&&. BE THE MOUTH.

"And you once said, "I wish you dead, you sinner". I'll never be more than a wolf at your door for dinner. And if I see you 'round like a ghost in my town, you liar. I'll leave with your head. Oh, I'll leave you for dead, sire. I know my way through the night to your door. You know, the blood that I'm owed is all yours. The wishes I've made are too vicious to tell. The devil already knows me so well. Everyone knows I am going to hell… And if it's true, I'll go there with you."

[bethemouth]

*ੈ𑁍༘⋆  BETHEMOUTH: dependent mumu blog for 103ac —  penned by lyra.

princess maekara targaryen of dragonstone: intro. threads. pinterest.

lady amaya arryn, protector of the vale: intro. threads. pinterest.

liege rowan hightower of oldtown: intro. threads. pinterest.

[antagonistzz]

there  is  a  brief  pause  as  the  lady  arryn's  words  sink  into  the  matter  of  his  brain.  his  cousin's  wife  has  always  been  far  too  smart  for  him,  though  he  had  always  found  her  rather  kind  too.  it  is  by  her  devision,  blessed  by  the  smith,  that  he  holds  whooper.  "have  i  lost  my  eyebrows?"  donnell  sputters,  jerking  upwards  from  his  sheets.  the  movement  causes  a  tear  of  pain  through  his  side,  wounds  still  throbbing  with  soreness.  he  winces,  settling  again  into  the  down  of  his  pillow,  soothing  himself  with  a  less  demanding  position.  "you  must  jest,"  deduces  the  swann,  mind  returning  as  his  muscles  begin  to  relax  again.  mela  had  said  it  was  his  side  that  had  taken  the  bulk  of  fire,  pinkened  torso  hidden  by  the  layer  of  bandages  and  ruined  blankets.  "as  you  can  tell  by  my  wealth  of  guests,"  the  swann  gestures  to  the  chairs  by  his  bedside,  pointedly  empty,  "it  is  no  disruption,  amy."  his  smile  broadens,  just  a  small  glint  from  his  silver  tooth  in  hello.  "i  do  crave  news.  it  is  my  preference  that  it  is  good  news,  however."

[bethemouth]

at first, you try to hold it in, the air trapped in your lungs, nearly clawing the walls to be let out. then comes the snort, and you surrender to the laughter that bursts after, loud and boisterous, making you lean, hand on you knee as it echoes, brazenly disturbing the sickroom's quiet. a maester and a lordling shoot you stern looks. you breathe: "i'm sorry, i'm sorry." you cover your mouth to smother it. and eventually, because it had to, it dies down. you approach him, sitting on the edge of his cot. "no, i jest. i mean... an inch is missing from the left brow, sure, but the rest is there." you tilt your head and shrug. "i think it's rather fashionable." you rest your hands on the matress, instantly reminded of the last time you were here. you push it away. the bile, the fever, the screams, the pain. all of it belonging to another life. at least you tell yourself. "good news, indeed. i have sent for a bravoosi physician that specializes in burns. he developed a research and a treatment that utilizes a rare, prepared fish skin laid directly over the wound to encourage healing. it is relatively new, yes, and most maesters would snub it, but i've invited him, you know, to one of those gatherings that you'd dread going to, full of scholars, and well, the man is truly brilliant. it is a long term investment, but you'll have less scars and perhaps, one day, the hair upon the burned skin may grow back. he'll be here before the moon turns, if the wind helps. so i need you and davos to hang on tight, yes?" you nod, "and soon the maesters will grow out of their stubborness. even if i have to pester them to speed the process, for old times sake. and yes, all will benefit from it."

[toothd]

amaya says what she should, insisting that he should not repeat his wish for death. jacks endures her cautions with disinterest. she could not understand what he himself had not had the time to parse through. jacks is unsure, at this moment, what his life will look like upon leaving the care of the maesters. he is unsure if what is left of his years will remain desirable. he is unsure if he will be willing to suffer it. the lady arryn is a shrewd intellect. she always has been, something that jacks could appraise even as a child. he knows she will ask questions, seek to unearth the roots of the tree that served as the last night of the tourney in his memory, rather than being content with merely the leaves. he has already decided, in the mere thirty seconds he has been fully present, that he will not tell her the truth. " the street of silk, " he offers in explanation. he would prefer her to picture him seeking the company of an oiled whore before he would have her know that he had sought out the dragons out of childlike curiosity, out of the desire to feel a power that he had never had the chance to before. he has never been one to commune with whores, but amaya would not know as much. she had only known him as a boy —  hardly a hair had graced his balls when he had left the eyrie half - drowned in his own tears for his mother.

