could manage without offence. it were one of the things she appreciated about his admittedly chaotic presence; his lack of ability to be offended, the man was not prickly and she did not feel as though she needed to be mindful of how her words morphed from her tongue.

“i suppose i’ll have to suffer your gloating for the foreseeable future.”

she tilted her head, letting the golden firelight dance across her dark features, the faintest hint of mischief glinting in her eyes. “though, i must admit, ‘grateful’ is not a word i often associate with you. smug, perhaps. asshole, certainly. but grateful? it seems nightsong hasn’t only expanded dorne’s borders but your vocabulary as well.” she took a deliberate sip of her wine, her expression unreadable for a moment before a laugh escaped her, soft and warm. “it suits you, this… humility. though don’t get too comfortable with it—it’s unnerving.”

she stepped closer, her bare feet whispering against the sandstone as the chiming of her anklets seemed to sync with the rhythm of the drums. her gaze held his, unwavering, the playful glint never entirely leaving her eyes. “but you’re right, ryon,” she admitted, her voice dropping slightly, though it retained its warmth. myriam chuckled, low and throaty, as she tapped the rim of her goblet lightly against ryon’s. “to the future, yeah?” she said, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “tell me, wyl of wyl, how does one hold onto a prize as shiny as nightsong? claiming it was bold enough—keeping it?” she tilted her head, her dark hair spilling over one shoulder as she studied him. “that, i think, is where the real madness lies.”

she leaned in slightly, the barest edge of a smirk returning to her lips. “don’t you fucking say say ‘luck,’ because i don’t think even your charm is enough to keep that castle standing.”

[ryonwyl]

Ryon stumbled back from the force of Ben’s blow, the taste of blood flooding his mouth. For a moment, there was silence, the air heavy with tension as his eyes, wild with something other than anger—gleeful malice—locked onto Ben. And then he laughed. It was loud and sharp, a sound that echoed through the courtyard, cutting through the unease of the crowd. He clutched his stomach, leaning slightly forward as if it were the funniest thing in the world.

When Ben shoved him away, Ryon spat blood onto the ground, then spat again—this time toward Ben, the dark red landing in the dirt between them. His grin never faltered, his teeth stained crimson. “That was my favorite ball, boy,” he drawled, his voice carrying a sinister edge. His eyes followed Ben’s movements as he mutilated the ball, and for a moment, Ryon stood utterly still, the calm before the storm.

Then, with a fluid motion, his sword was in his hand, the steel glinting under the sun as he leveled it toward Ben. “Who bleeds next?” he asked, his voice as casual as if he were discussing the weather, though his eyes burned with a dangerous light. The yard erupted into a flurry of movement as the tension snapped. Ryon’s Dornish companions did the same, their eyes alight with the prospect of a brawl. The crowd surged uneasily, and for a heartbeat, it seemed as though bloodshed was inevitable.

But then came the booming voice of one of the Vance sentinels, cutting through the chaos like a blade. “Enough!” The soldier’s commanding presence stilled the scene, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword as a warning. More of the Sentinels began to close in, their expressions grim and unyielding.

Ryon stood his ground, his sword still drawn, his grin untouched by the interruption. He took a step back, turning his gaze to the ruined ball and then back to Ben. “What?” he asked, his voice dripping with mock innocence. “It was only a game.”

The crowd murmured in the background, tension still simmering but held in check by the imposing Sentinels. Ryon’s laugh came again, quieter this time, but no less unsettling. He sheathed his sword with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving Ben’s. “You Riverlanders really don’t know how to have fun. Shame really.”

the second ryon had uttered his final question, ben was swinging, his fist meeting the dornishman's face with a blow that echoed through the yard. his temper always lingered just below the surface spilling over in the face of goading. for a moment, his eyes shone with something other than anger - satisfaction, the simple joy in finding a fight. it was quickly gone, replaced by nothing but rage.

he didn't wait for a reaction. his other hand grabbed ryon's tunic, dragging him close. "laugh at that." he said, his voice low and seething.

the crowd was stirring uneasily. several of his own men had their hands on the pommels of their swords, but none yet moved to intervene, evidently unsure whether to step forward and intervene, or if this was a matter better settled with fists and pride rather than drawn steel. they were used to scuffling with brackens - but ryon wyl was not a bracken. this was no matter of a blood feud, just two men and a clash of ego.

ryon's ball had rolled across the courtyard, coming to a halt in the dirt. ben released ryon with a shove, walking over to it. with one hand, he picked it up, and with the other, he drew his knife, stabbing it into the leather and slashing so the ball deflated before throwing the sad scrap of leather back into the dirt. he did not care how spiteful of a move it was, did not care if it seemed childish.

"you talk too much, wyl," ben said, wiping his hand against his tunic. "and it's all just fucking noise. just saying anything to make up for the fact you have nothing useful to say."

[ryonwyl]

House Wyl's castle, known as Wyl Keep, is a formidable and well-defended stronghold perched on the edge of the River Wyl, a winding waterway that cuts through the arid terrain of Dorne. Strategically located, the keep is designed to control both land and water access, ensuring the family's power and dominance in the region.

The Castle: Wyl Keep consists of three primary towers:

The Lord's Tower: The tallest and most imposing structure, this is where the ruling lord of House Wyl resides. Built from sandstone, it rises high above the surrounding land, offering a commanding view of both the castle grounds and the river. The tower features thick walls and narrow windows, providing excellent defense against both siege and attack. Inside, the rooms are lavishly furnished, with tapestries depicting the house's history and the serpent-like creatures native to Dorne.

