saffroninsilk

[saffroninsilk]

malee’s lips parted, not quite to speak, but to breathe, to let something rise up through her like a tide stopped just short of the shore. the words touched her like wind through sheer silk, light and impossible to hold, and yet they stirred something deep, unspoken.

guinevere did not often say such things plainly. even her truths came dressed in satin, but this… this was bone-deep. raw in a way that only restraint could make cutting.

“you always speak like it is the end of something,” malee said softly, and her voice held a fragile hush, almost somber, like snow just beginning to fall. “as if you know you’ll lose me, one way or another.” and she would, at some time or another. whether it be to a husband as would be her duty, or to the ocean between westeros and essos. it would not be the end of friendship, nothing would truly sever such a thing, but malee knew at one point, yet again, something would pull them apart, not matter how she tended to fight it.

she turned her cup in her hands, letting the steam rise between them. she didn’t meet guinevere’s gaze either. it felt too much like opening a gate she wasn’t ready to walk through.

“the middle of the year,” malee echoed, in quiet agreement, though something flickered faintly beneath her words. she looked to the fire again, but her gaze had gone inward. freedom, after all, was a heavy thing. not just the walking away, but the knowing there would be no one left to tell you how or where to go. no duties to pin you in place, no rituals to fold yourself into. she longed for shenlong with every bone in her body. and yet, she feared it in the same measure. the wide sky. the unfamiliar quiet. the chance that it would not feel like home at all, not really, just another story she’d told herself to endure what was never meant to fit.

“i wasn’t at the ball,” she said at last, and her voice had a threadbare quality to it, honest, without armor. “i meant to be. i even had the dress laid out. but the hour came and,” she shook her head gently. “i couldn’t step into it. not this time. i feigned a headache."

malee finally took a breathe, inhaling the aroma within the porcelain cup in her hands, lifting it gently to her lips, but when the name came, elys brax, she did not sip. her hand stilled against the porcelain rim, so slight a hesitation it might’ve passed unnoticed by anyone else. but not gwen. not someone who had learned her silences. not someone who had learned her stillnesses, too.

“yes,” she said after a beat, voice even, as though pulling it from behind a curtain. “we were briefly betrothed. during the war.” she kept her gaze on the tea, not the woman across from her. “it was never meant to last, i don't think. not really. it ended while i was in shenlong."

a pause. she breathed in, slowly. “i only met him briefly, but i never liked the way he looked at people. it was... as if everyone were some puzzle, and he already knew the answer. smug men make dangerous husbands.” it was almost a joke, except it wasn’t. she took a sip then, if only to steady the heat behind her ribs. not from the tea.

she didn't mention her brother. didn’t say his name. she never did, not in connection to brax. not out loud. but the thought rose sharp in her like a splinter just beneath the skin. she wondered why gwen had brought him up now. wondered if this was some sort of game he was playing, sidling into balls and dances like a shadow from another chapter.

“did he say something?” malee asked at last, lifting her eyes. there was no accusation in her voice. only a thread of wariness, quiet and unmistakable. “or were you simply curious?”

♝

guinevere breathed in the silence that followed malee’s words, and when she exhaled, it came like the final curl of incense rising from a brazier—soft, solemn, and scented with resignation. there was no argument in her. no protest. only that breath, the breath of one who knew herself best when surrendering. her hands, delicate as ever and wrapped in rings that no longer glittered for pleasure but for politics, folded neatly into her lap. the firelight caught on the edge of her white-gold sleeve, making her appear, just for a moment, as though she were glowing. she turned her head slowly now, and for the first time, truly looked at malee.

the way one might look at a garden one had not walked in since childhood, the kind that had long since grown wild. “you know, i would have you free, malee westerling. in body, not merely in spirit. and should that day come where you choose the forests of shenlong—of bamboo and the strange beasts i am half-convinced are a lie—i would not ask you to stay. have your reasons, but i do insist i am not one of them.”

freedom was the most precious of gifts; and yet here she was, once again denying it despite it being all but placed on her lap. she accepted defeat then, with a slight sigh. "then you will stay,” she said at last, and her voice carried not triumph, but grace in acceptance of defeat. “and i will pretend i am glad for it.” there was a harsh love to the words of guinevere lannister, an echo of her mothers words and mannerisms which she had not yet even discovered and acknowledged for herself. she did not look at malee as she spoke. her eyes wandered to the latticed shadows cast across the tiled floor, to the long silk curtains that danced like spectres in the draught.

she had always known how to speak without confronting, how to cloak the truth beneath silk and ceremony. “i will speak with you of this again by the middle of the year. but the plan will be ready before that.”

but in the presence of malee westerling, even guinevere lannister found herself pulled into the realm of the real, rather than that of the spiritual and the holy. she had resorted to remaining within a golden cage, rather than amongst those who had always treated her like true family. true kin, in that distant world that felt like something from a fantasy to the westerosi. “you were not at the ball, were you?” she murmured, and now her eyes did shift—first to the dying coals, then to the woman seated across from her.

“i will confess to waiting for the hour to close. i sat through all the dances, all the false laughter, apart from one. her majesty was... radiant. she thrives there. like a rose placed just where it might bloom. it was good to see her in her element.” there was no envy in her tone, nor bitterness. only observation, as if she were speaking of a painting she had studied many times but never understood. “i only danced once." her hand reached slowly, delicately, to her hair, and with practised care she unclasped the white diamond pin that had held her mane in place all day. the gold tresses fell in soft waves, heavier now, as if relieved to be free. she did not bother to smooth them.

“there was a man there. a lord elys brax."

she poured tea then, her movements slow, practised. she always poured for malee first. always. the scent of osmanthus petals and saffron steeping filled the room, golden and warm, like sunlight in winter. “and for a moment, i wondered if he knew you,” she said, and now her voice held something lighter, though it was not quite hope. there was something else in her tone, as though she were weaving together memories from years past, memories that she did not wholly have on hand herself but a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach.“does he?”

[saffroninsilk]

the sea breeze tugged at the hem of malee’s robe as younes spoke, no, accused. the world moved around them in frantic, salt-stained disarray: gulls shrieked, dockhands shouted, sails cracked in the breeze. but she stood still, unshaken, even as his voice pressed harder, trying to break something in her that had already weathered far worse.

for a breath, she said nothing. just watched him, studied him, as one might a storm rolling in over still water. there was pride in his anger, yes, but he almost seemed betrayed, as if she had carefully laid out some plan to trap him.

“if i had wanted the flowers, lord corbray,” she said softly, “i would have purchased them myself. not stolen them from you like some... thief skulking about the docks.” her words weren’t sharp, not quite, but they were cool, tempered like a blade folded a thousand times. “i didn’t set a trap, but you should think more carefully before giving weight to passing words.”

her eyes flicked down to the planks between them, then back up to meet his, calm and dark. “i mentioned them in passing. a single mention. i did not beg you to go chasing after them across oceans.” her chin lifted slightly, proud but not cruel. “that you did, that you invested so deeply in the idea, says more about you than it does about me.”

and yet, she didn’t step away. despite the jabbing of his finger, the mockery in his tone, malee couldn't help, but pity him, there was almost desperation to his demeanor. she wondered how much this would cost him, how much he needed it.

the lady turned slightly, the fine silk of her sleeves catching the light as she lifted her gaze toward the rows of ships anchored in the harbor. sails bearing markings from across the world, banners faded from salt and sun. too many places. too many hands.

“if it truly was meant for you,” she went on, still not quite looking at him, “then it’s likely still here. waiting. lost beneath someone else’s name, or misspoken in translation.” then she glanced at him, just briefly, cool and even.

“there’s a yitish trader i recognize from my brother’s routes. he’s on the manifest for today’s docks, third vessel down.” a pause, then the faintest arch of a brow. “i can speak with him. it may be faster than relying on...however you've managed to effectively communicate thus far.”

it wasn’t kindness, not exactly. but it wasn’t cruelty either. it was efficiency. pride. and perhaps, under it all, a sliver of something harder to name. “if you’d rather sulk than find what’s yours,” she added, turning now with a swish of her layered skirts, “you’re welcome to stay here and throw accusations at seagulls.”

for a moment, younes stared at her. she shrugged. she actually had the gall to shrug. as though this wasn't the single most inconvenient betrayal of younes' week, if not month. he exhaled a sharp burst of air through his nose. it was an attempt to keep his temper, when he could feel his temper slipping from his grip, and his hold on it was tenuous at best to begin with.

"right. innocent as a lamb," he muttered, gesturing broadly towards malee. "of course you don't know anything about it. it's just a staggering coincidence that you happen to be swanning about on this exact wharf on this exact day, while my very expensive, very rare, very romantic gesture is nowhere to be seen." it was not just anger in his voice - it rang with an injured pride, the look in his eyes nothing short of venomous.

"i should have known," he jabbed his finger at her, his next words spoken in a mockery of her voice. "'oh, lord corbray, in yi ti they have this rare flower that makes all the ladies swoon'. admit it. it was a trap. you set a trap, and i walked straight into it. well, i hope you're pleased with yourself, lady westerling."

he was about to ask if she had any idea how much it cost him - but she must do. or else, she wouldn't have needed to concoct such a plan to begin with. no, malee westerling knew exactly what she was doing, and like a fool, he had danced like a puppet on her strings.

she was entirely too unbothered by the whole thing for his liking. too composed, too confident. he knew a little something about telling lies, and she was too effortlessly composed for it to be real. it was always the composed ones, he thought, that were all the more dangerous, the ones who made spinning a tale look like art.

"you know, i almost believe you," he said, his hands coming to clasp behind his back. "yet you expect me to believe this is all a coincidence? you insult my intelligence, lady westerling. you planted the seeds in my head, and now you claim my prize."