[bethemouth]

relief washes over you. your shoulders ease and your nostrils work a softer breath. even if, perhaps, he is lying, it could be true. it can be true. and if he keeps on repeating that, he will live. it matters naught the shape of his happenstance, only that he is breathing and speaking and he shall remain that way. you reach for his cheek, arm steady but a soft hand. only then do you realize what you did. regardless, you keep your palm there. "good," you tell him firmly, gaze piercing his, thumb sinking only slightly unto the flesh. you gulp dry, then: "good." you care little for his wantoness, or the sins he harbors, that bears you no concern, nor interest. you are no stranger to brothels, you had been young once, and unmarried too. and the reach had much finer whores than kings landing. prettier, wittier, cleaner, daintier. you had your own favorite once. gloating to elyas about your conquests after class, while he remained a prudish virgin, who would roll his eyes at you and leave to hide his reddened face. and you laughed all the harder. those days were long, long gone. letting go of his face, you turn to the broth, steam still rising. you take it into your hands and onto you lap, sinking the spoon in to fill it. "growl at me for feeding you and i'll slice off the other arm," you dare. spoonful already near his lips, willing him to open. "i'll make you something for the socket, once it's healed. i can't replicate the grip of a hand, but an arm should suffice." a few moments pass. the silence lingers. until: "come be in the eyrie after the moot. what good has dreadfort given you? be where you are wanted."

[antagonistzz]

vaiora  looks  over  her  shoulder  at  the  comment,  dark  eyes  wide  in  their  attentive.  it  would  be  foolish  to  forget  a  targaryen's  face,  but  vaiora  was  better  versed  in  the  back  of  their  head,  boring  viridescent  holes  in  the  skull  whenever  she  happened  upon  maekara  next  to  her  lannister.  "oh?  is  it?"  vaiora  preferred  an  open  back,  even  in  the  colder  november  days  —  it  did  not  occur  to  her  as  unnatural.  how  could  anyone  notice  anything  amiss  when  they  did  not  dress  themselves?  the  redwyne  glances  downward,  finding  herself  giggling  as  she  catches  the  ribbon  by  its  fluttering  mauve  tail.  "i  suppose  i  had  not!"  cheerful  even  in  the  face  of  embarrassment,  though  vaiora  did  not  feel  especially  stupid  for  it.  it  felt  fashionable  in  a  way  —  to  bear  something  unkept.  each  passing  day  was  beginning  to  feel  like  something  bearing  down  the  fragile  bone  of  her  windpine.  this  ribbon,  at  least,  was  free.  "could  i  bother  you  for  a  hand?"  she  twirls  the  silk  in  an  airy  circle,  cheeks  deepening  into  their  dimples.  "i  would  be  most  grateful  if  you  would."

[bethemouth]

ever the orchard in spring, flushed and ripe and saccharine. it is almost irritating how perfect the girl is. tall and slender, yet graced with soft curves. her hair dark and luscious and long, braided down her back intricately, in three interwoven braids that become one as it falls. you find her maids are very talented. but often times, the ones from the reach are. and it does not help that their ladies all look plump and pink on the cheeks. all easy smiles and merry laughter. what to grumble for, when you are surrounded by the realm's bounty? you want to strangle her. to take the ribbon from her back and wrap it around her pretty neck. then pull at the edges tight, until she goes from pink to purple. doed-eyed no more, but widened by the despair in their sockets. for daring. daring try to take what's yours. daring thinking she is even worth it. when you are the one withholding the title. does she think if she's patient enough she'll be titled princess? does see fancy herself, by chance of fate or treachery, perhaps, a queen? those redwynes, you recall, have the guts for anything--- their little harvest feast only a parcel of their brazenness. still, princess vaiora had an awful ring to it. "why, of course," you grin, tone as pleasant as a harp being strung. you near in, a princely stance. rough hands made for slaughter delicately taking her braid and sliding it onto her shoulder. "here," you muse. cuing her to hold the tresses lest they slip back again. then you begin to work, and you think to only lace the ribbon and leave it, but then under further scrutinity you realize the corset needs fastening. so you lean your head to her ear. "hold your breath for me," then you start tightening the criss-crossed tangle in the grommets, pulling with your fingers one by one. only then, once you're through, do you lace the ribbon twice. "too tight, my lady?" it might be.