The Guest's Tower: Slightly smaller than the Lord’s Tower, this structure is used to house visitors and diplomats. Though less opulent, the Guest's Tower is still comfortable and strategically placed near the entrance of the keep for easy access. It boasts large rooms with long balconies that overlook the river, offering guests a scenic view of the water as it winds its way toward the distant sea.

The Staff Tower: The smallest of the three, this is where the servants, soldiers, and other attendants of the keep live. The tower’s structure is more utilitarian, with simple rooms that are designed for function over comfort. From here, the staff can easily move about the castle to tend to their daily duties.

The Stairs:

The stairs connecting the three primary towers of Wyl Keep are a series of massive, carved sandstone bridges and staircases that spiral and ascend between the Lord’s Tower, the Guest’s Tower, and the Staff Tower. These stairways are monumental feats of Dornish engineering, rising high above the rugged terrain and offering both grandeur and practicality.

The lowest level features wide stone steps carved directly into the cliffs, reinforced with iron railings to provide safety. These stairs are heavily trafficked by the castle’s servants and soldiers, serving as the primary connection to the Staff Tower.

On the middle level, the stairs narrow and transition into elegant arches that link the Guest's Tower and the Lord’s Tower. These bridges, adorned with intricate carvings of adders and flowing river patterns, symbolize House Wyl’s heritage and control over the surrounding lands. The arches allow sunlight to flood through, casting dramatic shadows on the rocky walls of the castle.

The upper level is the most secure and secluded. Here, a single, high arch bridge connects the Lord's Tower to the Guest's Tower. This level is reserved for the lord’s private use or for hosting important guests. The staircase and bridge are narrower but more elaborately decorated, featuring gold inlays and banners bearing House Wyl's sigil.

From all levels, the stairways offer breathtaking views of the River Wyl below, with sunlight filtering through the canyons to bathe the steps in a golden glow during the day. The architecture of these stairways reflects both the harsh beauty of the Dornish landscape and the strength and pride of House Wyl.

The Drawbridge:

A central feature of Wyl Keep’s defenses, the drawbridge spans a wide, deep gorge that separates the castle from the rest of Dorne. The bridge can be raised or lowered depending on the situation, allowing the lord to control access to the keep. When raised, it prevents both hostile forces and unwanted travelers from entering the castle. The stone walls surrounding the drawbridge are thick and reinforced, adding another layer of security. The bridge itself is made of thick oak planks, reinforced with iron and chains, making it a reliable feature of the stronghold's defenses.

Flagship:

Protecting the river entrance to the castle is the Three-Masted Galley of House Wyl, a warship adorned with the house’s sigil: an adder coiled around a dagger. The ship’s prow is shaped like the head of a serpent, its mouth open as if ready to strike at any vessel daring to approach the castle’s river entrance. The galley is heavily armed, equipped with a complement of archers, marines, and a crew trained in naval combat. It serves not only as a vessel for House Wyl’s lords and family members but also as a powerful symbol of their control over the River Wyl and the surrounding waters.

The Village:

Located to the north of the castle lies a small but bustling village, which thrives thanks to its proximity to the river. The village is centered around a lively market where traders from across Dorne come to sell spices, textiles, and exotic goods. Locals barter for produce, livestock, and tools, while the more wealthy merchant class conducts their business in the shade of large tents and canopies.

In addition to the market, the village boasts an inn, which serves as a resting place for travelers and merchants making their way through the region. The inn is rustic yet cozy, with a large hearth at its center, where patrons gather to eat, drink, and exchange stories of the desert.

The village also has a brothel, discreetly situated on the outskirts, providing a place for those seeking solace or indulgence in the harsh desert landscape. The brothel is well-known, even among the nobility, for offering high-quality entertainment and is run by a shrewd woman who knows how to navigate the politics of Dorne as well as any lord

Surrounding Landscape:

The stronghold’s location on the River Wyl means that it is often surrounded by dry, sun-scorched lands. Despite this, the fertile banks of the river allow for small-scale agriculture, providing some sustenance to the castle and village. Sparse vegetation grows along the river’s edge, including a few hardy desert shrubs and palm trees, offering some shade from the heat.

The river itself winds through narrow canyons and jagged cliffs before opening up to wider waters further downstream, making it both a natural barrier and a vital route for trade. The land surrounding the castle is rugged, dotted with scattered sandstone formations that offer potential hiding spots for enemies, but these are also carefully watched by the keep’s scouts.

[ryonwyl]

The Wyl of Wyl and now Nightsong took a moment to collect himself, absorbing Armaan’s words with a quiet seriousness. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, softened slightly as he regarded his old companion, the man he had come to see not just as an ally, but a figure of strength and wisdom. He had always admired Armaan’s unflinching confidence, the way he carried himself—uncompromising, commanding.

With a measured tone, Ryon spoke, his words deliberate but with the faintest hint of reverence. “I understand your point, Armaan. It is a different kind of strength to shape what we’ve taken, to make it truly ours in every way. I’ve been so focused on ensuring Nightsong bears the mark of Dorne, I haven’t considered how far we can go to truly make it reflect the pride of our people.” He paused, looking down at the platform where the workmen were still finishing their task. “Perhaps I’ve been too preoccupied with the spectacle, and not enough with securing the foundation beneath it.”

