younescorbray

[younescorbray]

turned down a date because i want to go swing my sword at a tree later tonight. alone

[younescorbray]

"it isn't that you can't be both," younes gave a lazy shrug. "more the fact that you being both puts the fear of the gods in me. desperation and determination make a dangerous combination." he'd certainly felt his fair share of both in his time, and yet, the peaks of the vale had remained immovable. and yet, there was something abut the way she spoke that almost had him believing that the ingredients mixed together differently for lucrezia. there was a slight stillness to younes now, as though he were pausing to gather his breath, because whilst he normally focused his energy on deflecting anything and everything that came his way, this time, he was listening.

he shifted in his seat a little, busying himself with taking a drink of the tea she had served him. he wasn't sure why her words, why the mere fact he cared about something that was also important to her, and that she had drawn comfort from that, was sitting so heavily around his shoulders. perhaps it was the fact that it were rare he would admit that he cared for anything at all, because he was not used to such things mattering. "it's probably not just me, you know." he pointed out, attempting to steer the conversation back to grounds that felt more familiar. "if i'm thinking it, and you're thinking it, chances are most of the others are, too. only, nobody has spoken about it, have they? i know i wouldn't have if you'd not brought it up." that much was true. had lucrezia not saw fit to corner him about this, he likely never would have spared it a second thought.

he blinked once, slowly. this time, it wasn't the words themselves that unsettled him, nor the matter-of-fact way in which they were delivered, but the fact she had assessed him so accurately. his eyes narrowed slightly, head tilting as he watched her pour her tea as though it was nothing, and she had not just pinpointed the very centre of him with startling precision. she was right, and that's what made it difficult to find the words to respond to it. "i don't make myself the villain," he protested, nose wrinkling as though the mere thought of it was ridiculous. "but i do have a habit of sticking my nose into everyone's business, true." all knew that younes corbray enjoyed a good bit of gossip more than most middle-aged women.

he let out a hum of consideration, hand coming to rest on the table and fingers tapping thoughtfully. "thing is," he began. "we're not our parents, are we? if we want to bring everyone back together and have it last, that's looking the wrong way." whatever their parents had left to them, they had failed to maintain it. if they were to rebuild something with what was left, they would need to make it their own, something they all felt belonged to them rather than something passed down unbidden. "or maybe i'm wrong. i don't know." the more he thought about it, the more he was sure that he was. after all, that was not his own reason for not being as involved as he could be - no, his own excuse was that it was just another thing that had slipped through his fingers because the gods had seen fit to ensure imran was the first born son.

it was for that reason that he did not jump to offer to do more to help her, in the way that she had declared she was going to put more effort in, because it was another obligation that he could not fit on his plate. "i'll try," he said eventually, in a voice that carried his doubt that his attempts would bear fruit. "if i can, i'll try to help. might be better off asking yousra to help you, though." he wasn't sure if his sister would be any more able than he would be to lend support, but it seemed an endeavour best left to women. "and make sure you do ask her. you shouldn't have to do it alone."

he had quite forgotten his nameday was approaching until lucrezia brought it up, but before she could even get the sentence out, his head was shaking a refusal. "you're right, you're terrible at this," he teased her. "a party for me? i can't think of an event less likely to bring everyone together. it'll just be me, you, and the cake." he barked a laugh he didn't mean. "you need to make it plain it's for you. everyone likes you. they'll show up for that."

∞

lucrezia gave a small laugh, not one of amusement, but something nearer to disbelief, a puff of sound that escaped before she could tuck it away. “you say that as though i am not allowed to be both, younes,” she murmured, her eyes sharp with fondness, lips curling faintly at the edge. “between me and you, i think i am both desperate and determined. it is always the combination that moves mountains.” her fingers, previously wound around the stem of her cup, finally loosened, and she set it down with a gentle clink. the sunlight had begun to dip lower, turning everything a honeyed gold that reminded her, as it often did, of the courtyard of her childhood home, when the olives were ripening and the air was thick with jasmine.

back then, none of them had known how quickly things could fade.

she looked at him again, really looked—his face weathered with things unspoken, eyes darker now than she remembered, not in shade but in weight. the beard suited him, she thought idly, it made him look less like the impulsive cousin she had met in her girlhood and more like the man he had become. though the boy lingered there still, in the twist of his mouth when he grinned, in the quiet defiance in his eyes when he admitted something soft. “you care,” she repeated, softer now, letting the words linger in the quiet between them. “senin umursadığını bilmek… garip bir teselli.” knowing that you care is a strange comfort. her eyes dropped for a moment, her thumb brushing against the carved lip of the table.