[saffroninsilk]

malee had always craved home.

not the one she was born into, with stone corridors and maesters who spoke of duty as though it were love, but the one shaped by scent and silence, by steam curling from teacups and the crisp press of her mother’s robes. she had dreamt of shenlong not as a place, but a feeling: quiet certainty. ritual. a rhythm older than her restlessness. for years, it had called to her like a distant drumbeat under her skin. even now, in the flicker-light of a storm-chased evening, she could smell the flora and fauna that never grew in westeros. she missed it so sharply she could taste it.

and yet, she stayed.

because guinevere had always been there. long before the yearning for elsewhere had formed a language in her chest, there was gwen. they were two girls made wary by different shapes of silence, one taught to endure, the other to obey, and they’d found in each other not escape, but recognition. malee had cared for her with the same steadiness she brought to her stitching, quiet and meticulous. and she worried for her, too. not because guinevere was fragile, she was not. she had teeth and a spine of steel, had survived things that would’ve broken stronger-willed women. but strength was not a shield against loneliness. against weariness.

and though she was not bound by oaths, or rings, or titles, malee had found it difficult, perhaps impossible, to leave her behind.

she hadn’t said as much. she never did. but her presence, her silence, the way she made sure guinevere ate and rested, the way she steeped tea only they drank together… all of it was a tether. as firm as any vow.

“i do have reason to stay,” she said again, quieter now, as though confessing it to the fire rather than to guinevere. “not all of them wise. not all of them kind. but they are mine. and for now... they keep me rooted.”

her fingers brushed over the edge of her sleeve, thumb ghosting a thread she had stitched there herself, deep green, almost black, the same shade as the forests that once lined the valley outside her mother's ancestral home. her voice lingered, low and calm, edged with something ancient in its patience.

she rose slowly, the fabric of her gown whispering across the floor. the room held a warmth now, though it was not only from the fire. something had softened, even if neither of them would name it aloud. “when the time is right,” she continued, pausing by the door, “when the air is clearer, and we are not always waiting for the next tremor beneath our feet… then i will think on it again."

from there, she spoke softly to the waiting guards. “a tray for two, cod, no butter or oil. stewed greens.” a breath. “and the saffron blend from my vanity.”

the tea was hers, yes, but it had been hers since before. saffron for clarity, lavender for peace, a hint of dried orange peel for memory. it was the taste of early morning scrollwork, of her mother’s voice reciting ancient stories, of a promise made by the sea’s edge in another life entirely. she hadn’t brewed it in months.

returning to her seat, she glanced to the fire again, watching as one log split and crumbled, red embers blooming like scattered jewels.

“we don’t have to speak of it more tonight,” she said softly, folding her hands in her lap. “but we should eat. and drink something warm.”

then, turning her head toward guinevere, she added, with a small flicker of a smile, “it’s a strong blend. it’ll keep your thoughts from turning to ghosts, if only for an hour.”

♝

guinevere’s gaze did not flicker. not even for a moment. she had grown too used to the stillness, to becoming the marble upon which others projected their grief, their fury, their awe. her body may have softened beneath the silk and shadow, but her expression remained carved in ivory—serene, untouchable, inscrutable. only her eyes, deep and endless and ever tired, betrayed her - only in the slight crack that came from her lips turning downward, as though the soft grace of malee westerling was enough to bring something to the surface.

emerald hues lingered on malee’s face longer than necessary, as if she were memorising it, as if she feared that someday soon, she would forget the warmth of it, the quiet strength threaded through every word the other woman offered her. the mention of eating caused her to nod ever so slightly, the quiet reminders to eat brought her much sense of normality - normality, and complete control. "could you send word to the attendants?"she brought her leg to rest over the other, looking as though she were thinking as her hand rested below her chin. "cod, no butter nor oil, with some stewed greens."

should she tell her everything? when she had already uttered a lie so casually to her face? would she do it again?

“truthfully, there is much you should know,” she said at last, and the words settled heavily in the space between them, thick as incense smoke. her voice was low and reverent, as though she were speaking not to a friend, but to a saint, or a statue that might shatter if she dared raise her tone. “alas, i won’t.” her fingers flexed against the armrest, thumb brushing over the edge where the wood had splintered, unnoticed until now. it caught on her skin, just barely, but she did not move.

“i would sooner go to my grave with the taste of ash on my tongue than see your conscience weighed down by truths that are not yours to carry., malee westerling.” her lashes lowered, casting long shadows along her cheeks. “and if you are to be weary with me, i regret to tell you frankly, i will endure it." she lifted her gaze once more, chin tilting slightly in that familiar, regal way—something not learned but bred into her, the echo of a thousand women who had ruled without thrones and bled without recognition. the fire crackled softly beside them, casting gold along her profile, a queen painted in ruin and reverence.

“you remember the promise i made you,” she continued, not asking but stating. “the night after the snowfall in the rosewood garden." when they spoke of the rivers of shenlong and the scent of spice on her skin, guinevere lannister had told her then, with all the foolish pride of a young woman who thought the world would bend to her will, that she would see her home. guinevere leaned forward slightly, not enough to disturb the illusion of distance, but enough that the words came gentler, lower, closer to confession. her hand reached upward, almost absentmindedly unclasping a white diamond clip from keeping her golden locks pinned tightly behind her head, a slight breath escaping from her lips.

“if you still wish it, the path remains open. you need only name the season, and i will ensure it. they will not know you are gone until it is too late to stop you. and i...well, i will not chase you." there came a lack of sorrow in her words; it was not her right to chase malee westerling. it was not her ordained, godsgiven right to pull the woman from where her roots so deeply intertwined - but rather, she would hope all paths remained clear and open for her friend. "i will only write, and hope you answer.” she let the silence linger after that, letting her gaze drift toward the fire, though her mind remained fixed on the woman at her side. malee could see the stone that guinevere had become—but she had also seen the blood that once ran beneath it. that had to be enough.

"we both know, there is no true reason for you to stay."

[saffroninsilk]

malee offered a soft smile at his words, but it was the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes, thoughtful, distant, turned inward. her posture was composed, the lines of her body drawn in gentle, deliberate quietude. there was no tension in her limbs, only a settled stillness, like silk laid smooth across a surface. she shifted slightly where she sat, the flickering candlelight catching in the curve of her cheek as her gaze dropped to the table once more.

"stab them," she repeated gently, the words feather-light on her tongue. a quiet amusement tugged at the corners of her lips, restrained but unmistakable. her hand moved again to the hilt of the katana, this time with a touch more ease, though the weight still made itself known in the subtle drag of her fingers. “i suppose that would be the most direct approach.”

her fingers tapped lightly along the scabbard, not with restlessness, but thoughtfulness. each tap fell into a slow rhythm, as if echoing a quiet, internal cadence. she was weighing things, not just steel and blood, but what paths might unfold after.

“and if they strike you first?” she asked, her voice soft, even, a little warmer now, but no less composed. her eyes lifted to his, calm and searching. “what would you have me do?”

the question lingered in the hush between them, unhurried, unafraid. she didn’t look away. there was a quiet resolution beneath her serenity, not fire, not defiance, but something deeper. she would not be left behind, not in action, and not in understanding.

a moment passed before she spoke again. her gaze drifted toward the window, where the wind pressed against the pane in gentle, shifting sighs. shadows moved across the floor like water, and she seemed to study them with the same quiet contemplation she had turned on him.

he had certainty, like stone shaped by time, grounded in a sense of self that didn’t falter. she could see it in the way he sat, the way he spoke. even his silences were rooted. she admired it in the same way she might admire a mountain in the distance, imposing, beautiful, and entirely apart from her.

but she was not stone. never had been. she was river and reed and wind through leaves. she had not been taught to hold her ground, only how to bend without breaking. and still, something within her insisted she find her footing now.

her eyes returned to him, her expression unreadable for a moment, then softened, a small tilt of her head conceding his point about the ridge. “then we’ll go from the east,” she said, steady and sure. “i trust your judgment.”

her hand reached for her cup, graceful in its motion, fingers curling around the ceramic with practiced ease. she took a sip, lukewarm now, but it grounded her, as if even the small act had meaning. she set the cup down with care, the soft sound barely breaking the air between them.

“i do hope you’ve brought a sharp blade,” she murmured, and the faintest thread of dry humor threaded through her tone, “and a strong arm. bamboo doesn’t yield easily, and i doubt either of us want to spend the whole morning cutting a path, not that i think i would make much headway.”

her hands folded neatly once more in her lap. serene. poised. but beneath the composed lines of her figure, there was a quiet readiness. she would follow, yes, but not passively. not blindly.

her voice, when it came again, was quiet, but clear. “we leave at first light, then?”

☯

he listened—intently, more than he had expected himself to, despite the fact he found himself quietly judging her stance whilst wielding the katana, and also ensuring she did not end accidentally cutting herself with the blade. her words stirred something quiet in him, like a soft wind bending the tall reeds that edged the shores of tarth. most people who spoke of their homeland did so with pride, or with longing, or with some forced poetry that reeked of what they thought they ought to feel. but not her. no, lady malee westerling spoke of shenlong with something else—this was not nostalgia, nor was it obligation. it was... search. and it caught him off guard.

she said she was trying to understand herself. openly, plainly, without a veil of performance. he blinked, once. it took him a moment to realise he was surprised. not by what she said—people were always trying to 'find themselves,' though most wrapped it in riddles and half-truths—but by the fact that she said it aloud. to him. there was something oddly admirable in that. unsettling, even, in its sincerity. “well, that’s rare,” he said finally, voice low, almost reluctant to disturb the quiet that had settled between them like mist on a mountain.

“most people search for themselves in others. in titles. in victory and when they can’t find what they want, they blame the world for hiding it from them.” he watched her fingers trace the hilt once more, and for a fleeting moment, imagined what it might be like to feel unmoored like that—to not know where one began or ended. it was foreign to him. he truly searched for himself in carrying through the deeds of knighthood; fulfilling quest after quest, standing his ground in the face of adversary and corrupt councilors. that was akhirah, he knew that of himself like he knew the back of his mind.