Ryon looked back up at Armaan, his gaze steady. “I respect your counsel, more than anyone else’s, and I’ll take it to heart. A marriage... to one of them, you say?” He ran a hand through his hair, the idea settling heavily in his mind. “It would send a message, wouldn’t it? To make it undeniable that Nightsong belong to Dorne. And as much as it feels... wrong, it’s also pragmatic. If it helps ensure that this is no fleeting conquest, that they are wiped from these lands forever, then perhaps it is worth considering.”

Ryon turned to look at the banners hanging around the hall, his eyes lingering on the symbol of House Wyl, a reminder of how far he had come, and how much further he still needed to go. “I know it will take more than just tearing down the old banners and putting up new ones. It will take blood, patience, and cunning. And I will make sure I do it right. To make sure Nightsong stays Dorne’s. No one will ever dare call it Stormlander again.”

He looked back at Armaan, his voice firm and full of resolve. “I’ll start sending those ravens, calling for the right alliances, bringing the feast as you suggested. Let the court see what we’ve accomplished, let them witness the strength of Dorne and know that we’ll not be moved.”

꙰

“you play the part well, wyl,” armaan drawled as they entered the hall, his sharp gaze sweeping over the changes to the keep. “lord of nightsong. it has a ring to it, i’ll admit. though the stormlanders may yet choke on it. fitting, perhaps, given what i see planned for tonight.” he gestured to the platform with a flick of his wrist, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “theater? i didn’t know you gave a fuck for the dramatic.” there was the sound of armaan yronwood's thundering laughter across the hall, his hand on his chest as it bounced; in the backdrop of such depravity of which he did not ask questions of.

he trailed after ryon, the stark contrast between dornish vibrancy and stormlander bleakness not lost on him. the caron tapestries were gone, their absence like a tooth freshly pulled, leaving only the raw wound of conquest. the smell of charred fabric still lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. armaan breathed it in deeply, savoring it, even as his mind ticked over ryon’s transformation of the keep. “a feast, you say? for dorne, i hope, and not just for your household. a show like this deserves an audience, wouldn’t you agree?” his voice carried a note of mockery, though his eyes remained cold and calculating.

“send your ravens to sunspear. call the court. let them see the gallows, the nooses. let them smell the ash. nightsong isn’t just a prize, wyl; it’s a warning. if the stormlanders hear we’ve taken it but don’t feel the weight of its fall, what’s to stop them from clawing it back?” he paused, turning toward the dais where the stools stood waiting. the vision of stormlander lords swaying in chains flashed through his mind, but he said nothing. not yet. instead, he let his eyes wander over the rough-hewn wood, the carelessness of its assembly. it was temporary, like ryon’s grip on this place, unless the wyl lord moved swiftly and shrewdly.

“you’ve laid the foundation, that much is clear. but foundations are fragile. stormlanders are like weeds—they’ll sprout again unless the roots are torn out. tonight, you might loosen their grip on this land, but by tomorrow? if you’ve left their people too many memories, they’ll grow bold again. rebels are born in the shadows of keeps like this. they’ll carve your name into their swords and call it vengeance. make some story of themselves.”

he exhaled, looking around the place. he could already see what it would be. "you need to find some marcher dowry". armaan paused by a freshly hung banner, his fingers brushing the fine stitching as if appraising its quality. he glanced over his shoulder at ryon, his smirk deepening into something darker.

“you know,” he began, his tone heavy with mockery, “there’s a simpler way to make nightsong truly dornish. forget the banners, the gallows, and the feast. take a stormlander wife. break her in properly, wyl, and let her scream on the birthing bed be louder than any battle horn. the keep might just echo with dornish pride before long." he appeared almost regretful to suggest such a thing; not for the manner in which he said it, but the idea of ryon needing to wed a stormlander. it were hardly fitting for such a great dornish lord to need to pollute his family's line with such things, but logic triumphed over pride.

[ryonwyl]

Ryon’s gaze softened as he observed Naija’s movements, the quick, deft way she adjusted the frame, the quiet poise she carried. He tilted his head ever so slightly, as if trying to puzzle her out. The smile never left his lips, though it seemed to take on a different, almost intrigued edge.

"A wolf, you say?" He let out a low chuckle, the sound of it like a ripple across still water. "I’ve had my fair share of encounters with wolves—both of the beastly and the... more metaphorical kind." His eyes flashed briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in amusement. "But it’s not the wolves that bring me here, Lady Naija, though I’m sure your northern pack would make fine hunting companions. No, I came for something else entirely."

Ryon took a step closer, his voice lowering just enough to match the warmth of the fire. "I came because the north holds mysteries, doesn’t it? Cold as it is, there’s something beneath it all—an intrigue, a challenge. A place where even a lord like me might find something worth the effort."

He paused for a moment, his eyes dancing with a playful spark. "But you must forgive me, Lady Naija. I tend to speak too much and reveal too little." He bowed his head slightly, still watching her carefully. "Perhaps it’s more fitting to let you unravel the answer for yourself."

He paused again, just a beat longer than necessary, then added with a sly smile, "Though I think I could be persuaded to share a few more secrets... if you ask the right questions."

flurry of melting snowflakes fall from a shaken cloak once the lady has found shelter within the walls of winterfell. some still stick stubbornly to the dampened curls that frame frost-touched features, but her worry isnt with their effects on herself. focus is intent on the small parchment she grips closely to the warmth of her body. coal that she had procured for her newest vision in artworks trail across it in a few scattered drips that she fears may threaten the integrity of something that only her eyes intend to look upon. naija's unsure of what the mess of shapes and shades is supposed to amount to anyway, or if it even had a meaning before the melted droplets had their way with it. just that when her fingers felt that particular tingle in their tips, she must answer no matter the result or circumstance.

each prolonged gaze towards the damaged etching gave it more charm, and she's on the fence between hiding it away in her seafoam gown and tossing it in the dancing embers when a decorated cadence summons her from deep admiration. the former it is, she figures and her digits follow suit, careful not to sully the lining of an ornately hemmed pocket as soft brown hues study the man who is familiar only by a melodic accent that stands apart from the gruffness of the northmen she finds herself surrounded by.