[eclipt1cs]

* closed starter! ━━━━ with @bethemouth.

she  had  suspected,  from  the  very  beginning,  that  the  search  would  yield  no  results.     though  she  had  not  gone  out  of  her  way  to  help  in the retrieval  of those  missing,   she  had  not  refused  the  call.     how  kind  of  the  greenlanders  it  was,   to  bestow  upon  the  ironborn  names  like  savages  or  brutes,   only  to  turn  to  them  in  their  hour  of  need     —     she  had  been  smug,   rest  assured,   accepting  the  task  as  if  it  were  child’s  play.     still,   she’d  expected  nothing  to  be  found.     water  is  treacherous,   after  all,   and  the  ones  lost  to  it  seldom  return.     that,   she  had  been  quick  to  learn.     salt  clings  to  her  hair  as  she  descends  the  assigned boat,   boots  colliding  against  wood  in  a  loud  thud,   but  she  sees  that  she  is  not  alone:     maekara  targaryen  stands  there,   her  presence  not  at  all  surprising  and  yet  entirely  unwelcome.         ❝         princess,         ❞         her  voice  lacks  the  proper  ceremony,   however  it  isn’t  without  respect.     memories  flash  behind  her  eyes,   of  steel  clashing  against  steel,   of  pride  defeated  in  a  rare  occurrence.     herself,   younger,   laughing  even  as  blood  slid  down  her  face,   and  her  opponent  far  too  skilled,   but  not  enough  to  prevent  her  escape.     how  unfortunate  for  the  dragon  girl,   that  she  has  no  idea  how  ah-rin’s  life  was  almost  severed  by  her  blade.         ❝         we  searched  every  stretch  of  the  bay,   but  there  were  no  signs  of  bodies  or  survivors.         ❞         she  has  always  been  blunt,   averse  to  cushioning  her  words.         ❝         they  will  try  again  tomorrow.         ❞               

[bethemouth]

short dark hair pooling onto the lengths of her chin, swayed softly by the wind. you watch her, the spitting image of her sister. only taller. grimmer. obtuse as still water. out of all the harlaw women, this one is still the greatest mystery of all to you. your head tilts to listen better as she speaks, a hoarser, lower tone than that of seora's, but it matched ahrin's harshness so well; that ironislander accent dancing on her tongue, but you barely had the wits to register it when the words spoken were cruel enough to sink your heart down to your stomach. the last search boat of the night has failed to find your sweet mother. again. again. again. will this torment ever end? your breath hitches and your chest heaves. your gulp dry. not here, you tell your tears. not now. "if it were up to me, they would not stop trying," you lock your jaw, turning your face towards the dark horizon. the wind turns colder by the day, autumn slowly passing into winter. with the fields burnt by the rogue dragons, you wonder, how will the realm uphold itself during that long dreadful freezing hell. whoever wins the moot will find a starving continent to manage. in truth, so many will die because of rhaenys' hill's ruin, if not by dragonfire, then of cold and hunger soon. it's almost laughable. all of this for a throne of swords and a realm of ashes. you turn to her again before she can fully part. doleful eyes, black and violet, befalling the back of her neck. "but i appreciate your help. i do. i truly do." you make the mistake of blinking, silver-gold lashes allowing for a tear to slither. the back of your hand rushes to wipe it. dreading she'd seen it. hoping she won't mention it. "i shall never forget it, lady ahrin."

[theygods]

mara  smiled  softly.  maekara  was  always  there  and  for  that,  she  was  thankful.  although,  since  the  events,  she  was  unsure  that  her  allies  would  remain.  now  that  she  was  ruling  lady,  the  thought  that  others  would  want  more  from  her  made  her  heart  hurt.  she  was  already  giving  so  much,  too  much  that  she  had  begun  forgetting  her  own  needs. mara  takes  the  spoon  in  her  own  hand,  the  warmth  of  the  brooth  already  seemingly  doing  its  job.  her  hunger  almost  returned  immediately  upon  the  first  sip  of  the  it.  she  sighed  as  she  took  another  spoonful.  she  was  happy  it  was  just  the  two  of  them.  she  did  not  want  to  be  around  people  who  did  not  know  her  well  right  now. she  let  out  a  small  laugh  at  maekara's  comment.  "yes,  it  does  seem  we  are  to  be  sisters."  she  glanced  up  from  her  bowl  and  raised  her  brows.  "cedric  seems  to  be  satisfied  with  the  betrothal.  are  you?"  she  asked  her.  "my  brother  ...  he's  a  handful  but  at  the  core,  he  is  a  good  man."  she  explained.  maekar  already  knew  this,  they  had  been  around  each  other  since  childhood.  although,  as  mara  knows,  sometimes  it's  nice  to  hear  someone  else  confirm  it. "i  know  now  ...  i  wouldn't  do  anything  to  come  between  this  plan."  she  speaks  honestly.  "all  of  the  promises  my  father  kept,  i  will  try  my  best  to  ...  do  the  same."  she  glanced  back  at  the  broth.  mara  smiled  softly. there  was  something  more  mara  wanted,  of  course.  her  need  for  more  was  never  fully  satisfied.  at  least,  what  she  thought  was  ambition  might  really  be  greed  underneath  it  all.  she  had  the  thing  she  trained  her  whole  life  for  and  now?  now  she  thought  the  lion  deserved  more.  perhaps  it  would  always  been  the  curse  of  her  house...  the  desire  for  more  than  you  need.  she  sighed  and  took  another  sip  of  her  broth. "sometimes  i  find  myself  wishing  that  i  had  not  been  the  heir  ...  do  you  have  those  thoughts  sometimes?"  she  asked  maekara.