“i have never felt that,” he admitted, and the honesty surprised even him. “i know myself. i always have. i know where i begin—on the isle of tarth. i am... of that place. probably shaped me before i could even stand.” he paused, thoughtful. as much as he loved his home, it was not often he found himself wishing to return. “i do not envy you, lady malee. but i do not pity you either.”

his gaze dropped, following the line of her arms as they adjusted the blade again. the weight still sat awkwardly in her grasp, but there was grace in the attempt. patience, as she had said. still, something stirred in him as she spoke of the riverbed. of beginnings. she said it like it were obvious—that one must start low, at the base of things. but to him, it felt wrong. he’d been half listening, half watching the way she adjusted her grip again, still mindful of the katana’s balance against her wrist. the way she spoke, there was always meaning folded within meaning, and for a moment he’d thought she’d meant to speak in metaphors again—about rivers and renewal, about beginnings and foundations. but no. she meant it plainly.

he exhaled softly through his nose, the sound barely audible, but his jaw tightened just so. not in anger. not in condescension. simply in certainty.

“the riverbed is too open,” he said after a long pause, voice low, his words spoken like stone laid with deliberate weight. “flat ground. exposed angles. it’s the first place i’d go if i wanted to watch someone approach from miles off.” his gaze drifted past her for a moment, as if he could already see the terrain laid out before them, drawn in his mind with the sharp clarity of a man used to mapping danger before it came near. “too many ways to be seen. not enough ways to disappear.” he looked at her again, eyes steady, and though his tone was measured, there was an edge of conviction beneath it. “if they’re clever, they’ll have lookouts posted before the bank ever comes into sight. especially if they’re stationed close to the water for transport. we’ll be in the open before we can see anything. that’s not a risk i take lightly—not with what we’re recovering.”

he let the silence hang, not quite challenging her, but not backing down either. he did not speak in riddles, and he had no need for honeyed words when a truth could stand on its own legs.

“we come in from the ridge,” he said at last, with the quiet resolve of a man who had walked terrain too many others had only read about. “from the east side. forest cover’s thicker there, and the wind turns the scent south—less chance of dogs catching it if they’ve any trained. it’s slower, yes, but we choose our footing that way, not have it chosen for us.” he leaned forward to pick up the last remains of the tea in his cup, draining in one go before placing it back down on the mat before him. "and if anyone tries to attack you, just stab them."

[saffroninsilk]

malee stood still for a moment, her fingers gently tracing the hilt of the katana, her thoughts drifting through a haze of memories. she had always been taught to listen to the weapon, to let it speak through her hands. the daab she was familiar with was a blade of grace and agility, one that danced through the air in arcs that mirrored the shifting tides of her homeland, shenlong. it had been light, but quick, with an unspoken fluidity, a companion that moved alongside her rather than against her. she had never known the weight of a blade like this one, solid, decisive, and heavy with the history of its craft.

"the daab," she began, her voice soft but steady, "it is from shenlong, yes. a curved blade, light, swift. it flows like water, and you must move with it, not force it. it's a dance, one that speaks more to the rhythm of the body than to the strength of the arm." she glanced up at him, noting the curiosity in his eyes, a flicker of understanding passing between them. "it's very different from this katana. this one... demands something else from you. patience, precision." she shifted her grip again, testing the weight in her hands, "i can feel its nature—it's as though the blade is not simply an extension of the body, but an extension of the will."

the memory of her grandfather's teachings lingered in the back of her mind, though it had been years since she had held a weapon like this. still, she didn't let it show. she met his gaze with calm confidence, though a flicker of something passed through her eyes, a quiet recognition of her own limitations and the ways she had chosen to learn in silence, far from the eyes of others. there was no shame in that, only the quiet understanding that sometimes, to learn, you had to teach yourself.

malee’s fingers rested lightly on the hilt of the katana, her gaze distant for a moment. a flicker of wistfulness passed over her features, a quiet longing that was quickly softened by the calm of her expression. “it is admirable, the way women in your culture are taught to wield the blade, to stand side by side with men as equals in strength and skill. it must be a gift to carry such traditions so freely, embrace them without question.”

eyes drifted to the flickering candlelight, its soft glow casting shadows on the walls. she folded her hands loosely in front of her, her posture poised but relaxed, as if the weight of her words was something she had carried for a long time. "there is a part of me," she said quietly, her voice thoughtful, "that i’ve never been able to fully touch, to truly understand. shenlong, it’s a piece of who i am, yet it feels like a world i cannot fully enter. in westeros, i am so far from it, and i’ve spent my life trying to bridge that distance. i long to know it all, not just the customs or the ways, but the very essence of it... to feel it in my bones, before it fades completely." her eyes lingered on the flame for a moment longer before she turned her gaze back to him, the quiet longing in her expression barely hidden. "before i must say goodbye, possibly forever."

it was a complicated feeling, one she struggled with since she was a young girl, and the feeling that sunk within the pit of her stomach caused her to quickly shift topics.

when the conversation turned to the bandits, malee’s brow furrowed slightly, the shift in focus grounding her back in the present. she had learned much from the merchant guilds, in preparation for this. "the bandits," she began, her voice becoming more focused, "they are called ‘raksha khon,’ which means 'ghost soldiers.' their name reflects the way they strike, silent, swift, and often leaving no trace. they have been a thorn in the side of the merchant guilds for some time now, targeting trade routes, shipments, and even merchants themselves. no one has been able to pinpoint their leader, and those who try to pursue them rarely return."

she let the weight of the words settle before continuing. "there are rumors that the raksha khon may be connected to larger criminal networks, even some within the city. but no one can say for sure. the guilds are worried, they’ve started hiring more guards, but that hasn’t stopped the attacks. it seems they always know when and where to strike."

malee regarded him quietly for a moment, her expression calm but attentive. "is there anything you’d like to discuss before we depart in the morning?" she asked, her tone steady and open. "any details we should consider or adjust before we set out?" her gaze was patient, giving him space to voice any thoughts or concerns he might have.

"i think we should start at the river's edge," she said thoughtfully, fingers drifted lightly over the surface of the table, tracing an invisible map with a quiet focus. "it’s a natural boundary and gives us cover as we move through the trees. from there, we can make our way north, where the terrain grows denser. it’s a path less likely to be watched, and it will give us a chance to move in relative silence."

☯

as he watched her fingers shift along the hilt, trying to accommodate the weight of the katana in her grasp, akhirah found himself considering whether he should intervene more directly to aid her - torn between his inherrent urge to fix the glade's structure, and ensure he does not cross boundaries. this situation in itself was unusual enough, and he would not push or break boundaries - the curve of the blade was subtle yet decisive, demanding an understanding that could not be forced. watching her only made him recall his own years of training, it had taken him years to refine his own technique—years spent under his father’s watchful eye and his mother’s gentle correction.

the old ways and the new, tempered together in the forge of his childhood.

now, watching lady malee, he saw the familiar tension of a warrior adjusting to a foreign weapon, the instinct to treat it like a blade she knew but that it was not. he reached out, a pause lingering as his fingers hovered over her wrist as he waited for her to nod her head, and then gently guided her arms. “i know, it is heavier than it seems,” he murmured, his tone low but steady as a slight amused smile crossed over his dark features. “your wrist—loosen it, just a bit. let the weight of the blade settle. the katana does not bend to you; you must move with it.” he adjusted her stance, nudging her elbow slightly inward, tilting her grip until it aligned. “there. it should not feel so burdensome now. let it rest in your hand, do not grip so tightly.”

he took a step back, watching as she adjusted. there was a quiet grace to her movements—a discipline honed somewhere far from the halls of westerosi castles. this, he knew, was not simply the posture of a noblewoman trying to prove herself. there was intention, control. the weight of discipline behind her actions. his gaze lingered on the way she turned the blade, considering its weight, the flex of her wrist adapting slowly but surely. a part of him wondered at what had shaped her skill—what training she had endured and who had demanded it from her.

“your daab,” he began, the word awkward but curious on his tongue. “is that some manner of blade from your homeland? from shenlong?” he did not attempt to feign knowledge, for it was not his way to pretend expertise. his ignorance, he had learned, was better admitted than concealed. “i imagine it moves differently than this—quicker, less dependent on weight. more fluid, perhaps?” the question hung between them, a bridge of curiosity he extended willingly. the air in the room felt tempered, the quiet sound of the blade shifting in her grip a whisper against the stillness. he glanced toward the candlelight flickering between them, the shadows cast along the table reminiscent of training halls long past—of his father’s patient reprimands and his mother’s whispered encouragements.

“well, it is a tradition of my house,” he said eventually, his voice steady, though reflective. “men and women alike are taught the blade. the seas around tarth are not kind, and the storms that come can be as cruel as they are unpredictable. our people trade across the narrow sea, and in our absence, the women guard the keep. my mother was no less a protector than my father; she was the first to put a sword in my hand, before my father had even considered me old enough to wield it.” he smiled faintly, a memory threading through the words. “to leave my daughter defenseless—if i had a daughter—would be an insult to her blood. and a failure of mine."

he wondered if she had ever considered such things—the need to fight, to defend, not simply as a duty but as a birthright. for him, it was as much a part of his heritage as the blood in his veins. “you mentioned wanting to understand,” he prompted gently, his gaze returning to her face as he recalled on what it was she had briefly said in a larger portion of words. “what is it, exactly, that you wish to understand? the blade? its nature?” a pause. “or something else?” why is it that women spoke so mysteriously? entirely vague and ambiguous - having them need to be double think and second guess every word.

he found himself watching her expression, the flickers of thought that passed across her features. there was a complexity to her—a labyrinth of intentions and motives that he had yet to map fully. she had already proven herself capable, yet still he wondered. was it the art of the blade she sought to master, or the measure of the man who wielded it? he let the silence settle briefly, giving her room to answer. then, his mind turned back to the matters that had first brought them together—the purpose beyond this room, beyond the quiet exchange of instruction. “the thieves,” he continued, his tone shifting to one of more deliberate inquiry. “the ones who took the silk meant for the merchants’ guild. do you know if they are an organised group? or mere vagabonds?”

he watched her closely, searching for any hint of insight. the bandits’ theft had drawn them together, the path they now followed forged by that single act. if they were to face such a threat, he needed to understand the nature of their opposition. to walk into the unknown with half a map was no better than walking blindfolded. for a moment, he wondered what his father would say of this—of the risks he now measured and the alliances he tentatively forged. but his father’s voice was silent, and in its place remained only his own judgment, tempered by experience and weighted by the responsibility of another’s safety.