"lord ryon," makes quick work of returning his gesture, yet she cant help but feel much smaller than usual under a gaze as curious as her own. "lady naija, of house manderly. unfortunately my title extends to that alone." references his own title, unsure of its true importance or if the confidence he exudes simply makes it so. neither hold much weight in the first impression given. he's captivating, with a smile that coaxes one of her own onto once rested petals.

"thats quite an impressive feat, my lord, though i'm afraid you came all this way for nothing if it is another you seek." humor can be found at the tail-end of her compliment. she is genuinely curious as to what could possibly lure a dornishman from the comfort of sun-kissed lands to the kingdom of winter. afew theories swirl as she adjust a frame once positioned in front of flames towards a towering frame that rivaled their bold light. "or is it a wolf that's led you here? now those we have in droves."

[ryonwyl]

Ryon didn’t flinch as Ben stepped closer, his grin still wide and easy, though the mocking glint in his eyes intensified. He let the ball roll beneath his boot again, gently nudging it with the same casual precision, as if he were alone in a field and not surrounded by men ready to draw steel.

"Do you need a crowd to tell you how to think, Blackwood?" he drawled, his voice carrying the lazy confidence of a man who had never been at a loss for words. "When to laugh, perhaps? Or are you just upset because you're not the center of attention? I’d say you should’ve spoken sooner, but… well, you know what they say about quiet men, don’t you?" He paused just long enough to let the words linger, letting his amusement grow.

His foot flicked the ball up, spinning it in the air with a simple gesture before he caught it and nudged it forward again, as if the tension didn’t exist.

"Perhaps a man must hold your cock before you can stick it in," he continued, voice almost too sweet, a slow chuckle following as he observed Ben's rigid stance. "Is that the problem, Blackwood? A bit shy, are we?" He took a slow, measured step around the ball, letting it roll away just slightly before kicking it back with practiced ease. "It’s almost sad. You look ready to tear someone apart, but not a soul here cares enough to cheer you on. Might I suggest you take it out on something more entertaining than your temper?"

Ryon’s grin never wavered as he took another half-step, sizing Ben up, almost daring him to make the first move. "You’re quick to stand up for yourself, but it seems you’ve no taste for real fun. Tell me, Blackwood—what's it like to be so very serious all the time? Do you ever laugh?"

for a moment, ben wasn't entirely sure what he had stumbled into when he walked out into the yard. it was a strange sight - a gathering of riverlanders, his own men mingled with that of other houses, forming a ring around a dornish lord kicking a ball like they wanted to chase him over the nearest border. he stopped in his tracks, taking a moment to try and figure out what was going on, why the sight of a man playing with a ball was so contentious. ben liked ball games.

and then ryon wyl spoke, and clarity hit ben at once. it wasn't the football. the man was simply a cunt.

another man, one with more sense and more patience than ben blackwood might have walked away, but not he. he had spent his life much like this, since he was a boy something scratching at him from inside his chest, demanding he find something to fight, because to him, that was the only thing that made sense. it was only quiet when it had acquired a target, but even if it was not there, ryon's words were an insult he could not let lie in front of a crowd. he would not slink away with his tail between his legs for any man.

instead, he stepped closer, his movements almost casual if not for the fact he was clearly coiled tightly under his skin, a man about three seconds away from the reaction ryon wyl clearly wanted. still, when he spoke, his voice did not waver, nor ring with anger, somehow managing to maintain a cool evenness despite his rising temper.

"tell me, wyl," he called out at last, when he was close enough that the two of them stood at the centre of the circle created by the riverlanders. "do you actually think you're funny?" his gaze broke from ryon's, instead glancing around at the crowd, sliding across tense face after tense face. "anyone? anyone think he's funny? no?" he turned again, eyes locking back on ryon's. "you're the only one laughing, man. it's embarrassing for you. so do yourself a favour and pack it in, yeah?"

[ryonwyl]

Ryon grinned, his posture shifting as he took in the approach of the Princess, the weight of her words settling on him like a warm breeze. As she spoke, the playful edge in her tone made the moment feel less like an apology and more like a victory shared between equals, and he was quick to match her warmth with a laugh.

“Ah, so it seems I’m not completely mad, after all,” he said, a chuckle rumbling in his chest as he ran a hand through his dark hair. His eyes twinkled with the light of the torches, a stark contrast to the solemnity with which he’d once approached the task of claiming Nightsong. “It seems the Wyl of Wyl was right, and Princess Myriam... well, I think I’ll leave it at that.”

He took a step closer, leaning in slightly with the kind of camaraderie that came naturally to him. “I’m glad you’re willing to admit it, Princess,” he said, his voice full of mock gravitas. “I’ll spare you from the trouble of calling me a madman again, but I must say—being proven right never tasted so sweet.”

His eyes softened then, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “In truth, I’m just grateful that Dorne—my home—will benefit from it. Nightsong was always meant to be more than just a name, a place. It’s a symbol.” He let the noise of the celebration fill the air again, taking a moment to savor the company, and then raised his goblet toward her. “To the future,” he said, his voice a little more sincere now, “where we might both be a little less wrong, and a little more imaginative.”