“because if you—of all people—see it too, then i know i am not clinging to something that no longer exists.”

she straightened in her seat then, not out of propriety but resolve. “and i am asking you, yes,” she said with a scoff, her smile dry. “because if there is someone who knows what is going on with everyone—truly—then it’s you. there is no need to pretend pretend you do not care here, younes corbray. you’ve always cared more than you’re willing to admit. it’s why you make yourself the villain before anyone else can.” her words were so utterly causal as she reached forward to pour her cup of tea again, a thick cascade of curled hair moving behind her back which always became slightly more frizzy with the humidity of the arbor heat.

she would not openly speak on what was not hers to speak on, but it was the nature of children who had to become providers too early. to diminish, downplay and undermine their place in the world because ultimately their place in the world was to keep everyone else's moving. there is little time to sit and comprehend on what they should feel emotional about; their emotions did not matter. why would it matter now?

her words meant nothing to her, mere words left to flutter in the wind; instead, she made a noise as she moved to ensure a tea cup did not spill upon him. her hand drifted to her lap as she let the tea soak, fingers knotting gently together. “and it isn’t childish. eğer ikimiz de aynı şeyi hissediyorsak, o zaman çocukça olamaz. if we both feel it, it can’t be childish. it’s… shared. and that’s the whole point, isn’t it? it has to be shared.” she looked at him again then, held his gaze with something like defiance. “we have to make a choice. we can let it keep drifting—or we can try. not to fix what we had, but to make something that lasts. like our beloved parents did before us.”

a breath, steadying. “i’m going to make more of an effort,” she said at last. “i am. to speak to them. to reach out, even if it’s awkward or unwelcome. if the gods will it, maybe something will come of it. maybe threads will start to knot again, one by one. and if not…” she tilted her head slightly, lips parting in a breath of resignation. “then at least i’ll know i didn’t just sit in silence. en azından denediğimi bileceğim. at least i will know i tried. that we tried, because even if you do nothing, you did something by encouraging me.” her voice softened further as she added, “and that… is enough for now.” her gaze slipped back to the window once more, though this time it was not with sorrow but with something steadier. something like hope.

her eyes brightened with a slight idea, as wafts of smoke from the tea fell before her face, slightly tinted rose with the heat in the chambers. "is your name day not soon? perhaps we ought to throw you a massive party, that will be enough of a reason to gather everyone under one roof. or perhaps we just arrange something anyway, a theatre performance and then food. i don't know, i am quite bad at this, clearly." she scoffed, her tone teasing at herself rather than truly self-deprecating.

[younescorbray]

younes was silent as he rode, not quite at graham's side, for the mountain path did not allow it, but close enough, the rest of the retinue trailing behind them. the wind was stronger than he would have liked, making the path more treacherous than it should have been, and so he focused his attention on keeping his horse steady beneath him. there was once a time when he would have dreamed of just this - riding beside graham as a knight of the vale in his own right, but it felt hollow, now, both because younes wasn't sure he still had the right to call himself a knight, and wasn't much sure that whatever faith he had once placed in the man before him was correctly placed.

it was then that graham spoke to him directly, in words that almost sounded like a joke if not for the fact that his eyes remained devoid of any humour. and younes, smiling, mocking, sardonic younes, who was usually all too quick to default to humour, never quite serious, met his words with a steady gaze that displayed no amusement. he could feel the weight of runestone on him, the greenboy freshly arrived from fostering in white harbor who had worked in the training yard until he ached and polished mail until his knuckles bled, who thought graham bright and bold and unassailable and would have lit up from the inside at such words.

"had to," he said, simply. he was a green boy no longer, and had long since learned that the weight of house corbray was easier to carry if you kept your back straight. "easiest way to keep the horse surefooted." he spoke none of that to graham, though. whatever younes was, whatever he had become, he still had his pride, though he did not know if graham saw that, saw the man who had risen and been beaten back and had no choice but to rise again, bloodied and battered, or simply saw the memory of a squire who hung on his every word.

he tugged gently on the reins to slow his horse to a stop, shifting slightly in his saddle as graham surveyed the rock. he was not looking at the mountain, but at graham himself, studying the angles of his face out of the corner of his eye, and he let out a quiet snort. "hardly tells the truth, either. never gives me any warning when it's about to give way. terribly rude." and there it was, the cynical mockery younes was known for creeping through, even as he felt unsettled, especially because he felt unsettled.

"as lovely as wine sounds right now, i don't have a squire, anyway." he shrugged. it would be another mouth to feed in a house that had enough trouble with that as it was. "so if there is dirt to be crawled through, i do it myself. you taught me that was what being a knight meant." he looked back on the narrowing path ahead, the wind-battered stone and what lay beyond, and urged his horse to walk again. if there was accusation in his words, he left it behind with the stones.

he would have been content to ride in silence, but graham's next words caught him off guard. the praise sat strangely on his shoulders in a way that forced him to hold back a laugh, purely because he did not believe them. it confirmed the suspicions, the utter disillusionment he had when it came to graham royce, that he still thought younes to be a decent knight when he had long since abandoned all the principles that had brought him to knighthood in the first place. "you said that after i took that beating in gulltown," he pointed out. "had my nose broken when lord donniger sent me flying in the joust and still tried to get back on for the next tilt. was sure you only said it to make me feel better for losing." and yet, younes had believed that if he fought clean and held to his oaths, he would prove graham right, and it would mean something.