[saffroninsilk]

mai davika on vacation ♡

[saffroninsilk]

malee watched guinevere in the hush of the chamber, the firelight painting shadows along the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw. she could see the weight pressing against her, heavier than the silk of her gown, heavier than the crown she no longer wore but still carried in the way she held herself.

she would not ask if it was a lie. she would not ask if it was the truth. those things did not matter—not now, not between them. what mattered was that guinevere had spoken, and malee would stand beside her, as she always had.

“i will say it as many times as you need me to,” she murmured, her voice a steady thing, soft but unwavering. “i knew nothing. because i didn’t.”

her fingers traced the seam of her sleeve, a quiet motion, a grounding one. she would not need to pretend. she did not know what had transpired, what hands had moved in the shadows to bring them to this moment. but she knew guinevere. she knew the way she carried her burdens, the way she measured every word before it left her lips. and she knew that there was more.

“but if there is something i should know,” she said carefully, tilting her head ever so slightly, “tell me now.”

her voice did not press, did not demand. it was an offering, nothing more. she would not pry into things guinevere was not ready to speak of, nor would she ask for explanations that were not hers to receive. but if guinevere had something to say, something she needed her to understand before the storm that loomed on the horizon broke over them, malee would listen.

she had always listened.

she let the quiet stretch between them, patient, unafraid of the silence. whether guinevere answered or not, it would change nothing. she would still be here. she would still be the woman who had stood beside her when others had not. if there was nothing more to say, the matter would be settled then. malee would not press, but she would not forget the matter, either. she trusted her friend, with a crown of golden curls upon her head, heavier in itself than any gold that may be placed upon it.

malee let out a slow breath, steadying herself as she let the weight of guinevere’s words settle between them. she had spoken of shenlong, of leaving court, of putting distance between herself and whatever storm was brewing, but the thought of it twisted something deep in her chest.

“it is not time to go,” she said finally, the words quiet but certain. she did not know why they unnerved her so, only that they did. the court of the west made her uneasy, its shifting loyalties and carefully veiled threats pressing heavier with each passing day. but to leave now, to step away when guinevere stood at the heart of something so precarious, it made her just as uneasy. "not yet."

she reached for the other's hand again, just briefly, a touch meant not to anchor but to reassure. “you have always had me, guinevere,” she said softly. “and you always will. whether i am here or across the sea, that will not change.” she pulled her hand back again, placing it into her lap. there was a moment of silence, eyes tracing the room back to the hearth that seemed to be the biggest source of strength and destruction at this moment.

"you should eat something, gwen."

♝

guinevere did not shift beneath her companion’s gaze, though something within her stilled, calcified. the quiet crackle of the fire hummed through the chamber, filling the spaces where hesitation threatened to creep in. she knew what she had to say. she knew how to arrange the words, how to string them together like pearls upon a thread—delicate, perfect, irrefutable. but the truth curled sour at the back of her throat, and she could not swallow it down. she had lied. she had lied, and it should not have been difficult—not after all these years, not after all the quiet betrayals she had wrapped in silk and prayer. and yet, the weight of it pressed against her ribs, a dull and steady ache. the knowledge of it clung to her like the scent of myrrh, suffocating and inescapable. she should not have felt guilty. it was not as though she had never deceived before.

guile had been a necessity, a currency more valuable than gold, and she had spent it freely when required. but this was different. this was malee.

malee, who had stood beside her when so many had turned away, who had held fast when guinevere had become little more than a whisper of what she once was. the years had stretched between them, pulling at the fabric of their bond, fraying the edges until guinevere feared one day it would simply snap. and yet, it had not. malee remained. and she was repaying her with lies. guinevere’s fingers, resting lightly upon the carved arm of her chair, curled inward, nails pressing against her palm. she forced herself to meet malee’s gaze, to hold steady even as the firelight cast shifting shadows across the other woman’s face.

“there is no proof,” she admitted, her voice measured, careful, as though speaking too swiftly would allow the truth of her guilt to slip free. “none but the certainty of my own word. and that is not enough—not for his majesty.” she exhaled, slowly, deliberately. “it will not be the king who is swayed. it will be arron. he will stand where i cannot, speak where i must not. he will make my case undeniable.” and yet still, she could almost hear the sounds of his footsteps echoing against the stones beneath the corridor leading to her apartments, or the sound of the door creaking from the hinge as it is forced open - she knew it would come, sooner rather than later.

she had been a queen once. she had stood upon the heights of the vale, and men had bowed before her. but queens did not outlive their kings, not truly. queens became relics, their power withering like autumn leaves, their influence measured only by the strength of the men who still deigned to hold them close. but even as she shaped the plan in her mind, even as she constructed the path forward with meticulous precision, she could feel the betrayal coiling beneath it. not the betrayal of tyland, nor of court, nor even of malee, though that, too, festered unspoken between them. it was rowan. she did not speak his name, not now, not ever, but he lingered in the air, in the space between her ribs where grief had long since made its home.

she had betrayed him - and it were the final nail, the cut that would always bleed.

it should not have mattered. he was dead. gone. his blood had soaked into the snow, and whatever love had existed between them had been shattered long before his body had grown cold. he was a lie, a falsehood, a deception woven into the very foundation of her life. and yet the thought of turning on him now, even now, even with all she knew, made something recoil within her, as though she were twisting a blade not into him but into herself. it disgusted her. she loathed the feeling, loathed the truth it revealed. she had betrayed the living with far more ease than she could bring herself to betray the dead. what did that say of her? what wretched thing had she become, that her loyalties lay not with those who still breathed, who still stood beside her despite everything, but with a man who had been dead for years?

her gaze lifted to malee’s once more, her expression unwavering, her tone softened only by the barest thread of something weary, something that did not belong in the voice of a princess. “this will not touch you,” she assured, and she would make it so. “if the prince speaks to you, you will tell him you knew nothing. you will repeat it until it is truth, as it is the truth. you knew nothing, and i will ensure you are not forced into any corner on my behalf. you will let it sit between you as though it has always been there.” a pause. her fingers relaxed, smoothing against the silk of her gown. “it will be settled,” she said at last, and though her voice was quiet, there was no room for doubt in it. “it will be done.”

and with that, she let the matter rest. they would always be birds, of champagne and the brightest colour of jade that had been locked within a golden cage - and though she had no choice but to remain here, that did not need to be the truth and nothing but the truth. there could be a way around this, a way for guinevere to ensure malee lived the life she wanted as her own caved in on her. it would be worth it. "perhaps it is perfect timing for you to arrange a visit to your kin in shenlong, if you wish to avoid what court will feel like for the next weeks." months.

[saffroninsilk]

malee let the weight of the katana settle in her hands, adjusting her grip with quiet focus as she absorbed his instruction. it was unfamiliar, the curve of the blade, the way it asked to be drawn with precision rather than force. her daab had been different—lighter, swifter, its movements like a dance rather than the deliberate flow of water he described. but she listened, watched the way he demonstrated, and followed suit without resistance.

his words did not unsettle her, nor did the assessment in his tone. she had no illusions of mastery, nor did she cling to pride where skill was concerned. she had learned in secret, practiced in the quiet hours when no one was watching. it had been a long time since then.

her gaze lingered on the candle’s flame, the way it swayed with the air between them, then drifted back to him. “not this,” she agreed, her voice soft but certain. she turned the blade slightly, feeling its weight shift in her hands. “one summer, when i was younger… a dhab. my grandfather showed me. my brother's found more interest in the broadsword.” she let the words settle between them for a moment. “my mother found out and forbade it.” her fingers curled briefly, as if remembering the feel of a different hilt, before she let them rest again.

there was no hesitation in the admission, only a quiet understanding of the past. “it was never meant to be mine, not truly. i was never meant to fight.” she let the katana rest in her hands a moment longer before placing it down with care. “but i never wished to fight,” she admitted. “only to understand.” something stirred in her at the words, quiet but deep, a feeling that had shaped her for years without name, but she did not elaborate further.

she exhaled then, a quiet breath, and her lips curved just slightly. “truth be told, i am better trained to use a needle than a weapon.” there was no bitterness in the words, only a wry sort of amusement. “embroidering silk is a far more acceptable pastime for a lady of my standing.” she placed the katana down with care, meeting his gaze with something unreadable in her own. “and yet, i doubt fine stitches would be of much use to us on the road.”

her expression did not shift at his command to stay close, but something in her eyes sharpened, like the edge of a blade left in its sheath. she understood what he was saying, the weight of his concern wrapped in firm instruction. “i will not slow you down,” she said simply. no defiance, no wounded pride, only the quiet certainty of someone who had long understood the necessity of movement, of adapting, of surviving in the spaces where she was never meant to belong.

malee continued, giving a small nod, simple and assured. “i will move,” she said quietly. “i will not meet a sword.” she didn't even want to think that she may have to hold true to her word.

she tilted her head slightly, studying him now as he had studied her. “and you?” the flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows over his face, over the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders. “who taught you?”