A playful glint returned to his eye as he continued, leaning forward just slightly with a grin. “And don’t worry, Princess. I won’t let it go to my head—too much, anyway. Though I’m afraid you’ll have to deal with the Wyl of Wyl being right for a while yet.”

who: @ryonwyl when and where: ryon wyl's return to sunspear is a night of long celebration, and myriam finds herself awaiting an opportunity to speak to the man who had admittedly proved her wrong. context: prior to her meeting with jaehaerys targaryen, ryon showed her a map and myriam went "oh the wyl of wyl is fucking nuts" - and then he done it.

the music of sunspear’s celebration was loud, the beat of drums reverberating through the sand-strewn courtyard. laughter and song filled the air, mingling with the scent of spiced wine and roasted lamb. myriam allyrion stood apart from the crowd, a figure draped in wine-coloured silk that shimmered like the dornish sky at dusk. her midriff was bare, save for the glint of a delicate gold chain at her waist and the small ruby stud that adorned her navel.

intricate tattoos of religious symbols curved gracefully along the column of her neck, half-revealed beneath the cascading waves of her dark hair; all this, to revel in the triumph of their victory. the prayers of thanks had been said, and now...now they celebrated.

she sipped her wine, the goblet cool against her fingers, and watched ryon wyl—the wyl of wyl, as he so proudly reminded anyone who’d forgotten—laugh heartily at some jest from his gathered admirers. his presence was as bold and commanding as she remembered, though tonight there was something different: the weight of undeniable triumph. when the moment presented itself—his audience thinning but not empty, his laughter settling—myriam made her way forward. the delicate chime of her anklets announced her approach, but her voice carried over the noise, smooth and warm as the honeyed wine in her cup.

“lord wyl,” she began, tilting her head slightly, a playful glint in her kohl-lined eyes. “it seems i owe you an apology.” ryon turned, his broad grin widening as he regarded her. she held his gaze, unflinching, the firelight reflecting in the dark pools of her eyes. “not long ago, this lord showed me a map,” she continued, her tone conversational yet deliberate as she pointed her goblet toward him, “and spoke of nightsong as though it were already dornish land. i remember thinking you’d gone mad. i may have even said as much aloud...and more.” there was a knowing look which momentarily crossed her features; she had all but cursed him as a madman, her mouth rather dirty.

a soft laugh escaped her, self-deprecating and light, though her expression remained steady. “the wyl of wyl, proven right, and me proven… well, perhaps not wrong, but certainly less imaginative than i ought to have been.” she raised her goblet, the wine within catching the glow of the torches. “to you, lord wyl. dorne owes you more than songs and feasts, though tonight, at least, we’ll start with those.” her gaze fixed with his across the sounds of cheers, of triumph; if there was one thing she had always known how to do, it was get a party started.

her words lingered in the air, and for a moment, she let the hum of the celebration fill the space between them. myriam lowered her goblet and stepped closer, her voice dropping slightly, though it remained steady. "don't get used to this." she had found herself quietly appreciating his boldness, his hard line determination - his willingness to push boundaries.

[ryonwyl]

Ryon chuckled softly, leaning in just enough to let his presence hang heavy in the air, a mischievous glint flickering in his eyes. The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk, as if Ruqaiyah’s words had done little more than amuse him, like a bird that fluttered about without truly knowing how to bite.

"Ah, yes, the good hostess," he drawled, his voice smooth and teasing. "I suppose I should be grateful for the... warmth of your hospitality, though I suspect your idea of good hosting might be far more entertaining if you took a little less pleasure in sharpening your tongue."

He tilted his head, giving her a look that was part curiosity, part challenge, as his gaze drifted toward the delicate lace on her sleeve. "And as for your comment on 'scraps'..." He let out a soft, amused sigh, not at all offended, but rather entertained by the way she carried herself. "I don’t need your understanding, woman, but I am curious, as always, about why someone so... charming would go out of her way to belittle a man who doesn’t bite back the way others do. I’d think you’d prefer a little more... excitement." He grinned, the flirtation as obvious as it was effortless.

He let her laughter hang in the air for a moment, before he shrugged, unbothered. "You might think I’ll lose it within the year, but I'm far more interested in how long you'll be able to keep up with the game you’re playing, my lady."

With that, his smile softened, his gaze lingering on her like he was watching the flicker of a flame, dangerous but undeniably captivating. "I’ll take my chances, but I suspect you’ll have a much harder time getting rid of me than you think."

★

ruqaiyah tilted her head as ryon finished speaking, her lips curling into a smile so saccharine it was almost venomous. so she was spoiled. so she was pampered. so she was delusional. but it was what the world had expected of her; and she played that role ever so well. he claimed she enjoyed the game, and there was a spark of something within her amethyst orbs. "yes, and?" her fingers toyed idly with the delicate lace on her sleeve, as though his words had done little more than mildly entertain her.

"you are nothing special. i am being a good hostess." she let a beat of silence hang between them, savouring the moment like one might savour the anticipation before crushing an insect beneath their heel.

“you’re quite right, ryon,” she began softly, her voice almost gentle, like the calm before a storm, her hand twirling a strand of her thick silky hair around her finger. “i don’t understand men like you. how could i possibly? what could i, a daughter of starfall, the grace of the evening, ever learn from a... scavenger, clawing his way to scraps?” she gestured lazily towards him, her bracelets jangling softly with the movement as she let out a puff of smoke. “oh, but forgive me—‘lord’ of nightsong too now, isn’t it? how quaint.” she stepped closer, her gaze sharp and unyielding, almost as though she dared him to do something. she would scream, and then her brother would come and cut through him like he should be. insolent pup.