[bethemouth]

you hear her speaking of honoring her lord father's promises and you smile. you reach across the oak and find her hand, you hold it and squeeze it softly. "we have each other. we shall grow old as friends, like our parents did. have our children visit each other, play together. i shall like to squire one of yours, like your lord father did for me." your own eyes become watery, glossy mismatched things, but the tears don't fall. "the fondness i carry for you is still limitless, like i promised." like i promised the day i told you we should stop. yes, before it became all too complicated and our young hearts broke in peaces. an heir cannot marry another heir, so it could never be. but time passed, and time healed all, and you both are able to look behind and laugh at the memories fondly. at the end of the day, you would not change a thing. you are glad hers were the first lips that savored yours, at fourteen, so very long ago. you are glad to still keep her in your life; your goodsister and friend. "and yes, i am. it is what my house demands of me, but i know cedric and i will make it work. what gladens me most is that it will bind our families together. i've always wanted that. one way or another," unwittingly, color warms your cheeks.

you listen to her question whether you resent being the eldest. you ponder and answer: "sometimes," you mutter, after you swallow another spoonful of broth. "but then i look at my sisters and realize why the gods had me be the first adopted in their stead." you say, thoughtless and caressly as you sink the spoon back into the warm bowl, half-swirling, steam rising, until you realize: "that sounded mean," you snort. "no, i meant... i meant that, i don't think they would have the spine to carry the burdens we do--- as eldests." another spoonful to you mouth, you chew the meat and gulp. "when you think of them, do you believe any of your younger siblings would do better walking in your shoes? as beautiful, intelligent and valiant as they are, as mine are too, in their own individual ways. it takes more than wit and charm and gall for this, i think. a certain selflessness. a thralldom to duty. the weight of it is crushing; a fragile spine breaks."

timeskip to a few days after the council meeting.

you walk towards the lannisters quarters in the red keep, then wait by the doors until you are announced and allowed to enter. it is the afternoon and a fog of mist cloisters the realm; you don't know if its smoke from the ruins or soot or just the autumn cold. it rains outside, you realize. the drizzle starting to clash against the windows of the keep and the crimson stone. it will thicken soon--- certain as the sun rises every morn. as you walk past the threshhold you stop just when you find the one you were looking for. "you're abandoning us. why?!" you frown at her, distraught. face flushed. "i don't understand."

[retrouviel]

the admission caught her more thoroughly than the question ever had. for all her years at sea, seora had never quite learned what to do with honesty when it arrived uninvited. she regarded maekara for a long moment, saying nothing. the breeze wandered lazily through the balcony, lifting a few loose strands of dark hair across her cheek before carrying them away again. instead, she lifted her wine and took a slow sip, letting the silence stretch while she occupied herself with the taste of it, as if the act alone might keep the moment from turning too sharp. too tender.

"i simply thought you'd have grown out of it." the words seemed almost reluctant to leave her. her gaze followed the goblet as it passed back into maekara's hand. she watched the princess take another sip before looking away again, attention settling somewhere beyond the courtyard walls where the sea ought to have been.

seora thought it all rather ridiculous. somehow they had stumbled into the sort of conversation neither of them had ever allowed themselves to have when it might actually have mattered. "if the princess asked for me, i suppose i can spare an afternoon," she said, cool enough that it might have passed for indifference, spoken as if attending the wedding of a woman she had once shared borrowed summers with required no more consideration than deciding whether the weather suited sailing.

[bethemouth]

the corner of your mouth finally yields, bending into something akin to a smile. you take the goblet from your lips only to press it back into her hand. "well..." your shrug, the jest dancing on your tongue: "your presence is required, then." you rise from the stone bench before the silence has the chance to grow awkward again. you stand over her, regarding her figure. then, before either of you can think better of it, your hand comes up to cradle her cheek. your thumb barely brushes her skin as you lean down, pressing a fleeting kiss against her temple. when you straighten, your hand slips away just as quickly. "if you have trouble finding me..." you start, "...i'll supposedly be the prettiest one there." you turn away before she can answer, walking past the threshold of the balcony's door; the sound of your footsteps a fading echo, your shadow on the corridor, a waning moon.

end.