☯

as akhirah let out a slow exhale, he reflected on her words with a serene sense of stillness, watching the way her fingers idly traced the rim of her cup. his name, his people, and his house were all burdens he had carried without question, weight he had long since accepted. but this—this was different. in these moments, in these tasks, he had always been solely accountable to himself, his mind attuned to the precise calculations of his own survival. now, with her presence altering the path ahead, he found himself in unfamiliar terrain, responsible for more than just his own blade.

leaning forward, he let his fingers brush the hilt of his blade where it sat on the table. the wood and steel were nicely polished, but it was also reassuring. "then you understand why i do this, too," he said, his voice quiet but firm as his fingers folded over the hilt. "if we are to do this, if we are to ride into the unknown, i need to know you can wield a blade when it is necessary." his head leaned to one side slightly as he noticed her reaching for the katana, her fingers curling around its hilt. she was no stranger to the weight of a weapon, but before she could even move, he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way instinct led her to hold the unfamiliar grip.

he exhaled, lifting his hand slightly to stop her without touching her. “not like that.” his voice was calm, even, though there was no mistaking the authority in it. reaching forward, he guided her wrist with the careful certainty of someone who had spent his life understanding the weapon’s nature. “if you draw it like this, the blade won’t flow freely. your wrist is stiff. this is not a longsword to be swung like a club.” he adjusted his own grip in the air, demonstrating the way his fingers curled around the hilt with practiced ease. “tilt the hilt downward, let the draw be the cut. the katana is not meant for hacking—it should move like water.”

he watched her closely as she adjusted, the blade whispering against the scabbard as she attempted to mimic his movements. the small, subtle shift in her grip did not go unnoticed. she was adapting, quickly, adjusting in a way that many failed to grasp. she had some skill, even if she was unfamiliar with the weapon’s weight. her stance was natural, lacking the stiffness he often saw in the untrained. but she had something else, too. an easy certainty in the way she carried herself, a quiet confidence that did not waver even as he corrected her. many in her position would have bristled under his instruction, but she simply studied him with that same measured expression, as if turning over his words in her mind.

he realised then that she was not just some noblewoman playing at adventure. she had learned her way around weapons before; the question was from whom. not just anyone could teach what she seemed to already know. this, too, unsettled him. he was meant to be the one in control. he had prepared for that, for a journey alone, for facing the unknown with his sword and his instincts, and suddenly he had to account for another. he had to trust her to follow his command, but more than that, he had to be sure she would not slow them down.

“better,” he admitted finally, though his tone held a note of assessment rather than praise. “you have some skill.” he watched her for a moment longer, the candle between them flickering, the dim light glancing off the steel. he let out a slow breath. “when we ride tomorrow, i implore you stay close.” his voice was quieter now, but firm, like a hammer striking steel. “you may know these roads, but i know the blade. if a sword comes for you, you don’t meet it. you move.” he let the words settle, tilting his head slightly, his fingers still resting upon the hilt of his katana. he was used to moving as one, responding only to the shifting rhythm of his own breath and balance, to the wind in the trees and the subtle signs of an attack before it came. this—this was different. he was different in this, because of her. he had never been required to account for someone beside him, had never had to measure his own movements against another’s survival. he could not help but wonder if she understood that.

“what was it you trained in?” he finally asked, his voice quieter now, eyes fixed on her hands as she turned the blade in them, feeling out the weight. “not this, surely. and not in westeros.” his fingers tapped lightly against the table. “i imagine that is a story of its own.”

[saffroninsilk]

malee watched minthara with quiet amusement, the way she so easily committed to things, the way she so wholly embraced her own sense of rightness without hesitation. it was an admirable thing, really, to see someone move through the world like that. she had never been the sort to act on impulse, never been the sort to make such an open declaration of favor to a stranger, but she could appreciate it. and she could appreciate the kindness in it, too—the way minty had chosen the knight that no one else had seen fit to acknowledge.

still, she thought of what the other had said before, about devotion, about the weight of expectation that came with it. malee had never thought of it in quite those terms, but she supposed she understood. she had always known that love and marriage were two separate things, and that more often than not, the latter did not require the former. she had seen it in the unions forged around her, seen the way some thrived in their arrangements while others merely endured. love was a fortunate accident, not a guarantee.

“i hope you get to decide, too.”

minthara’s words had settled in her mind, and she turned them over, let them press against the quiet thoughts she rarely spoke aloud. it was a nice thing to wish for someone. she wondered if minty truly believed it was possible, or if it was simply a hope she wanted to put into the world, a way to push back against the inevitability of what was expected.

her gaze flickered back to the hedge knight, now riding off to take his place at the lists, minthara’s ribbon bright against his arm. she supposed that was what it was all about, in the end. not just devotion, but choice. the choice to extend one’s favor, the choice to offer something of oneself without expectation.

“maybe that’s why it feels impossible,” she said, glancing at minthara. “everyone’s looking for what they think they should want. a match that makes sense, a name that holds weight.” she exhaled softly, shaking her head. “but that’s not love. not really.”

her gaze flickered back to the field, to the hedge knight now waiting for his turn. “you did a good thing, you know. giving him that favor. you didn’t have to.” her lips quirked in something close to amusement. “and don’t say you just wanted to see if he’d fall off his horse. that wasn’t it.”

her voice softened, more pensive. “you say devotion’s what you want, but i think you already know what that looks like. you give it, even when you don’t realize it.”

a smile tugged at minthara's lips - not one of mockery or boldness, but something quieter. for all her sharp edges, she could appreciate sincerity when it was offered in earnest. "i'll take the compliment. you're kinder than most," she glanced at malee, a flicker of warmth in the indigo of her eyes. she'd been fortunate in her life to have met a lot of people who loved her, and who she loved back, friends that had shown her that things weren't as bad as she could often dramatise them to be, but there was still trepidation when speaking to someone new, and not knowing if they would show her kindness, or something else entirely.

her expression shifted a little, a shadow crossing over her face. "yeah, it's not so different in new valyria." her thoughts on marriage were complicated ones. it did not matter how much her mother assured her that plenty were content with a match born of politics and value, that she would make sure she would find minty a match that would respect her, she knew that she would never truly be happy with that life. her parents had loved one another, and she had idealised that, wanting nothing less for herself than the sort of adoration they had before her father had died. "i don't think i'd ever be able to be satisfied with anything other than devotion," she admitted. it was something she had said to the likes of brianna and ginny, but never to someone she had only just met."

minthara paused, leaning back in her seat slightly, as though she were trying to put some distance between herself and the weight of what they were speaking of. when she had been a girl, it had all seemed so simple, but minty was a woman now, and whatever it was, it was harder to navigate by the day, especially with the sort of grace malee seemed to embody. "and you," she added, her gaze steady. "i hope you get to decide, too. you've got way more patience than me, but that doesn't mean you should settle for less than what you deserve. i understand some battles ain't worth fighting - but if not this one, then what?"

she considered malee's description for a moment, the easy smile back on her face. "see! we don't ask for much, do we. i don't know why all these men seem to find it so hard to live up to." she was teasing, though she shook her head when malee dismissed it as a fairytale. "nah, nah. it's completely realistic. courage of a knight, mind of a scholar, soul of a poet. gotta exist somewhere, surely." she tilted her head, amusement glinting in her eyes. "i mean, i've never met anybody like that, but that's their problem, not ours, you know? but i don't know. maybe it's not about ticking all them boxes. maybe it's about finding someone who doesn't, but you still want to give it to them anyway."

she let herself look around the lists, taking in the banners awaiting their turn at the tilts. when she did extend her favour, it tended to be to men she knew, ones that she knew would not take it seriously, nor as a mockery. there were none of those men on the field today, and it had her brows furrowing in concentration, as though this, and this alone, was the most serious thing they had discussed since they took their seats. "that one," she pointed. it was a hedge knight, clearly new to this by the nervous way he sat on his horse, overlooked by his landed competitors. there was no ribbon on his arm, none of the ladies in the crowd seeing fit to give him their favour.

her mind was made up. minthara put her fingers in the corner of her mouth and whistled, repeatedly, until he finally looked over, her first two attempts ignored as the knight had obviously not expected it to be him whose attention she was trying to catch. he trotted over, apprehensively, and it were clear how young he was. "first time?" minthara called out to him, her tone surprisingly kind. she untied her ribbon and secured it upon his lance when he held it up, and it was clear from his face that it meant more to him that it would have done to anybody else on the field. "may the gods be with you, ser. ride well."

[saffroninsilk]

akhirah’s words settled in the space between them, the candlelight flickering across the planes of his face. he had spoken plainly, without pretense, and she found she could appreciate that. she had spent too much of her life navigating the artifice of court, of half-truths wrapped in silk and honeyed words meant to disarm. this, his honesty, his unease, his sense of duty that weighed upon him, was refreshingly direct.

when she finally spoke, her voice was softer, lacking the earlier amusement. "i understand your concerns." and she did. he had not expected to account for anyone but himself. he had prepared for this journey with only his own survival in mind, and now, here she was, another factor, another person whose well-being he felt responsible for.

she let her fingers drift along the rim of her cup, thoughtful.

"you are not wrong to be wary," she admitted. "understanding a place does not mean it will not turn against you. knowing its paths does not mean you will always walk them safely." her gaze lifted to meet his. "but i do not expect you to shield me from every danger. i have seen enough of the world to know that safety is never a certainty."

he only knew her first name, not the house she belonged to on her father's side, and she found herself preferring that, for now. there was no expectations laden with family ties. just the present, just the two of them and the quiet stretch of space between his guarded words and her own quiet certainty. just shenlong.

she understood his concerns, even if he had not voiced them outright. the forest was dangerous, the men they sought even more so. she did not take that lightly. but neither did she take lightly the notion that she should not be here at all. she had walked these lands before, knew their patterns, their shifting moods. yi ti was not hers, not truly, but it was familiar in ways westeros had never been. it had never asked her to belong to it. it simply was.

her gaze drifted down to the blade that rested on the table, the candlelight glinting off its polished edge. she studied it. he was straightforward in his concern, in his sense of duty, in the weight he so clearly carried upon his shoulders.

he had expected to do this alone. and yet, here she was.

she had anticipated the wariness, men like him did not easily shift their expectations once set, but it was his words, not his doubt, that gave her pause. i do not yet know how to carry responsibility for someone who is not bound to me.

her fingers stilled.

it was not a lack of willingness; that much was clear in the quiet weight of his voice. he was not a man who shirked duty. no, he carried it like armor, letting it shape his every step. but the way he spoke of it, as though responsibility was a thing that required binding, she could not quite make sense of that, nor did she think she would this night. the unexpected remark caused a flicker of doubt to cross over her features, one she quickly cast away.