“i wonder…” her voice dipped lower, conspiratorial, as though she were letting him in on some great secret, “how long will it be before someone stronger pries it from your grasp?”

she laughed then, a soft, lilting sound, as though the very idea amused her beyond measure. she enjoyed winding him up, though she knew she very possibly should not - still, the concept of being untouchable reigned true in her mind. “you say i’ll always be left guessing about men like you, but you’ve already shown your hand. you mistake insolence for wit, idiocy for strength, and worst of all, proximity for power. stepping closer doesn’t make you formidable, ryon." there was judgement and pure bitchiness in each of her words, and at one point, she exhaled a cloud of smoke within his face.

"you'll loose it within the year. watch." it were a bet she made in this corner of starfall's gardens, though she knew not what she would put on the line.

[ryonwyl]

who: @raviofthesun what: during the celebrations after the victory in the marches, ryon meets with the prince. where: sunspear, dorne.

The gardens of Sunspear were a haven in the heat of the Dorne sun, the air thick with the scent of blooming flowers and the faintest trace of salt from the nearby sea. Lanterns cast flickering shadows across the sprawling gardens, their soft light dancing on the faces of the revelers who had gathered to celebrate their victory in the marches. The sounds of laughter and music filled the air, but Ryon Wyl couldn’t bring himself to care. His blood still burned from the thrill of slaying a dragon, or at least from the joy of seeing it die.

Staggering through the gardens, Ryon’s gait was far from graceful, his steps unsteady as the wine continued to work its way through him. His dark eyes were bright, gleaming in the torchlight as he wandered, his head half-lolling from side to side as if he could barely keep himself upright.

Ryon grinned, his breath a bit heavier from the walk and the wine, but it did nothing to dull his cocky demeanor. He strode up to the Prince, offering a loud, cheery greeting. "Ah, so this is where the great Prince Ravi hides himself away after dragon-slaying victories, eh?" Ryon’s voice was thick with mirth, his smile wide.

Ravi glanced up at him, eyes narrowing in amusement. Ryon leaned against the stone pillar, steadying himself, and looked down at Ravi with a sly smirk. "You know," he continued, "I've been telling the ladies I slayed a dragon myself, their small clothes melt right off. Have you noticed?"

Without waiting for an answer, Ryon flopped down beside him, his legs stretched out beneath him as he leaned back, still grinning. "Surely you have, Prince and dragon slayer, the most crawl to you."

"Either way," he added with a drunken chuckle, "It is an honor to say I fought alongside a Martell Prince."

[ryonwyl]

who: @benblvckwood what: while taking advantage of the hospitality laws in westeros and a connection to jalabhar mooton, ryon wyl spends some time in riverrun on his journey to the north. he decides to make friends the wyl way which is not at all.

The leather ball rolled lazily beneath Ryon Wyl’s boot as he stood in the shadow of Riverrun’s towering walls, the faint scuff of his heel against the dirt making the only sound. Dressed down for once, Ryon’s usual layers of Dornish finery were replaced by simple traveling leathers, though his belt bore a small, gleaming dagger that suggested he wasn’t entirely unarmed. His dark hair were damp with sweat, and the flush of his cheeks hinted at exertion, though his sly smirk betrayed no hint of exhaustion.

He nudged the ball forward with a casual flick of his foot, letting it roll before kicking it back to himself with an effortless precision that spoke to his ease. Around him, men looked on with barely concealed irritation, their hands gripping the hilts of their swords as if the Dornishman’s very presence warranted drawing steel. Yes, there was a small dust up on the road but he wouldn't be questioned by anyone.

"You know," Ryon drawled, his accent thick, with a cadence that made even insults sound pleasant, "I was expecting more from the men of Raventree Hall. Dead God sigil right?" His smile was almost pleasant, "On the road, I thought I was being harried by wolves, but when I turned to look, it was just you lot. Pity, really."

He grinned as the leather ball thudded against the ground, then darted forward to give it a hard kick, sending it sailing in a lazy arc through the air before it bounced back near his feet.

He glanced toward the gathering crowd of Blackwood men, his grin widening as he lazily passed the ball between his feet. "What's it like to be men with moon's blood I wonder."

[ryonwyl]

who: @naaijas what: while in the north on business, taking his sisters to Winterfell to see if the King wants to marry one, he takes notice of the Manderly sister he's never seen.

The vastness of Winterfell was as cold and imposing as he had been warned, but Lord Ryon Wyl did not seem particularly bothered by it. His dark, bronze skin—native to the sun-drenched lands of Dorne—was cloaked beneath the finest northern furs, the heavy layers somehow blending both his origins and his current environment. The fur-lined cloak was fastened with an intricate brooch of silver, designed in the shape of a tower of a grey snake —a personal touch, a nod to his own sigil.

And then he saw her.

She was standing near the hearth, her presence as striking as any of the fiery hues dancing in the flames. He took a long moment to observe, his gaze tracing her form, noting the elegance in her posture, the quiet strength in her demeanor. She was no stranger to grace, yet there was something unfamiliar about her, something he couldn’t place. And it irked him, this mysterious allure that tugged at his attention.