[arcan3ly]

appetite   had   not   yet   fully   returned   following   alysanne’s   sickness.   it   was   another   stroke   of   rotten   luck   that   her   foundations   had   been   rocked   so   violently   a   second   time.   when   the   news   of   her   mother’s   disappearance   had   first   reached   her,   the   princess   immediately   greeted   it   with   denial   ;   dragons   did   not   fall   so   easily,   and   yet   another   had   been   slain   at   the   hands   of   nobles   that   she   had   never   once   regarded   as   anything   beyond   seat   fillers   during   royal   gatherings.   days   had   passed   and   still   there   was   no   sign   of   delfina   targaryen.   alysanne   had   searched,   had   walked   the   battlements   high   above   and   scoured   the   shoreline   down   below   for   any   shimmer   of   her   mother’s   face.  she   was   unsure   which   was   worse,   the   absence   of   anything   or   the   fear   of   discovering   what   remained   of   the   greatest   woman   she   had   ever   known.   in   spite   of   the   condolences   sent   her   way,   the   prompt   promotion   of   her   eldest   sister,   alysanne   had   not   —   could   not   —  accept   that   delfina   was   not   coming   back.   somewhere   she   was   hidden,   perhaps   marooned   on   a   jagged   rock   or   washed   up   upon   a   bank   of   watery   caves. 

in   alysanne’s   dreams   her   mother   was   spearing   fish   and   roasting   them   in   the   twilight,   awaiting   the   moment   her   strength   returned   and   she   could   swim   back   to   the   life   they   had   once   known. but   days   passed,   suns   rose   and   moons   fell,   and   there   was   not   a   sign   of   her   mother   nor   of   amerei   mallister.   two   portions   of   alysanne’s   heart   had   been   gouged   out   and   she   was   unsure   when   the   pain   would   begin   to   subside,   if   it   ever   would.   the   soup   in   front   of   her   tasted   like   soot   on   her   tongue   and   she   swam   her   spoon   absently   throughout   the   depths   of   it.   “you   should   not   be   so   certain,   dear   sister.   i   can   not   taste   much   at   all.   i   wonder   if   the   soup   simply   is   that   dire,   or   whether   our   bodies   refuse   to   allow   us   joy   in   such   a   dark   time.”   it   was   then   that   her   spoon   clattered   against   the   table   and   she   allowed   a   sigh   of   defeat.   it   was   a   needless   battle,   a   fruitless   exercise   ;   the   absence   of   their   mother   had   settled   so   deeply   within   them   it   was   near   impossible   to   shift   out.   “no   luck.   it   is   the   last   thing   i   can   think   about.   how   am   i   meant   to   fulfil   my   needs   when   there   is   still   no   sign   ?   ”

[bethemouth]

your mismatched eyes close a moment, the dull ache behind your brow pulsing in time with the crackle of the hearth. it is one thing to endure your own starvation, to let your body wither under the the poppy fog and the phantom memories of the blackwater. it is a different thing entirely to witness the people you love failing to sustain themselves. abandoning all semblance of princely composure, you rise unsteadily to your feet. you grip the heavy carved wood of your chair and drag it across the stone floor, the sudden, sharp screech of the legs cutting violently through the heavy silence of the room until you are pressed right against her side. you sink into the seat, immediately burying yourself in your sister's space. your arms wrap around alysanne's waist, fingers clawing into the fabric of her gown as you press your forehead deep into the hollow of her shoulder, holding her as though your grip was the one thing left to keep the world from tearing all which you love apart.

"can you promise me you'll never die?" you murmur against her skin, your voice dropping to a fragile, broken whimper. you pull your head back just enough to look up into her face, your nose wrinkling as a small, quiet sniffle escapes you. "please? i only have you, and vis, and mum left. i don't think i can lose anyone else. i really can't." the red maw vanishes into smoke, leaving only a terrified girl as you lift your hand between you, extending your small pinky finger with a desperate, childish gravity. "can you swear to me? can you swear that you won't leave me all alone?"

[faatedones]

it  is  devastating,  to  see  her  this  way.  someone  once  so  stoic  and  strong,  reduced  to  a  wailing  mess.  and  it's  no  surprise  either,  considering  her  mother  had  been  swept  out  to  the  bay.  he  looks  into  her  crazed  eyes,  still  holding  to  her  tight  as  they  kneel  in  the  shallow  waters.  “maekara,  look  at  me!  look  at  me!”  he  calls  out  loudly,  desperately  trying  to  get  her  to  just  focus. 

he  has  her.

his  brow  furrows.  who  has  her?  don't  tell  him  she's  suddenly  decided  to  believe  in  the  drowned  god.  what  could  she  possibly  be  talking  about,  he  wonders.  still,  he  holds  her  close  and  prevents  her  from  going  out  further,  for  she  will  surely  be  taken  as  well  if  she  goes. 

“we  will  find  her,  okay?  i  promise,  we  will,”  he  says,  somewhat  calmly.  he's  trying  his  best  to  keep  his  composure,  to  remain  a  beacon  of  stability  for  her.  he  looks  around,  spotting  the  dragon  still  struggling  against  those  trying  to  subdue  it  in  the  distance.  this  place  is  not  safe.  they  must  get  away,  somewhere  away  from  all  the  chaos  but…  but  she  certainly  won't  leave  the  shore,  will  she?