the road narrowed again, and he drew his horse closer to graham's without being asked, not out of the deference of a squire, or a knight to a king, but out of instinct, the habit of a man who still knew how to guard a flank even if he no longer believed the man beside him was worthy of guarding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[younescorbray]

closed starter for @paradoxofpresence

"right, then. let's get this over with."

there was little preamble as younes strode into the room, with all the bearing of a man on his own death march. of all the lowly, menial tasks he subjected himself to, of all the ways he broke his dignity into pieces to auction of for the sake of a bit of extra coin, this was perhaps his least favourite. the last time he had agreed to test some of lillith waynwood's gods-awful tinctures, his guts had been churning for a week solid, and he had promised himself this was absolutely the last time. and yet, pınar, the youngest of his sisters, was beginning to outgrow her gowns, already let out to the very last seam. a talented seamstress might have been able to extend their life, but seamstresses needed paying, and so here he was.

"hold on," he removed his jacket, recalling one incident where he had slurped down her concotions and then been violently sick down himself. he took his time hanging it up, wanting to prolong the seconds to the moment she would press something into his hand and he would raise it to his lips. the thought crossed that she would kill him like this, one day, and it would be an undignified end.

"all right. do your worst," he turned to her expectantly, brows raised as he braced himself for whatever it was that she had waiting for him. he never did quite know when it came to lillith waynwood.

"by the way, whatever it was you gave me last time, toss it away and start again." his speech was casual, but a little more clipped than usual. he was attempting to hide his wariness at drinking whatever she was about to hand him. he would do it, as he always had done in the past, but he would like it no more this time than he had the last. "not sure what you were trying to cure with that one, but i was shitting through the eye of a needle for days afterwards. can't be cramping up like that this time, i have a tourney next week."

[younescorbray]

younes stood still for a moment, bracing himself against domeric's words. the bastard was immovable, younes' words wasted on him. what was it, he wondered, that drove a man to become this way, so utterly cruel that it crossed lines into sadism? the way domeric seemed to be taking a perverse sort of pleasure in it had younes' jaw clenching, grinding back against the fury that was rising within him. domeric had given the order, but younes would carry it out, purely to ensure he had coin coming into his own household, rather than walking away. in a way, it made it worse. domeric was who he was, and yet, here was younes, leaving his own morals behind for the sake of money.

he didn't need to look at the debtor to know that he was weeping now. he did not need to see the ink drying in domeric's neat little ledger to feel the shame of it. there was no justice in this. it was pure theatre, and younes was the lead actor in a farce he had never wanted to star in. but to say it would be a waste. he knew domeric did not care for what was right or wrong, and did not care about the repayment. what he cared about was watching men become small. this was not about the man owing coin, but about younes owing him, and this was how he had chosen to come and collect.

his knuckles tightened around lady forlorn's hilt, but he did not draw her. she had tasted the blood of knights and raiders, enemies on the battlefield and well-matched opponents and tourneys. she was forged for glory, not maiming peasants in a dusty forest village at the behest of a smirking tyrant. he relaxed his grip, and she fell back into her sheath smoothly. instead, he reached into his cloak, drawing a plain dagger. something that had no sentiment attached to it - a tool, not a legacy.

the debtor was clutching his hand to his chest, shaking his head wordlessly. he must know, as well as younes did, that there was no worming their way out of it. i'm sorry, he thought, though he did not voice it. i tried. for a moment, he fumbled with his belt, a worn thing with the leather fraying at the edges, and attempted to press it into the man's free hand - the right one, the one he prayed with the more dominant, for that was the one he would leave unmaimed.

"you'll want to bite down on that," younes said. there was no gentleness in his voice, but no cruelty either, just a tired resignation. "i'll make it quick." the man hadn't taken the belt, so younes guided it up himself, pressing it between his teeth. what happened next came in a flash. he had the man on the ground, knee pressing on the forearm to hold it still, and he swung the dagger in the air, brutally fast. one deep, sure stroke landed between wrist and knuckle, a sickening crunch of bone, and a second to finish what the first had started. the man screaming through the leather, but younes held him firm. the dagger was discarded to one side, but he didn't rise just yet. from his pocket, he produced a handkerchief, wrapping it tightly around the remains of the hand. blood soaked it quickly, bright and scarlet, and younes couldn't look, rising without a word and wiping his stained hands from his cloak. he did not look at domeric, his silence conveying all the disgust he felt.

Domeric watched Younes with a detached sort of amusement, his dark eyes glittering in the dim light. There was a particular pleasure in watching the knight squirm, in seeing the cracks in that tired, stubborn pride widen a little more with every passing moment. Younes was trying to reason with him—pleading, almost—with all the desperation of a drowning man bargaining with the sea. Domeric tilted his head slightly, listening as if he were considering the knight’s argument, but the slight curl of his lips betrayed him. It was not sympathy that moved him, but pure, unfiltered cruelty. Mirth at the misery of others was a quiet, abiding thing in him, and tonight it was stirred awake.

He let the silence stretch long enough for Younes to feel it like a noose tightening, then spoke in a tone far too light for the gravity of the moment.