"if it eases some of your concerns," she continued, shifting her attention back to him, "then please, teach me. i will not pretend to know how to wield a blade, but i can learn."

her fingers brushed the hilt briefly before withdrawing. "and i would rather not have to rely on you if the time comes that i must defend myself."

she did not say more than that. did not offer reassurances beyond what she already had. she understood his concerns, but she would not ask him to carry the weight of her presence alone.

"perhaps you have something smaller...for now." she added after a moment, finding herself not entirely comfortable with the blade before her, unless it was her only option.

☯

akhirah let the silence settle between them, the rain drumming its steady rhythm against the roof, the scent of damp wood and steeped tea curling through the air. his fingers rested lightly against the porcelain cup, warmth seeping through his skin, though he had yet to take another sip after burning his tongue on the first. across the table, the lady whom he only knew as malee regarded him with that same composed assurance, her dark eyes catching the candlelight, her presence at once foreign and strangely fitting in this place.

"yes, my lady. the forest will not keep us safe, because i am intended to keep us safe." they seemed to quietly observe one another in the small silences that filled the space between them, as akhirah made a conscious decision to straighten his back. "us." there was a level of passive ire in his words; when he accepted this quest, it was meant to just be him. him and him alone he was responsible for.

he studied her in return, weighing her words, the quiet certainty with which she spoke. she was not hesitant, nor did she flinch from his scrutiny. there was no doubt in her voice, only an understanding that was, in some ways, unsettling. she had walked these forests before, she had said. she understood these lands. but that did not ease the concern that sat, firm and unshifting, in his chest. "it is not doubt in your abilities," he said at last, his voice measured, quiet but steady. "but understanding a place does not make you immune to its dangers." his fingers tapped once against the rim of his cup before he let them still.

"trust in the guild is one thing. trust in the men who steal from them is another. they are villains."

his gaze drifted briefly to the wooden panels beyond them, rain streaking in glistening paths down their surface. the storm would pass by morning, and then they would ride. he had expected to do so alone, to track the bandits through the dense bamboo, to see this task through as he always did—by his own hand, with no one else to slow his stride or pull his focus. that was how it had always been. he had left his sister sora behind to tend to tarth, knowing she was capable, knowing his duty required him to see to the future of his house. and that meant being responsible for himself. not another.

his gaze returned to her, taking in the quiet ease with which she held herself, the certainty that settled in the way she watched him. he exhaled slowly, the weight of his thoughts pressing against the back of his skull. "it is not that i fear you will slow me," he admitted, voice softer now, though no less firm, a sense of awkwardness sitting between them. "it is that, frankly, i do not yet know how to carry responsibility for someone who is not bound to me." it was not an easy thing to put into words, but he had never been one for unnecessary pretence. his concern was not rooted in arrogance or stubbornness, nor in some misplaced belief that she was incapable. it was simpler than that. he knew himself. he knew the weight of duty, the way it settled like armour upon his shoulders. he knew what it meant to be responsible for a house, for its people.

but responsibility for one person—one he had not expected, one whose presence changed the shape of the path ahead—was an unfamiliar burden.

his fingers curled around the porcelain again, and this time, he lifted it, blowing lightly over the surface before taking a careful sip. the warmth settled against his tongue, less biting now, more welcome. "you speak as though you are more of this place than westeros itself," he mused, watching her over the rim of his cup. "i do not even know your house. only your first name, only that we have met here, as strangers. and i am responsible for ensuring you do not return to your kin unalive, whoever your kin are." the words were not an accusation, only an observation, tinged with curiosity; he would have laughed, if he did not feel genuine concern and stress in relation to the matter.

it was a quiet truth, something he had noted in the way she held herself, in the ease with which she spoke of trust in a guild that barely tolerated outsiders. he wondered what that meant, what path had led her here, what history lay behind the measured certainty in her voice. the rain outside softened, a slow retreat into silence, leaving only the faint flickering of candlelight between them. he wordlessly moved his blade over the table, the traditional yitish style katana - and indicated his hand toward it.

"are you able to wield a blade? i insist it is the bare minimum you must know before we leave at daybreak."

[saffroninsilk]

the scent of brine and rotting fish clung to the air, thick and unrelenting beneath the midday sun. malee had never been fond of the docks, the sea, yes, but the world moved far too quickly here for her liking. her brother walked a step ahead, speaking in low tones with one of their merchants, a man she recognized from shenlong’s trade routes. she was only half-listening, her gaze flickering over the restless sea, the shifting masses of sailors and dockworkers hauling crates and shouting over the din.

then she heard her name, and it was not spoken gently.

she turned just as younes closed the distance between them, his smirk a poor mask for the anger simmering beneath.

malee blinked, the accusation settling over her like a fine layer of dust, unwelcome, but not wholly unfamiliar. she had learned long ago that men often spoke in half-truths, hiding sharp edges behind lazy smiles. but she had not expected this from him.

“lord corbray." she regarded him with a tone of kind cordiality and a firmness that gave insight to the offense in which she had taken his approach. expression remained soft, however, and she let the moment settle before continuing. "i’m afraid i don’t follow,” she said, her voice measured, quiet but unyielding.

jasmine. she had mentioned it to him once, in passing, a rare variety that only grew in yi ti. a purple jasmine that was valuable, beautiful, certainly a thing noble women would purchase should it be brought across the narrow sea, but..she had not thought much of it, nor imagined he would go to such lengths.

“i don’t have your flowers.” her dark eyes met his, steady, unwavering. “nor did i know you had any. perhaps, you've mistaken me for someone more reckless."

malee’s hands folded neatly before her, a quiet elegance in the way she carried herself as she spoke. she gave a small, graceful shrug, still looking at him with that same gentle confidence. “if I’d known, i would have warned you. perhaps someone else took the shipment, but I assure you i have no part in it.”

her gaze shifted briefly to the busy docks around them, taking in the myriad of sailors unloading crates and barrels, the noise of the wharf filling the air. there was a chaos to the scene, the kind of disarray that made it easy for anything, however valuable, to slip through unnoticed. "perhaps they've been offloaded from the wrong ship. a crate can easily be misdirected, and with the amount of cargo moving in and out of this place, it’s hardly unusual.”

closed starter for @saffroninsilk setting: semi-flashback to lannisport, during the gathering in the west.

the docks reeked of salt and damp wood, the stink of fish guts and stale ale clinging to the air like a bad omen. younes had always hated anywhere that sailors convened - the filth, the desperate men with their shifty eyes and missing teeth, the sense that everything here could be bought and sold for the right price. and yet, here he was, pacing along the wharf with lady forlorn strapped to his hip and frustration burning through his veins.

the shipment was gone. the one he had paid for—more than he could afford, truth be told, but he had never been one to let practicalities stand in the way of a grand gesture. jasmine flowers, delicate and fragrant, shipped from the far reaches of yi ti at a cost that made his stomach twist. gone. just like that.

he had heard tell of them from malee westerling, some time ago, and ordered them shipped to gulltown. from there, they were to be forwarded on to lannisport, so he could collect and make use of them while all the eligible women of the realm were in one place. only, if they had made it to lannisport, they had disappeared without a trace.

and he had his suspicions.

he spotted malee westerling, and it was a coincidence too great to be true. his boots hit the wooden planks hard as he approached, his temper barely leashed beneath the veneer of a lazy smirk.

“well, well,” he drawled, stopping just close enough that she would have no choice but to acknowledge him. “i never took you for a thief, lady westerling, but I suppose even the most refined ladies have their little vices.”

he tilted his head, studying her, his dark eyes gleaming with something sharp—accusation, amusement, something just shy of outright anger. “tell me, do you have a particular use for my missing flowers, or is this just some elaborate game to teach me a lesson?” his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “because if so, i must say, i’m rather impressed. you’ve gone to quite the effort.”

his fingers drummed against the pommel of his sword, though his stance remained casual, all feigned indifference masking the simmering rage beneath. “where is my jasmine, malee?”

[saffroninsilk]

( end of thread. )

malee stood still, her gaze following the delicate threads of the tapestry as though each one had its own story to tell. she let dacey’s words settle, a quiet smile touching her lips at the thought of how weaving could both be an art and a refuge. "no, not at all," she said gently, shaking her head. "i understand completely. it's the same for me. the process, the rhythm—each thread, each choice, it holds meaning, doesn’t it?" her eyes softened, glancing at the patterns before them. "i think that’s why i’ve come to love it. it’s not just about creating something beautiful; it’s about preserving something deeper, something that feels worth holding onto."

she moved a little closer to dacey, her voice warming as she spoke. "and you’re right about yi ti," malee agreed, her fingers unconsciously tracing a pattern in the air, mirroring the delicate weaving of her thoughts. "there’s something timeless in their work. you can feel the history, the legends they’re passing down with every stitch. it’s more than fabric—it's like they’ve captured the essence of an entire culture, their lives woven into the cloth."

her eyes softened with appreciation. "i can see how it must have become a way to anchor you, how it fills the hours when there was little else to hold onto. for me, that is how the true passion began. my first tapestry, one that i felt compelled to create not out of obligation, but because it struck me, was a distraction from a world that felt too big, too loud." her shoulders fell just slightly, as if relaxing from some invisible weight. "but i think, like you, i started to understand that it’s more than just the end result." malee smiled, a hint of vulnerability in her expression. "it’s the journey, isn’t it? the peace that comes with knowing every single thread matters."

she paused, then gave a small, knowing laugh. "i hope i’m not rambling on too much. i do tend to get caught up in the meaning of it all." looking back to dacey, she offered a quiet smile. "but thank you for listening. it’s rare to find someone who truly understands what weaving can be, and should i ever find myself in winterfell again, i would love to see the tapestries you have there."

[saffroninsilk]

malee's fingers tightened slightly around the folds of her dress as she listened to aidan, her gaze calm but considering. his words were laced with curiosity, but it was his tone—almost playful—that made her pause before responding. she allowed the silence to stretch between them, her smile a quiet reflection of the careful measure she placed on each of her words.