“maekara,  we  must  get  somewhere  safe…  out  here,  it's  not…  it's…”  he  looks  around  frantically  for  somewhere  for  them  to  go.  finally,  he  stands  and  keeps  her  in  his  arms  as  he  does.  “please,  come  with  me?”

[bethemouth]

time skip of one hour.

you let him guide you. you do not remember the climb back through the keep, only that your feet continue to move because he asked them to. because somewhere between the river and the red keep he had made you a promise. i'll send my best men. they'll search. they'll keep searching until she's found. that promise alone is enough to keep you from tearing free and throwing yourself back into the blackwater. when he lowers you into one of the great upholstered chairs within the targaryen apartments, your body sinks without protest, soaked clothes clinging unpleasantly to your skin. your hands rest limply in your lap. somewhere nearby, cedric speaks quietly with one of the servants. you stare ahead for a long while before your voice finally finds him. "...what did you ask her?" he turns, and those familiar ocean eyes meet yours. limpid and unwavering. nothing like the dark water still swallowing your thoughts. you look at them longer than you mean to. somehow they quiet something inside you, if only for a moment. the tears never truly stop, they simply continue without your notice now, warm tracks slipping down numb cheeks. another servant enters beside a maester carrying a small tray. glass clinks softly. herbs. then the unmistakable sweetness reaches you. milk of the poppy. "...cedric." your brows knit together as realization settles over you. you know why. he is only trying to keep you from breaking apart completely. yet another fear quietly takes root beneath the grief. what if the bay has not only stolen your ma? what if it takes this too? what if, when all is over, the lions stray from the dragons, and you lose the truest companion you have left?

you drink because they ask you to. because resisting would require a will you no longer possess. the warmth spreads slowly through your veins, softening every sharp edge until the world begins to blur around its corners. your maids undress you, wash the river from your skin, dress you in clean linens, settle you beneath the covers of your bed. by the time they send for him again, you are already drifting somewhere between waking and sleep, eyelids heavy enough to ache. the door opens quietly. you find him through the haze almost immediately. shame prickles warm beneath your skin. you were taught better than this. princesses are not meant to ask for comfort. they are meant to endure. yet your lips part before pride can stop them. "...can you..." you swallow, blinking slowly against the poppy pulling you under. "...stay until i fall asleep?"

[rottedhearts]

her plans could change the lives of heart's home.

but years ago, you had plans like those too.

"what you speak of will take years, my lady." you speak as softly as her, just as soothing. "and it's a worthy investment. to start now so the future benefits? i will not turn that away."

and yet --- "however, there is relief needed now. when you're starving, when you are watching your family wither before your eyes, what blessing's to come in four, five years doesn't matter. because more likely than not, you will not see it."

throughout all of this, you haven't raised your voice. no, you speak with the weariness of experience. that for all you tried to implement with your limited resources, and then with the manderly coffers despite the emotional and financial debt to gwyneth's father, it did not change enough quickly enough. while you never possessed the same grand plans as amaya, the trail of your attempted endeavors is littered with families you could not help.

taking a deep breath, your gaze drifts to the window. does heart's home see the same skies? or does another bout of storms leave too many shivering inside their homes?

"forgive me, amaya." part of you --- the one still stuck in the before, where the two of you played and studied and questioned one another --- desperately asks her for it. and the other, older part, wishes you needn't acquiesce her to soften the blow of what's to come.

when you turn to face her once more, resolve gleams in your eyes. "i need more than a promise of long-term changes. i need assurances of what can be done immediately too. i propose establishing a network of trading equitable to all houses of the realm, where those who suffer greater in a season --- whether by poor harvest or nature's devastation --- do not have to worry about their next meal. allow no region to hoard their stocks to an unnecessary level of waste; it must be shared."

a tilt of your head. "i am confident that you will be able to bring this up and convince the princess of implementing this, or at least something similar. after all, that loyalty of yours must be rewarded, no? unless you've already been promised a position on the council for your support?"

[bethemouth]

your gaze lingers on them, searching the hard lines of their face for the ghost of the bookish boy who used to hide in the eyrie's quiet corners. they are the same stubborn, maddening creature they have always been, only grown tall and shadowed by the weight of the world. you have half a mind to snap at them, to remind them that a liege who spends their days weeping over empty bellies won't have a liegeship left to defend. ruling is a bloody balance of cruelty and mercy; you cannot have one without the other. yet, as always, they have driven their blade straight into the weak spot of your armor. "very well," you say, the word dropping between you without a trace of spite. your hand comes to rest on the arm of your chair. "you are right. i have spent this entire conversation looking at what the vale might become years from now, while your people cannot afford to look past tomorrow morning. well, house bracken remains bound to amahle through both deep affection and old loyalties. if lady roslin is willing, we can establish a regular caravan between stone hedge and heart's home until your harvests recover. grain, cattle, seed enough to begin again. i will cover your end of the coin until heart's home stands on its own feet after the first year, or perhaps the second. and then you'll have the aqueducts."