"Half a hand."

Domeric’s terrible smile widened, the kind of expression that never reached his dead, raven-colored eyes. "Thank this most honorable knight," he drawled, gesturing lazily to Younes without sparing the debtor even a glance. "Half a hand it is."

Even as he spoke, Domeric had already decided the next move. Oh, he would take half, as he said. Just not from the trembling peasant. The thought of docking half of Younes’ next wages—of watching that slow, gnawing realization sink into the proud knight's bones—pleased Domeric more than any spectacle of blood. He would wait. Patience was a blade sharper than any steel.

He drew a small, bound ledger from inside his cloak, its leather cover worn but meticulously kept. Flipping it open with the ease of long practice, he produced a quill from within the folds of his sleeve and began to write, the scratch of ink against parchment crisp and final. "Quickly, ser," Domeric said without looking up, his voice smooth, almost lazy, as he recorded the debt. "Let him feel the taste of Valyrian steel."

He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. The quiet expectation in his tone weighed heavier than any order barked in rage. The choice was no longer Younes’. It had never been. And Domeric, his smile thin and cruel, would savor watching every inch of him realize it.

[younescorbray]

[younescorbray]

younes again fell quiet. it was not because he had nothing to say, but because her words were dangerously close to forcing him to say something he was certain he would regret. his hands trembled ever so slightly, and his eyes were focused on a point somewhere over her left shoulder. she spoke as though he was a man with a choice, as though he wanted to be stood here, battered and bruised and bloody and with a sort of ache in his bones that was all too familiar and all too detested, knowing he had earned only a brief sense of relief before he would have to do it all over again. no, younes corbray was not a man with options before him - just this.

but all that was in his mind when unsaid, and what finally broke the silence was a chuckle that tasted bitter. it was not directed at her, ot really, but it was laughter all the same, and the theatrical bow he gave her, though some muscle in his back groaned in protest at the movement, only added insult to injury. "all this concern for me is very touching, naija. truly warms the heart."

he straightened slowly, taking a step back to put space between them. this isn't who you are, she said, and it showed how little she truly knew. he knew what he was, even if she was convinced he had lost sight of it. he may have traded bits and pieces over the years, to keep food in his sister's bellies and ensure the corbrays did not lose the roof over their head, but whatever was left, he could say he had done what he needed to do, even if it left him drunk and rueful and playing the fool for coin.

he said none of this to her. he hated how much she seemed to care. instead, he kicked the bottle into the grass. "wouldn't want to disappoint the lady manderly's sensibilities," he drawled, in a tone that was a hair's breath away from being cruel. "next time i lose, i'll try and do so in a way that is more palatable for your tastes."

he turned his back then, though the gesture was not intended to be dismissive - it was because he needed to, because he could not stand the way she was looking at him as though he were something to be pitied and scolded at the same time, as though she knew some deep secret he housed in his soul when it was clear to him that she understood very little at all.

"nobody is asking you to watch," he pointed out. "just don't pretend that you know what you're talking about. you don't."

its easy to feel small under the weight of younes' stare, and she's suddenly grateful for the quiet chirp of crickets that pepper the silence. part of her wanted to speak right then. to unveil the many layers of distaste that she felt at his actions, but words were stifled by the lump that formed in her throat when emotions ran high.

then he spoke. a dry response that only added to her utter disapproval, followed by the hesitant confirmation to her suspicion. "are you mad? you could have gotten hurt out there, or worse." sends a shiver down her spine to think of what dismal fate he would have met given the smallest drunken misstep. "in case you were too drunk to notice, some people spectacting actually care very deeply about your well-being, so it would be nice if you could do the same at any point in time." exasperation is evident by now, from her tone to the way gnawed at her bottom lip in an attempt to stifle much harsher words than she would have liked to say.

"do you think so little of me to discredit what i know to be truth. what i've seen with my own eyes? this is not who you are. that is not who you are." arms unfold from their defensive position, each word emphasized by the way she points at the bottle and then to him. chest is starting a slow heave now, breaths becoming ragged with ire at his lacsidasical approach.

"i expected you to take it like a man." hues that wandered towards a mangled post beside him find their way back to him. the statement is as pointed as the look she gives, and even if she wanted to regret the harshness behind it, it's too late to change her tune. "like the man i know you to be. i've bore witness to your losses, younes, i know what it looks like when you do so with a sound mind." and that much is true for the girl who spent a time of her youth admiring the way he carried himself with or without scathed armor.

"but if thats who you want to be, i hope you don't expect me to sit around and watch you drink your legacy away. not when you're so close to making something of your name."