Approaching with his usual confidence, he offered a polite, almost teasing smile as he came to stand before her. "Oh," he said with a hint of playful curiosity, his voice carrying a distinct northern Dornish accent that wrapped each word in smooth, almost musical inflections. "And who are you?"

He looked her over again, his gaze lingering for a beat longer than necessary.

"I’m Lord Ryon Wyl, the Wyl of Wyl," he introduced himself with a slight bow of his head, his tone dripping with both arrogance and charm. "I killed a dragon once, you know." There was a pause. He knew well the importance of claiming feats, no matter how true they were. His eyes never left hers.

[ryonwyl]

Ryon tilted his head, a slow grin creeping across his face as Ruqaiyah’s words lashed at him like a whip. He didn’t flinch, didn’t waver—if anything, he looked amused, as if her venom fed some deep, twisted part of him. He chuckled low in his throat, the sound rich and maddeningly calm.

“Insects, is it?” he repeated, stepping closer, his movements unhurried but deliberate. “Funny. You compare me to something so small, yet here you are, swatting at me as if I’ve already gotten under your skin.” He gestured lightly to her flushed cheeks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “And you call me delusional. I’m starting to think you enjoy this little game more than you’d like to admit, my lady.”

Ryon let her words about Sunspear linger in the air for a moment before he responded, his voice taking on a mocking sweetness. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I strike a nerve? Perhaps my self-image isn’t the one you should be worrying about. You seem awfully defensive for someone who claims they couldn’t care less about what I think.”

When she mentioned his persistence lacking intelligence, he laughed outright. “Persistence without intelligence, you say? Well, I’ll leave the cleverness to you, my lady. After all, you’ve clearly mastered the art of speaking down to others from your lofty perch. Very noble of you.”

At her sharp retort about her tower, his smile only grew sharper, his voice dropping to a low murmur, full of taunting mirth. “Your tower, your home. You’ve made that very clear, "Princess" of Starfall.” He leaned in slightly, just enough to make his presence feel heavier, though he never crossed a line. “But if you truly think you don’t need to understand the world outside that tower, then you’re right about one thing—you don’t understand men like me. And that, dear lady, will always leave you guessing.”

★

"oh, you think persistence pays off?" ruqaiyah scoffed, her eyes flashing with disbelief as she leaned back slightly, hands on her hips. "you may have the persistence of an insect crawling towards its doom, but i don't think your persistence has quite the intelligence to back it up, do you?" she let out a little laugh, as though she were humoring him, her fingers lightly tapping on the sleeve of her blouse, as though her patience were thinning in the most delightful way.

"and as for laying myself down for sunspear—well, my darling, i think your ideas of what happens in sunspear might just be as delusional as your self-image. who needs to prove themselves to a fool like you?" she flicked her eyes over his face, no doubt relishing in the rise of her own words. but beneath it all, she was visibly bothered, her cheeks flushed with irritation, her brows furrowed in mock disgust. it was clear she found his very presence annoying—though she would never admit it aloud.

"you call yourself a man of persistence," ruqaiyah continued, her tone dripping with condescension, "and yet, i see you standing here, talking circles, hoping your wit might impress me into lifting my skirts for you. persistence without substance is just... noise." she laughed again, this time with more force, letting it hang in the air between them. her laugh was one of girlish nastiness. "you may try to stand tall in your own little world, ryon wyl, but you'll never stand taller than me. don't flatter yourself." when he mentioned her mother and her life in starfall, ruqaiyah's jaw clenched.

"a girl in her tower, is it?" she repeated with a raised brow, her voice suddenly dripping with venom. "my tower. my home." the more he spoke, the more ruqaiyah realized that he could hardly be taken seriously. what a laughable attempt at a challenge. he was like a child pretending at something he could never achieve, and yet, for reasons unknown to her, it irritated her beyond measure. she had to put him in his place—quickly and without mercy. "i do not need to understand the military conditions of this land, idiot. look at me."

[ryonwyl]

Ryon Wyl leaned back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest as he listened to the others, his steely gaze scanning the room. There was a certain tension in the air, a mix of uncertainty and greed, that he found oddly familiar. The politics of gold, the silent promises of power, the games that were played in these dimly lit rooms—it was nothing new. He’d seen it before, on battlefields and in backrooms alike.

Amir Manderly's nervousness hadn’t escaped him, nor the eagerness of the others to latch onto any lead that could shift the balance of power. Tion Peake’s offer to visit Gulltown was a smart move, but it was not lost on Ryon that many were looking for a foothold in a region that seemed to stand untouched by the chaos that had consumed the rest of Westeros. The Vale, untouched by the worst of the war, remained an oasis for those hungry for control.

Personally, for Ryon, he found the people to be as cold as their frozen mountains and as unyielding as the heat of Dorne. They escaped their grasp for the same reason the Westerlands did. No one of their network ever settled in those lands, for good reason.

Ryon let his gaze rest on Tion, the newest addition to their network, and then drifted to Lucerys Estermont, who had spoken with a nervous energy Ryon knew too well. They were all the same, scrambling for leverage, caught up in the web of their ambitions. But he, too, had his own ambitions, even if they didn’t manifest in the same way. Power was power, whether in gold or in blood.

“Gulltown’s a tempting prize, no doubt,” Ryon’s voice rumbled low, cutting through the murmur of conversation. He leaned forward, his hands resting on the table, his eyes narrowing slightly. “But we’re all dancing around it, aren’t we? The question’s not whether the Iron Bank is moving in—rumors like that always have a kernel of truth. The real question is, what do we do when we know for sure?”