you lean in, your gaze turning serious, demanding their full attention. "furthermore, i shall aim to procure an alliance within the Reach to give you further aid, alongside the dragon faction i am currently backing. something is moving behind the scenes, but i refuse to speak of it until the ink is dry. but you must understand this: even if i pull this off, they will demand i vouch for your loyalty and support to the cause. an assurance i do not know if i truly have. people do not hand out salvation out of the goodness of their hearts, as much as that might be your ideal. everyone wants something in return." a dry breath escapes you, all devoid of humor, as you glance toward the window. "send your page to my room with a list of your necessities, and we will begin the work. i doubt i will ever see the realm through your eyes. if i did, the sheer weight of every freezing shepherd and starving child would keep me awake until dawn. but a ruler who surrounds themselves only with echoes is a fool." you let out a sigh, then roll your shoulders in a shrug. "there are very few people left in this world whose intellect i respect enough to fight with. if i didn't care what you thought, i wouldn't waste my breath trying to persuade you. there are days i think the gods fashioned you solely to contradict me." your head tilts. "it drives me absolutely mad. but i would be entirely lost without it. especially if i intend to sit as hand of the queen one day."

[fromashe]

the sudden embrace takes seraphina off guard but the older hightower welcomes it all the same. she rests a hand on the back of rowan's head, gently running her fingers through wild tangled locks, letting them sit in the silence of the moment. a surprising swell of emotion comes from who knows where with rowan tucking themselves small against her belly, the memory of her hands rubbing over her abdomen in a similar motion when realizing that a seed had taken root, when in the most fleeting moments she let herself imagine motherhood, and a babe who'd grow into a toddler stumbling about. rowan retains that innocence about them, the same sweetness that seraphina thinks is a true miracle to have survived the silent sisters.

"i, too, am very glad, ro." the hold tightens and blue eyes turn skywards to the sun's rays that shine through autumn leaves. all she knows to do in this moment is to continue petting rowan's mess of hair. even the starry sept and motherhouses spun ill-spirited whispers about the silent sisters. a sacred duty to some. to most, a looming threat for misbehaving novices. the cost of silence too heavy when sera missed rowan's carefree eruption of giggles when she concocted some strange fantastical story for their late night entertainment. it's at their only younger sibling's gut-wrenching question that the older of the two loosens rowan's grip upon her back so she may lower herself to meet their gaze.

"oh sweetling." utter disregard for the dirt and crunching of leaves when knees press her skirts to the ground, seraphina rests her forehead against rowan's own. "for? you are not for anything. no one is meant to be for a thing. that's what father, mother, and rest have gotten wrong. you are imperfectly wonderful as you are." she presses a kiss to their sibling's temple, before resting both hands to cup their cheeks. "rowan, you are meant to be whatever it is your heart desires, that your mind conjures, anything you do, and say, and breathe. all that is more than enough. you are kind, intelligent, brave, all these things and more." she leans in to pull rowan into a tight embrace, needing to hide all the rage that reignites with a bright fury for all the insecurities bestowed upon them each by lord perceon. the ones seraphina shares each time she's left alone on a mattress questioning if all she's worth is her lost purity of flesh. "i'm sorry that i haven't been there for you."

[bethemouth]

your eyes widen as her words hit the childhood walls inside your chest. lacking a purpose is a concept that fits nowhere inside you. it violates every paternal lesson, every prayer, and every morning spent treating yourself as an altar offering. your cheeks burn with a humiliating shame because a starving part of you wants to believe her. your lips part and close. you should argue for your father, the seven, and the stranger who would judge you for taking unearned comforts. instead you fold silently in the godswood. your shoulders drop, your forehead slides down from hers, and your face buries itself in her shoulder. you let out two strangled breaths, your fingers clutching weakly at her back.

the first tear falls silently, then another. your body shakes as you try to stay quiet, feeling like the seven are judging this weakness. yet you cannot pull away from the warmth you starved for during all those years. you shut your eyes and nod twice. "...i'll try..." you whisper through a tight throat. "...is that okay?" looking down to hide your wet face, you notice her shoes through your blurry lashes. she is standing on a thick weirwood root, using the extra height to look down at you. a wet laugh jumps out of your chest, cutting through a sob like a ghost from your childhood. you wipe your cheeks with the heel of your hand, your nose pink and your breath uneven. looking up, a watery smile appears. "it's not fair," you wobble. "you're using a root to look taller."

end.