[younescorbray]

[younescorbray]

younes wasn't a sentimental man - not when it came to the topic of marriage at least. behind his smile, when he thought of wives, it was purely strategic. cerissa lefford was, on paper, the perfect gamble. her dowry alone was enough to ensure that, though he supposed she had other virtues. she seemed a pleasant enough woman, graceful in her smile and the way she offered thanks for his grand, public gesture.

still, it wasn't entirely easy to get a read on her. that didn't deter him entirely. it suggested some degree of intelligence, at the least, another desirable quality in a bride. but all knew that a lefford bride was worth a small fortune, and not a prize to be won with a crown alone. if he wanted a shot at it, he would need to play the long game. which, quite frankly, sounded exhausting, but so was everything else he did on a daily basis in the name of coin.

he caught the briefest flicker of movement, a slight brush of fingers against her sleeve. was it a sign of nerves? it certainly looked like it, even if it was well hidden. for a moment, younes softened. it was not enough to make him abandon the game entirely, but it was enough to tug at something, the gentler side of him he did a remarkable job of keeping hidden. "then we are both terribly polite," he was joking, but his smile had changed into something a little more sincere. "the most courteous pair at the feast."

he offered his arm to lead her out into the garden. "though if you ask me, i still the think the honour is mine," he tilted his head at her, brow quirked. "you wore that crown better than i could ever wear my victories." he led her out to the gardens, dropping her arm to allow her to pass through the door before he did. "besides, who is to say i would have won a thing had you not inspired my victory?" he was pleased with that one, he thought, his walk developing into a bit of a strut as he walked out into the garden.

only to promptly trip over thin air.

it was as though it happened in slow motion, the flail of limbs and startled, choked noise that escaped him as he went down like a sack of potatoes. it wasn't a dramatic fall, nor a particularly dangerous one - a scraped elbow would be his biggest injury, save that to his pride. still, younes stayed exactly where he was, sprawled on the ground in an unfortunately damp patch of grass, silently cursing all the choices he had ever made that had led him to this moment.

.

cerissa had spent most of the feast tucked neatly at her place, surrounded by familiar faces, the din of laughter and music filling the great hall. the air was thick with the scent of spiced meats and honeyed wine, a warmth settling over the room that made her feel slightly lightheaded—or perhaps that was the lingering surprise of earlier, when lord younes corbray had placed a crown of roses and laurels upon her head.

she had not expected it.

even now, as she absently traced the stem of her goblet, she wasn’t sure what to make of the gesture. there had been a moment—brief, fleeting—where she had wondered if he had mistaken her for someone else. a stranger from the vale had no reason to know her, no reason to seek her out. and yet, he had.

at the sound of her name, she glanced up, her blue eyes meeting his as he approached. lord younes stood before her now, no longer in the dented armor he had worn upon the tourney grounds, but dressed finely enough to make a careful impression. his words, smooth and polite, held an inviting warmth, but cerissa could not quite shake the feeling that there was something calculated in them. but perhaps that was just her anxiety clinging to her.

still, she had been taught the importance of courtesy, and more than that, she did not wish to appear ungrateful. she offered a small, graceful smile. “it is i who should thank you, my lord” she said, her voice gentle but steady. “it was an honor to receive such a distinction from the champion of the tourney.” her fingers brushed the edge of her sleeve, a subtle movement, a flicker of nerves well hidden.

at his invitation, she hesitated. it would be impolite to refuse, and the air in the hall did feel heavy, the warmth pressing against her skin. a moment outside—away from the eyes that so often lingered on her—was not unappealing. and yet, she knew nothing of him, nothing of his intentions.

still, she was not a child to shrink away from polite company.

after a beat, she nodded. “the gardens are lovely at dusk.” she said, rising with quiet grace. “i would not mind a moment of air.” she took a step forward, tilting her head slightly as she regarded him. “do you often travel to the westerlands, lords younes? i dont believe we have properly met before, have we? ” there was no accusation in her tone, only quiet curiosity. if he wished to seek her company, she wished to know why.

[younescorbray]

younes blinked slowly, studying mariela for a split second. for a moment, it looked like he might point blank refuse. he exhaled through his nose, the beginnings of protest caught in his throat. "oh well, that's cruel, mariela," he grumbled, arms coming to fold across his chest. the gesture was entirely defensive, and for a moment, younes allowed silence to settle while he contemplated it.

when he spoke again, it was with little warning, abrupt and irritable in his delivery. "what am i supposed to do, then? stand around talking about taxes and the weather?" he made a noise in the back of his throat. the whole thing sounded entirely too dull for words. "it sounds insufferable, mariela. and i'm going to be insufferable too. i hope you know that."

he allowed his arms to drop to his side, casting her a glance of annoyance, but any who knew younes well would plainly see there was no real irritation in it. not really. mariela, who knew him better than most in the vale, would pick up on it quick as blinking. "no dances, no flirting, and no early exits," he counted on his fingers her list of demands. "you are asking me to be a decorative object. to stand around looking pretty and do little else. worse still, i can't even complain about it. because that would be losing."

he scowled, the sighed with a practised theatricality. there was a reluctance in the set of his shoulders. because he would lose, wouldn't he? how long had it been since the last time he had gone somewhere, and lowered all the defences he had carefully constructed, allowed himself just to be? younes didn't know.