Ryon’s lips twisted into a smirk, a faint glint of arrogance in his eyes. “The Vale’s been quiet for too long. A quiet place is ripe for stirring. If the Iron Bank wants to plant its flag in Gulltown, let them. But we’re not about to stand idle and watch, are we?”

He leaned back again, his smile widening. “If it comes to that, I’ll make sure we’re the first to know. No sense in letting the Graftons get too comfortable in their little corner of the world. If we move first, we control the game.” His eyes locked onto each of them, one by one. “I’ll make sure the Vale remembers who’s still got a hand on the reins." His methods were ... dangerous but they saw progress.

"Let me ask you something, Lord Estermont." Ryon looked at the Valyrian lord. "How close are you and Norbie?" The thickness of his Dornish accent couldn't hide the way he said the name at the other.

.

luc’s fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the table, the rhythm betraying the nervous energy bubbling beneath his composed exterior. his heart had been pounding ever since norbert grafton’s name had been mentioned, and now it felt as though everyone in the room could hear it. he adjusted his glasses—not because they needed it, but because he needed it, a familiar gesture to steady his thoughts before speaking.

“yes,” he began, his voice faltering slightly before he cleared his throat. “i—i knew lord grafton at the citadel. we studied together for some time. he, uh, left quite suddenly, but while he was there… well, he was brilliant. a real mind for navigation and astronomy.” luc paused, hesitating as he fought to keep his words neutral, casual. “he stood out,” he added softly, almost to himself.

realizing he might have said too much, he shifted awkwardly in his seat, glancing at the others before quickly looking back down at his hands. “what i mean is, i don’t think he’s—well, he never struck me as the scheming type. if the iron bank is interested in gulltown, it’s probably more about the graftons’ position and wealth than anything lord grafton himself is plotting.”

luc adjusted his glasses again, his fingers fumbling slightly as he did so. “actually,” he said, his tone a little rushed, “norbie has invited to gulltown myself. if there’s concern about their intentions, i could… i could ask a few questions. subtly, of course. nothing too direct.” he said. “norbie has become more of a friend again.” he said not realizing the name slip he had twice.

the room felt stifling, and luc could feel the weight of their gazes. he forced a weak smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “it’s just—well, i think keeping things amicable is important. at least for now.”

his hand returned to the table, fingers tapping again in that nervous rhythm, his thoughts a chaotic tangle of worry and hope. gods, what am i doing? he thought, wishing desperately that the discussion would move on to something—anything—else.

@ryonwyl

[ryonwyl]

Ryon scoffed, the sound low and sharp, more bark than breath. His lips curled into a smile, though there was no warmth in it, just the mockery of amusement. He turned his head away as if to gather himself, his expression caught between disbelief and disdain. When he looked back at her, his eyes burned with an intensity that might have been mistaken for fury, but no – it was sharper than that. Civility. She had said the word so simply, so cleanly, as if it were some quaint ideal easily attained. As if he, of all men, could not see through such a mask. "It’s always civility, isn’t it?" he drawled, his tone measured but laced with venom. "You speak the word like it’s a prayer, as though it absolves them of anything beneath it. Civility, you say? With Stormlanders?" His laugh broke free then, dry and humorless, the sound echoing faintly in the chamber. "A joke without a punchline."

"Don’t speak of things you know nothing of, my lady," he said, the words calm but cutting. "If it were war, true war, you would know it. The Stormlands would know it. Their smallfolk would sleep and wake every morning drenched in the sweat of their nightmares, and their lords…" He paused, letting the weight of his words settle like ash. "Their lords would kneel in ruin. The women and children would speak my name like a curse, and there’d be nothing left to claim."

"But look at you," he said, his voice light yet dangerous, "trying to get a head start on all that civility. How noble. How kind-hearted." The words dripped with mockery, his smile cutting deeper than his words. "Tell me, my lady – did you think they would thank you? Those Stormborn dogs?"

Ryon’s eyes narrowed, his gaze lingering on her. There was no rage now, only a sharp and unrelenting scrutiny, as though he were weighing her in his mind.

safeerah turned around at the sound of a voice speaking to her, wearing her usual kinf smile. however, it faltered slightly as her brow furrowed in confusion in response to his words. she knew ryon wyl had been one of the instigators behind the attack that had set off the war. he was one of the men who hungered for battle. she would never understand why some were drawn to conflict instead of peace. she could see the judgment in his dark gaze. and then suddenly she knew what he spoke of. he did not have to explain himself. he was not the first to question her beliefs, no, but he was among the first to corner her in this manner. she could not deny that she was briefly caught off guard. his smile disappeared as well, and his tone became more clear, more accusatory. she sighed softly, steeling herself for a confrontation. “i do not treat others with contempt if they do not do so with me. it matters not if it's a dornishman or a stormlord.” saf knew it took strength to be kind in this world, to believe the best in others. even those who had been branded the enemy by her peers.

“perhaps you see that as being friendly, i see it as being civil.”

as ryon leaned forward, his eyes mercilessly studying her, safeerah instinctively leaned back slightly in her seat opposite him. however, she stopped herself before she could lean too far back. she would not allow him to rattle her. she was a jordayne, the ruling lady of the tor. “this war you helped start will end one way or another, my lord, as every other war before it has.” no war lasted an eternity. safeerah doubted new valyria would fall, and she knew that dorne would not. both kingdoms would take hits until they were finally forced to sit down and talk. “there will be need for diplomacy soon enough, and when the need arises, then we will all need to extend our hands to the stormlords ― and they will have to do the same to us.”