"i suppose," she said after a moment, her voice soft yet steady, "that when one is always moving, it becomes less about being shaped by places than about how those places change in the time it takes to pass through them." her eyes met his, steady but gentle. "shenlong, for instance, was never a place i could fully claim as my own. it was a dream, yes, but one constantly slipping through my fingers, no matter how tightly i tried to hold on."

she took a step back, shifting slightly so that the shadows cast by the lit sconces caught her features in a softer light. "there are those who belong to a place," she continued, her gaze distant, "and those who are only passing through. i suppose I’ve always been the latter. but in passing through, i learned to listen to what others left behind—stories, like the fragrance of jasmine, lingering in the air long after they've gone."

her smile softened, turning more reflective as she regarded him. "as for your question..." she hesitated, her tone lowering just enough to convey an unspoken truth. "i did find myself shaped by the chaos, yes. but not by choice." Her lips parted, as if to say more, but she held herself back. a quiet laugh followed instead, a breath of amusement. "though i would not say i am someone lost in it. i find... purpose, even in unpredictability."

her gaze drifted to the goblet he held, then back to his eyes, unfaltering. "but as for you, prince aidan," she continued softly, "it seems the chaos has indeed left its mark. perhaps not all scars are visible, but they remain just the same."

her lips curved into a small, demure smile, the kind that did not reveal too much but suggested a quiet confidence. "beyond silken veils?" she repeated softly, her voice light but measured. "i suppose that depends on what one considers a veil." her eyes lingered on him, a slight challenge hidden beneath the gentleness of her gaze. "i’ve seen many things, yes. but not all of them are mine to share."

Aidan exhaled a quiet chuckle, tilting his goblet slightly as he considered her words. “Fire and water,” he mused again, watching the wine swirl in his cup before he flicked his gaze back to her. “Perhaps you’re right. One tempers, the other consumes, but both leave their mark.”

His smile lingered, a flicker of something unreadable behind his easy demeanor. “Yi Ti sounds like a dream woven in silk and gold,” he said, his voice lighter now, teasing. “The way you speak of it, Lady Malee, makes me wonder if I ought to have wandered east instead of south. But you say there’s a weight beneath all that beauty—gods and legends, shaping the people’s lives. Maybe that’s what keeps it all from unraveling.” He tilted his head, eyes sharp with interest. “And you, walking among such history—did you find yourself shaped by it, or were you merely passing through?”

His tone was smooth, but the question was sincere.

As for her own inquiry, he let the moment stretch before answering. “Ah, you see, survival and being drawn to something aren’t so different. At first, you think you’re only doing what you must, but then you wake up one day and realize the chaos has carved its way into you. And maybe you don’t mind it so much.” He smirked, taking another sip. “There’s a strange sort of freedom in it—losing yourself in a place where no one knows your name, where the rules change with every city, every street.”

He studied her a moment longer, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough for the words to carry only between them. “But you’d know that, wouldn’t you? You don’t strike me as someone content to stay in one place.” His grin turned wolfish. “And I do wonder, Lady Malee—what else have you seen beyond those silken veils?”

[saffroninsilk]

malee stood still, her gaze following the delicate threads of the tapestry as though each one had its own story to tell. she let dacey’s words settle, a quiet smile touching her lips at the thought of how weaving could both be an art and a refuge. "no, not at all," she said gently, shaking her head. "i understand completely. it's the same for me. the process, the rhythm—each thread, each choice, it holds meaning, doesn’t it?" her eyes softened, glancing at the patterns before them. "i think that’s why i’ve come to love it. it’s not just about creating something beautiful; it’s about preserving something deeper, something that feels worth holding onto."

she moved a little closer to dacey, her voice warming as she spoke. "and you’re right about yi ti," malee agreed, her fingers unconsciously tracing a pattern in the air, mirroring the delicate weaving of her thoughts. "there’s something timeless in their work. you can feel the history, the legends they’re passing down with every stitch. it’s more than fabric—it's like they’ve captured the essence of an entire culture, their lives woven into the cloth."

her eyes softened with appreciation. "i can see how it must have become a way to anchor you, how it fills the hours when there was little else to hold onto. for me, that is how the true passion began. my first tapestry, one that i felt compelled to create not out of obligation, but because it struck me, was a distraction from a world that felt too big, too loud." her shoulders fell just slightly, as if relaxing from some invisible weight. "but i think, like you, i started to understand that it’s more than just the end result." malee smiled, a hint of vulnerability in her expression. "it’s the journey, isn’t it? the peace that comes with knowing every single thread matters."

she paused, then gave a small, knowing laugh. "i hope i’m not rambling on too much. i do tend to get caught up in the meaning of it all." looking back to dacey, she offered a quiet smile. "but thank you for listening. it’s rare to find someone who truly understands what weaving can be, and should i ever find myself in winterfell again, i would love to see the tapestries you have there."

dacey fell quiet as malee spoke, a small smile playing upon her face. there was something lovely in it, the way she described the way in which obligation slowly gave way to joy. her eyes fell upon malee's as they moved, recognising the pattern in the way her fingers traced through the air. it was a weaver's motion, familiar and repetitive as it was elegant.

"we have work from yi ti. in winterfell." she was always a little in awe of it, how different it was from what the north created both in style and substance, and yet there was always something so captivating about them, a beauty that spoke all on its own without any need for adaptation. "i've always admired it. i can see why it made an impression on you, when you were there."

it was the wonderful thing about tapestry. without it, the tales of yi ti would have been lost to dacey, stuck behind words she could not read or understand. "i love how they need no translation to understand. as though history and tales have been woven into a form anybody can look at and feel," she confessed, before letting out a soft laugh. "silly thought."

she shook her head. "please, don't apologise for speaking about something you're passionate about. it isn't every day i get the opportunity to talk about weaving, myself. i should be thanking you, really." there was no need for apologies - not when this was a conversation dacey was very much enjoying having.

"it was a little different for me," her lips pursed a little in thought. "it was never an obligation. never something i had to learn to love. but it started as a distraction from... well, everything, really. i was quiet the frail child, and none thought it a good idea to allow me to spend much time outdoors or away from home. it left a lot of lonely hours to fill, and weaving became something to pass the time."

it was different now. dacey was no longer the fragile child who needed sheltering, and yet, she had never broken the habit of sheltering herself, regardless. "i suppose for me it's always about the process and the rhythm of it all. there was something grounding about it to me, as though it was anchoring me to the world." it sounded silly, now she was saying it out loud, but she continued anyway. "i liked having something intentional. every colour, and every knot, it's a choice i could make when it did not feel like i had many choices."

she looked down to the ground, something akin to embarrassment in her features. "do i sound completely ridiculous?" her voice was self-deprecating in its softness.

[saffroninsilk]

the steady rhythm of the rain against the tiled roof was a constant companion, its sound soft yet insistent as it filled the room. the scent of damp earth mingled with the faint traces of tea, the quiet atmosphere soothing but heavy with the tension of their mission. shenlong had shaped her in ways the west never could. here, she was not just a lady of the westerlands—she was someone who understood the flow of commerce, who had earned the trust of the merchant guilds, who knew these lands like the lines of her own palm.

she lifted her cup and blew gently over the rising steam, knowing better than to sip too soon. the heat coiled upward, vanishing into the air between them. across the table, she could feel akhirah’s gaze, the weight of his silent scrutiny. she knew what he saw—a westerling, far from her place. but she did not feel like one. not here. here, she was as much somsri as she was westerling, perhaps even more the sooner than the latter, though she would not say as much aloud.

her fingers traced the rim of her porcelain cup as she listened to him, watching the flicker of frustration beneath his composed exterior. he was a man of purpose, of precision, and she understood his impatience. but there was more to this than riding out with haste.

“i understand more than you think,” she said at last, her voice smooth, unhurried. the quiet confidence in her tone was one she rarely let show in the westerlands, where her role was softer, more contained. here, there was no need for such restraint. she lifted her gaze to his, meeting it evenly. “the guild trusts me,” she continued, her tone still gentle, but firm beneath its softness. “and i trust them. my family’s future is tied to theirs, as much as yours is to this agreement.”

she set the cup down with practiced grace, the delicate clink against the table the only sound between them for a moment. beyond the walls, the rain whispered against the earth, filling the space where uncertainty might have lingered.

the candlelight caught in her dark eyes as she tilted her head, considering him. “you fear that i will slow you, that my presence will make this more difficult.” there was no accusation in her voice, only quiet acknowledgment. “but i have walked these forests before, i know the hidden passes, and i have seen the lengths men will go to for something as rare as shenlong silk. i do not intend to be a burden, lord tarth. nor do i intend to be left behind.”

she drew in a quiet breath, her fingers curling lightly around the porcelain. when she spoke again, her voice was gentler, but certain. “i know the risks, my lord. i know what it means to ride into the unknown. the forest will not hide us, and the night will not keep us safe.”

her dark eyes lifted to his, steady despite the flicker of something more solemn beneath their surface. fear, perhaps, or simply understanding. but she did not turn away from it. “still,” she continued, smoothing a hand over her sleeve as if to ground herself, “i would not have agreed to this if i were not willing to face it.”

who: @saffroninsilk when and where: flashback thread in shenlong, yiti quest details: in an attempt to secure an exclusive silk trade agreement with the shenlong silk guild, akhirah deals with the guild leaders being wary of outsiders, requiring akhirah to prove his house's reliability and commitment. the negotiations are complicated by a rival merchant from volantis, who seeks to undercut the tarth offer. the twist: during the negotiations, a rare and valuable silk shipment is stolen by bandits. akhirah knows he must track the thieves through dense bamboo forests - and is not expecting for the guild to allocate a lady of house westerling to his responsibility.

the rain drummed steadily against the tiled roof, a muted, rhythmic hum that filled the safehouse with its quiet insistence. the air smelled of damp earth and aged wood, laced with the subtle perfume of brewing tea. akhirah sat cross-legged before the low table, his back straight despite the creeping stiffness in his limbs. before him, the old woman moved with slow, deliberate grace, pouring the pale green liquid into delicate porcelain cups.

he exhaled, watching the steam coil into the air. this had already taken longer than expected. the silk guild had wasted no time in sending him after the stolen shipment, yet they had also insisted he take lady malee westerling along—a decision that still made little sense to him. he glanced at her briefly across the table. she did not belong here, not in the dense bamboo forests they would soon be tracking through, not in the path of armed thieves. yet the guildmasters had been insistent, their reasons left as veiled as their expressions.

the old woman placed a cup before him, and he nodded in thanks before lifting it to his lips. the moment the tea touched his tongue, sharp heat bit into his flesh, and he barely withheld a curse, setting the cup down with careful restraint. his jaw tensed as the sting settled in. wonderful. he had crossed the jade sea, bargained with wary merchants, and now he was being undone by a cup of scalding tea. his gaze shifted to malee. he had not expected her presence, nor the responsibility that came with it.

it was one thing to lead men into battle, to safeguard his house’s interests in court, but to be entrusted with the safety of a westerling in foreign lands? that was an entirely different burden. she was capable, that much was clear—keen-eyed, sure-footed, unshaken by the quiet weight of the room—but capability would not stop an arrow loosed from the shadows. the old woman regarded him with a knowing smile, as though she had seen his thoughts laid bare. he met her gaze evenly, unwilling to let his frustration show.