"a normal woman would have just asked me for a flower or a poem or something. or a cheeky kiss behind the curtain. not that i am offering," he added, quickly. "i'm just saying. you're a hard woman to please, lady egan."

and yet, he stayed, reluctance turning to resignation as he offered his arm to mariela to return to the feast. "just so you know, i am terrible company when i'm not performing. dreadful, actually. moody, sarcastic, prone to long silences and looking out of windows broodily when i'm forced to experience my own thoughts for too long. i might even become philisophical, mariela. nobody wants that. all for the sake of your joyless little challenge."

the garden was alive with the hush of leaves shifting in the evening breeze, the glow of lanterns swaying in slow arcs, casting fractured patterns of gold and shadow along the marble path. beyond the hedges, the distant strains of music and laughter floated from the banquet hall, where wine flowed freely and flirtations were exchanged with reckless ease. this was the kind of night where secrets were whispered behind gloved hands, where promises, meant or not, were made under the cover of candlelight.

mariela had always preferred to watch rather than partake.

she tilted her head slightly, studying younes with an expression that was unreadable but not unkind. “you speak of surprising me as if it were a debt to be settled, when really, it’s an impossible task,” she mused, clasping her hands lightly in front of her. “but i’ll offer you something easier.”

she stepped past him, her fingers briefly trailing along the cool stone of the wall, her voice steady, low. “don’t dance with anyone else tonight. or flirt with anymore ladies. ” a cool breeze blew then, hand reaching to tuck a loose strand of hair before continuing.

“you can’t leave early, either,” she added with a quiet smile, watching his reaction carefully. “you’ll stay for the duration. no slipping away to avoid the discomfort of it.”

mariela allowed the weight of the words to linger between them. this, she knew, would be no small task for him, but it was exactly the kind of challenge he needed, no distractions, no audience, just the night and the quiet pressure of restraint.

“i will think of a favor for you later,” she continued, her voice now lighter, the briefest trace of amusement flickering at the corners of her mouth. “but for tonight, your only task is to sit in the discomfort of your own company. and, perhaps, you’ll find that it’s a far more rewarding game than you imagined.”

she turned then, facing him fully, allowing the silence between them to stretch long enough for the meaning to settle. she knew what he was, knew how deftly he maneuvered through the world with a smile and a well-placed jest. but she also knew something else, something he worked so hard to bury: restraint was not beyond him.

it was not an order, nor was it a request. it was a simple statement, offered with the weight of something greater beneath it. “just this once, resist the urge to play the game. not because i tell you to, but because you can.”

[younescorbray]

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."

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.”

[younescorbray]

+ bonus:

Sabrina the Teenage Witch – 1.16: Mars Attracts

[younescorbray]

a scoff left younes' lips, and his eyes rolled upwards. "you're hard work tonight," he complained. "i consider it my duty to pry into your affairs, my dear. who else would keep you humble and grounded if not for me? you are far too serious when left to your own devices." and yet, there was a surge of annoyance in younes that, for tonight, at least, she wasn't playing into his games.

he fell into step beside her, only because she had yet to dismiss him, and until she did, he would continue to walk alongside her, purely for lack of anything else to do. "is she the lady, though?" he queried, brows furrowing as he thought about it a little more. "surely there is someone with a more recent claim. it's not been the domain of house qoherys for years and years." better to pull the whole thing down, in his opinion. it had been proven time and time again that none could hold harrenhal.

"you'd have to be actually mad to want it, wouldn't you? but then, i suppose them valyrians were always tapped." the stories of valyrian madness did not begin on westerosi shores. younes knew the history of his people well enough to be certain of it.

he laughed then, shooting her a look that was part disbelief, part amusement. "saella qoherys?" his head shook. "as undoubtedly charming as we'd look together, she can keep her cursed keep. i have more than enough to deal with without dodging ghosts." all knew of the strange happenings at heart's home, the reports of strange lights in the sky and patterns stamped into crop fields by unknown sources.

"besides, i think i have had my fill of valyrian women. you remember the debacle with naelys velaryon," he shuddered, as though the end of that betrothal had not been entirely his fault - because he had also betrothed himself to ginevra templeton at the same time.

"not to mention i'd make a shit lord." his tone was dismissive, though ayca would know the truth of it - that it was younes, and not his elder brother, who was keeping things afloat in heart's home, though he would deny it should she press, insist that he was only doing as imran bid, rather than trying to conceal that the lord of house corbray had next to no interest in anything of the sort.

ayca watched the last petal flutter to the ground, lips pressing into a thin line. “don’t flatter yourself,” she muttered. she had no interest in discussing the matter of karstark any further, and if younes had even a shred of mercy in him, he’d let it die there. but he didn’t, of course. he never did. so she only sighed, tilting her head just enough to cast him a dry look. “if i wanted to make you jealous, you’d know.”

she flicked the empty stem at his chest before stepping past him, her hands tucking into the sleeves of her gown. “if you’re going to go on about karstark, i’d rather discuss something less irritating,” she said flatly, though her voice lacked its usual sharp edges.

the matter of qoherys and bracken was, at the very least, more entertaining.

“harrenhal,” she said suddenly, glancing sidelong at younes, a wry sort of amusement creeping into her voice. “if bracken really wants to ruin himself over some valyrian, we should just give him that gods-forsaken place as punishment.” she shook her head, the thought of it nearly making her grin. “saella qoherys, lady of that cursed heap of stone. it has a certain poetry to it.”

her expression sobered slightly as she continued. “but no, ronan bracken is not a fool. ambitious, maybe, but not stupid. he knows what he’d be inviting in.” she frowned, dark eyes scanning the roses that surrounded them. “maybe that’s the most unsettling part.”

ayca was quiet for a beat, before glancing back at younes, arching a brow. “or maybe you just enjoy prying into my affairs so much you’ve made me start speculating nonsense.”

she tapped a finger against her chin, tilting her head as if considering some great revelation. “though, if keeps are being handed out for reckless decisions,” she mused, turning to eye younes with a sly smirk, “perhaps you ought to make a go for the qoherys girl. i hear she’s fond of men who aren't afraid to overreach a little, and with your charm, you might even come away with something grander than just her favor.”

[younescorbray]

"You're losing blood" no I know exactly where it is. The floor. Don't ever underestimate me.

[younescorbray]

younes felt his stomach churn, nausea twisting inside him like a knife. domeric's words slithered through the air, and he was quick to recognised what he had done. he had offered younes' coin, knowing that he had none to give. he had made it his fault, the brave and true knight who would not intervene to save the hand of a father simply trying to ensure he had enough coin to fill his daughter's belly, knowing that younes had mouths of his own to feed. it was a twisted cruelty, and younes hated him for it.

and yet, he only had himself to blame. this was the culmination of it all, the slow erosion of his own dignity and honour, everything he had once sworn he would be and uphold. it was not enough for domeric to take the coin the man had and be done with it. that would be too simple. too merciful. instead, he was getting to punish two for the price of one, and the cunt revelled in it. he wanted younes to feel the bitter rot of his own helplessness, and know his sword was reduce to a tool in domeric's hands.

his grip fell to lady forlorn. she was better than this.

"half a hand," younes repeated, trying to sound casual and sounding anything but. he forced himself to look at the debtor. if he had been trembling before, he was shaking with a violent fear now, clutching his hand as though he was already mourning it. younes exhaled sharply. "if i may, my lord?" the title was poison on his tongue. "perhaps you are being a little too hasty?"

he left no room for domeric to interject before launching into an explanation. "after all, half the coin is something, no? better than nothing. and nothing more is what you'll get if the man can't work, or if he dies from infection." his eyes met domeric's, defiance burning in his gaze. he was pushing it, and he knew it, but he could not help but to try.

Domeric’s lips curled into a smile that was as terrible as it was knowing. He swept his gaze over the trembling debtor, his wife and child hidden behind him in desperate, pitiful clusters, their cries echoing in the dim light. His tone was cool, mocking—a blend of refined disdain and dark amusement.

“Tell me, what have you to offer, wretch?” he asked, his voice smooth yet laced with contempt. Every syllable dripped with derision, as if the poor soul’s plight were a mere trifle in the grand tapestry of his design. “It seems you’re short of coin, yet rich in lamentations. But worry not; I’m in the mood for charity—if only a fraction of what you owe.”

Domeric’s eyes, cold and raven-hued, swept over the pitiful family with an emotionless glare. Their misery was of no consequence to him, only an instrument in the symphony of his rule. He paused, allowing the silence to stretch and press upon the gathered crowd. His gaze flickered to his sullen sworn sword, whose restrained fury simmered just beneath the surface. Domeric enjoyed this display of knightly torment, the tragic heroics of a man forced to enforce his whims.

“Perhaps the brave young knight will pay what you owe,” Domeric continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that carried just for the ears of the trembling debtor. “Perhaps he will take it out of his wages—exacting the cost of your poor time keeping as though it were a toll upon his very honor.” His smile widened, a grim, terrible thing that seemed to radiate menace and mirth in equal measure.

He stepped closer, his gaze unwavering as he measured the debtor’s feeble protests. “Or, since it appears you’ve managed to scrape together only half the coin, I shall be gracious—and only take half of his hand.” The words cut through the stagnant air like a blade. It was a promise wrapped in cruelty, a threat to the very instrument of Younes’ knightly pride.

[younescorbray]

younes drummed his fingers on his knee where he sat. there was no smirk upon his face today, his usual expression wiped clear and replaced with a heaviness that he didn't wear well. he had never been a man to play games of politics - he didn't have the time nor the inclination for that - but even he understood this was bigger than one murdered septon. lucrezia's question gnawed at the edge of the room. why us?

he waited for someone else to answer, and when nobody did, he exhaled. "because demir was his own man," he said, more to fill the silence. "maybe the high septon decided that was dangerous?" he looked around, waiting for someone else to add their thoughts to his own. perhaps it was true. they were all here because of demir - because he was one of them, because of what he had meant to them.

he shifted in his seat, one hand brushing against his jaw. when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost thoughtful in tone. "i wonder if he saw what demir meant to us, and worried that we looked to him more than we looked to the high septon. if he saw that as a threat?" he was thinking aloud, grasping for answers he couldn't make sense of.