"time tests patience," she murmured, voice like rustling paper. "and patience tempers resolve."

akhirah inclined his head slightly, though he had little patience left to temper. they should already be riding out, following the silk’s cold trail before the bandits disappeared entirely. instead, he was here, sitting in a stranger’s home, drinking tea while the storm raged beyond the walls. his fingers curled against his knee. "we'll have to ride at first light," he said finally, his voice measured, though firm. "with or without the guild’s blessing." he turned to malee then, searching for any flicker of hesitation in her face, his head remaining leaning against the wall behind him.

"you understand what we’re walking into?" he asked, quieter now. "this is not some courtly game. they will not care for your name if the knives come out." the rain answered in silence.

[saffroninsilk]

the flickering firelight cast soft shadows across the stone chamber, its warmth reaching malee westerling’s face as she listened. the quiet crackling filled the spaces between the princess' words—words that held the weight of guilt and resilience both. malee had known since girlhood, had seen her in laughter and in grief, but this… this was something different. this was the bare, aching truth of a woman trying to hold together the fraying edges of her life.

malee’s gaze lingered on the other, the golden sheen of her hair catching in the dim glow. once, she had thought guinevere untouchable—grace made flesh, but now… now she saw the cracks beneath the polish. and in that vulnerability, she found a beauty no courtly mask could match.

“i understand,” malee said softly, her voice careful, measured. “the whispers at court are like a tide; they rise and fall, and we are often powerless against their pull. but i believe you, gwen. i always will.”

she leaned forward slightly, the silk of her sleeves brushing against her wrists as her fingers traced the curve of her goblet. “arron will be displeased, yes. men often are when their vision of the world is disturbed. but he adores you, as he should. his anger will pass, though the sting may linger longer than we wish.”

there was a pause, the kind that settled deep in the bones. malee studied her dearest friend's face, noting the way her eyes flickered between resolve and uncertainty. it struck her, suddenly and sharply, how much strength it took to hold everything together. how often had she done the same? how often had they all?

“as for his grace…” malee’s lips pressed together briefly. “he is a man of calculations. if he can find advantage in your innocence, he will champion it. we must ensure he does.”

she offered a faint smile—small, but genuine. “you are not alone. i will stand with you, whatever may come.”

she hesitated, then continued, her tone gentle but probing. “but… what can you do to convince his grace? what would sway him beyond doubt? and… what can i do to help you?” 

♝

guinevere's gaze remained fixed on the distant horizon, her golden curls glinting like molten gold in the flickering firelight. the quiet crackle of the hearth seemed to echo the turmoil within her, a symphony of unspoken fears and festering guilt. her lips parted, but for a moment, no words emerged, the silence between her and malee stretching taut like the string of a harp, ready to snap. there was no reason for the silence to feel so strained, except for the lingering taste of guilt and awareness on the tip of her tongue; otherwise, such silence would be considered as one of comfort, of familiarity - and perhaps it were to one of them.

"i have not spoken to arron," she admitted quietly, her voice a gentle murmur that barely disturbed the stillness. "not yet. he will be displeased." there was a measured calm in her tone, though each word felt like a stone sinking into the depths of her mind. arron’s displeasure was a storm she was not yet prepared to weather. it loomed on the horizon, inevitable but distant, for now. it would not be for long; each sound of a door closing or footsteps hurrying made her momentarily focus, bracing herself for his presence and his questions. it did not come.

she turned slowly from the window, her emerald eyes finally meeting malee’s. there was a deep, quiet strength in her gaze, a determination that masked the unease lurking beneath. there was something wrong that settled within the very lining of her being, wrong in looking upon her companion and knowing to continue such lies. and she would, for it meant she would try to distance herself from this as unscathed as possible.

"then you know," she began, her voice soft but deliberate, almost pleading. "i did not know. not when i married rowan, not when i bore jasper. i believed him to be trueborn, as noble in blood as i thought him in the heart." her words were firm, yet there was a fragility to them, as if they were carefully crafted armour shielding a vulnerable truth. her gaze met with the hues of the lady westerling, as though she decided on each word and action some moments before she done so. speaking to people had never come the most naturally, and here, she felt like she were piecing together shards of shattered glass. "if there any were whispers, if there were suspicions..." she let the sentence trail off, her gaze drifting back to the flickering firelight.

"they never reached my ears, and if they had, i would have dismissed them as the cruel murmurs of envious tongues." there was a faint bitterness in her tone now, a shadow of resentment for the world that sought to tarnish what could have, should have, been so pure. the swirling discussions never ended, even when she was still bleeding between her thighs and her breasts still leaked. what innocence was there to prove? it were all falsehood; lies, spreading easily and corrupting. but she would blow the wind in direction nonetheless.

“to prove my innocence,” she hesitated, her fingers lightly grazing the cool stone of the windowsill, “it is not merely a matter of evidence or testimony. tyland will see what he wishes to see, and his heart, once set upon a belief, is difficult to sway.” she turned back to malee, her eyes gleaming with a quiet resolve. your actions were true and your heart clear. our actions were true and your heart clear. your actions were true and your heart clear. "only matter of service and duty will have him see me with grace, it seems."

[saffroninsilk]

malee stopped a few steps away, folding her hands neatly in front of her as she regarded aidan with a calm, measured gaze. his charm was palpable, though she noted the faintest flicker of weariness behind his crooked smile.

“fire and water,” she repeated thoughtfully, tilting her head. “an apt comparison, i think. essos and westeros seem like two halves of a whole, constantly at odds yet incomplete without the other. perhaps that’s what makes them so fascinating.”

her lips curved into a small, polite smile. “yi ti was... extraordinary, though not without its challenges. its grandeur is unmatched, the palaces of qarth pale in comparison to the summer palaces of the emperors, in my opinion. the air smells of jasmine and spices, and the markets are a cacophony of voices trading silk, jade, and stories from every corner of the world. and yet,” she hesitated, her expression softening, “beneath all the beauty lies a complexity i still don’t fully understand. the people live in the shadow of their gods and emperors, revering legends that have shaped their lives for centuries. it’s humbling, really, to walk among such enduring history.”

she paused, her gaze flickering briefly to his goblet before meeting his eyes again. “and what of you, prince aidan? did you find yourself drawn to essos’ unpredictability, or merely adapting to survive it?” her tone was gentle, the question posed with curiosity rather than judgment.

“truthfully,” malee continued, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes, “i’ve always found the idea of wandering the free cities intriguing, but also daunting. my travels were always tempered by purpose and security. you’ve lived through the chaos you describe, and i imagine that takes a kind of fortitude many of us here could scarcely fathom.”

her smile deepened slightly. “i suppose fire and water aren’t so dissimilar after all, if both have shaped you into the man you are.”

Aidan’s attention shifted as he heard the soft, measured tone of a voice drawing near. He was standing by a pillar, the dark corners of the hall providing a bit of solitude amidst the chaotic celebration. His gaze met the woman approaching him—a graceful presence, poised with the air of one who knew the intricacies of both diplomacy and distance. It took him a moment, but then he recognized her. Lady Malee Westerling.

He offered a small, crooked smile as she addressed him, his posture relaxing just a fraction, though he maintained an air of casual elegance. His fingers tapped lightly against his goblet, swirling the wine idly as she spoke. There was something disarming about her calm demeanor, a contrast to the more forward women who often sought his attention. She was clearly no stranger to courtly decorum, yet there was a subtle curiosity in her voice, an undertone of genuine interest.

“Good evening, Lady Malee,” he responded, his voice smooth and charming, though there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Essos is nothing like Westeros, that much is certain. A land of chaos, yet it has a peculiar kind of freedom to it. There’s a certain beauty in the disarray, if you know where to look. And yes, it’s quite a departure from this rigid world of ours.”

Aidan’s lips twitched as he recalled his time there, the long years of wandering, of surviving. But Malee had asked for peace, not drama, and he would indulge her curiosity. “You’ve been to Yi Ti, you say? Now that’s a place I’ve only heard whispers of,” Aidan remarked, his tone light, teasing even. “A land of mystery, of grand cities wrapped in silken veils and golden streets. I imagine you must have seen more than most. What was it like to live there, among the... gods and legends of that place?”

He took another sip from his goblet, his eyes glinting as he studied her, intrigued. “As for me, I suppose what drew me in most about Essos was the unpredictability. One day you’re in a bustling city, and the next you’re lost in the desert, searching for shade. The contrast between it and Westeros, well, it’s like comparing fire to water. They’re both powerful, but neither one can truly understand the other, can they?”