"either way, does it matter? i think the real question is where do we go from here?" the killing had been brutal, cut down in his own chambers. he glanced around the room again, searching the faces of those in it, looking for any indication that he was not the only one who did not wish to see this crime go unpunished.

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

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

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

[younescorbray]

younes exhaled, his eyes fixed on the cup in his hand. he was adept at playing the rogue, at acting as though little else mattered to him but his quest for gold and glory and his talent for unearthing trouble. it was not the case. there were things that mattered to him too deeply to truly allow to show. and this? lucrezia was right.

it mattered.

he could not help but feel responsible for it, as though the fact he had let laughter and sharp remarks shield him from the uncomfortable truth of the world he had been brought up in slipping through his fingers, and it's crumbling was the result of that alone. the logical side of his brain knew that was not the case - it was all of them, corbrays and rowans, redwynes and tarths. what had shaped them, ties that once felt unshakable had been stretched too thin, hanging on by a few worn threads. how had it come to this? why had it taken lucrezia's observations for him to see it?

it was because there was no great sundering, nothing to shake their foundations. it was a simple drift, and now when he turned to look, he found that he could not deny they all stood alone. it dug at him more than he cared to let on, and in that moment, even he could not bring himself to deflect from it.

"i don't know about mending," he said at last. "but rebuilding something new on the foundations of the old? perhaps." it was not past the point of salvation, he thought, but he did not know that things could be as they were. it seemed so long ago now, distant, even as it burned in his memory.

he took a sip of his tea, hoping it might steady him, but it did not. "way i see it, we all have our individual bonds, don't we? that hasn't changed." in a way, that made it more difficult to fully pinpoint what could be done. if it were simply distance, a gathering might be the remedy, a way to reforge lapsed friendships. but the friendships were still there - it was the community that was missing, and that was harder to rectify. he let out a short chuckle, more to break the lingering awkwardness of speaking this aloud than an attempt at humour. "it would be easier to pretend i didn't care, wouldn't it? it's the way of things. people change. things shift." he paused, lowering his cup, his gaze locked on lucrezia.

"but i do care. if that is childish, then so be it."

a smile ghosted across his lips, fleetingly. "and you... well, you think too much," he said, though it was not spoken as an insult or malice. "but that's what we've been missing, maybe. someone to think about it. to poke us all into thinking about it. and if you're asking me, of all people, you're either desperate or determined enough to put it right." there was self deprecation in his words. younes knew well his reputation, that he was not largely seen as the reliable sort, but lucrezia was here, speaking to him about it anyway. it made something echo in his chest, the ghost of the man he had once wanted to be before he had been dragged away from it.

∞

lucrezia let out a slow breath, her fingers wrapping around the warmth of her own teacup, though she did not lift it to drink. instead, she watched the ripples that formed against the ceramic edge, tiny disturbances from the slight tremor in her hands, a betrayal of the unease she would rather keep hidden. she had half expected younes to wave her words away, to scoff or tease, to dismiss it as one of her bouts of overthinking. she had thought she would have to defend herself, to insist that it was real and not simply her own sensitivity clouding her judgement. but he did not. instead, he agreed. and the relief was sudden and sharp, like a breath she had been holding far too long.

she had not imagined it. she was not the only one who felt it.

still, she could not say that outright, could not lean too heavily into the sentiment. she set her cup down gently, fingers smoothing over the grain of the wooden table as she considered his words, his rare moment of quiet sincerity. there was something unsettling about seeing him like this, stripped of his usual levity that made this far more serious. more hardhititng. she knew it were true when younes corbray would admit it. “it makes perfect sense,” she murmured at last, her voice quieter than she intended.

she understood it intimately, the weight of recognising something was broken, of knowing that once it was acknowledged, one could no longer pretend otherwise. and it was not as though their people had shattered overnight—no, it had been gradual, subtle, the erosion of something once sturdy, until all that remained were distant figures connected by memory rather than presence. she exhaled sharply through her nose, a humourless little huff of sound. “and yet, it feels childish to admit it bothers me.” she shook her head slightly, half to herself. “as though it should not matter as much as it does. as though noticing means i am overly sentimental.” she paused, then added, in a voice that was as soft but one that did not waver, “but it does matter.”

her gaze flickered to younes then, searching his expression, as though the confirmation of shared understanding was something she needed.

her fingers found the rim of her cup once more, tracing absent patterns against it. “do you think it can be mended?” she asked, her voice measured, as if speaking too earnestly might make her sound foolish. she knew the question was hypothetical—knew that neither of them had the answer—but she wanted to hear what he thought all the same. “or is it one of those things that once lost, cannot be truly put back together?” not by their generation at least; but then again, would the next generation care for it if their own parents did not? she did not look at him as she spoke this time.

instead, her gaze drifted to the window, where the light of the afternoon had begun to wane, casting long shadows across the room. she did not know what she hoped he would say. only that the silence that followed felt heavier than it should have.