[arcan3ly]

they   could   hardly   contain   their   excitement.   it   was   as   though   a   fire   had   been   lit   within   them   and,   the   more   he   circled   the   offerings   and   ran   his   fingertips   against   thick   strings   of   twisted   hemp   and   sinew,   the   brighter   it   glowed.   it   was   near   impossible   to   pick   just   one,   and   yet   their   face   was   flushed   from   the   affection   shown   by   their   eldest   sister.   it   was   not   always   obvious,   and   steffon   often   mistook   her   care   for   something   misshapen.   since   birth   he   had   known   he   was   different,   slightly   odd,   not   the   typical   noble,   and   as   they   had   grown   the   thought   had   only   hardened   in   their   mind   that   amaya   was   disappointed,   somehow,   in   the   offerings   of   her   siblings.   lyanna   could   be   polished.   steffon   was   forever   broken   and   knew,   deep   down,   they   would   never   be   much   of   a   liege   at   all.   thanks   to   the   gods   was   seldom   given   from   the   youngest   arryn,   but   his   love   —   and   apparent   skill   —   for   music   was   one   thing   they   were   grateful   for.   it   meant   that   he   wasn’t   entirely   useless,   that   their   ineptitude   in   drawing   a   bow   or   swinging   a   dagger   or   attempting   to   read   the   written   word   was   somewhat   offset.   “the   harp   is   beautiful,   although   it   is   not   my   instrument   of   choice.   but   flutes   …   ”

and   it   was   then   that   they   saw   it,   amongst   the   selection   of   ornate   woodwind   offerings.   an   intricately   carved   pillar   made   of   cedar   and   bone,   with   fascinating   notches   and   patterns   that   seemed   near   impossible   for   humans   to   craft.   their   touch   was   delicate   when   they   lifted   the flute,   twirled   it   between   their   fingers,   felt   the   weight,   pressed   the   mouthpiece   to   their   pink   beak.   beautiful   things   weren't   meant   for   steffon   arryn.   they   were   a   child   of   the   mud,   of   the   shallow   waters,   of   the   little   hideaways   that   only   small   animals   burrowed,   yet   he   cradled   the   instrument   with   an   almost   maternal   instinct.   “this   one.   amaya.   please.”   wide - eyed,   they   glanced   to   the   merchant   and   then   back   at   their   sister   for   approval.   once   coins   had   been   exchanged,   he   continued   to   hold   the   flute   tight   at   they   moved   from   the   stall   and   onward.   “i   have   time.   what   is   it,   sister   ?   ”

[bethemouth]

you keep a measured pace through the crowded thoroughfare, your cane guiding you past the stalls while your mind sharpens on the words you need to say. you keep your voice low, ensuring no wandering ears can catch a single scrap of gossip. "i know that as you grew up, you probably felt as though lyanna was the only person on your side," you begin, your tone muted. "you had a reason to feel that way. and for that, i am sorry, steffon. i see now that i failed you both. i tried to mend things quietly, in my own way, but it didn't work. everything keeps fracturing, and i'm realizing i can't fix any of it if i keep excluding you. i can't change what's behind us, but i want to change what's ahead." you pause, looking back at the servants stacked high with parcels, your eyes lingering on the new harp. even though the flute is beautiful, you've always harbored a deep fondness for the sound of the harp. those rare, quiet days when the melody would drift into your office from somewhere distant in the eyrie brought you a peace nothing else could; knowing they were there, well, and playing something so sweet. they are a wild thing, but they deserve the indulgence. turning back to them, your expression drops into a profound, heavy seriousness. "i know of the secret you kept for her. of oldtown."

you give them no room to dodge, your eyes anchoring theirs. you purse your lips, waving a quiet finger. "she told me, at last. and trust, i will not leave it unavenged. but it's hard for me to..." your breath hitches. "to wrap my head around... the fact that... our lord father probably knew." you feel a sudden heat seize your cheeks as thought the embarrassment falls on your shoulder, too. as if it is your tally, and your tally alone, to pay up. "i know i hold myself apart from you both. i forget to… talk. i never really knew how to talk to you, in truth. you were always so much younger. so different than i, i..." a sharp swallow cuts your throat, a flash of irritation crossing your features at your own clumsy words. "but no one is touching a hair on your head while i draw breath! you are all i have left. you and lyanna drive me insane, yes… but you're mine. and i find... i find i need you just as much as i need amahle." you look down at the dirt path, your jaw tightening, before murmuring quietly, "and i hate that i'm the last to know. i should have known. i didn't, and it troubles me in ways i can't even talk about."

[steelworn]

she  had  been  raised  a  lady,  but  one  that  could  listen  and  sit  in  on  meetings.  from  a  young  age,  when  her  father  had  taken  highgarden  for  himself,  she  had  known  the  weight  would  fall  onto  her  shoulders  one  day.  he  was  not  the  regent,  waiting  for  harlon  to  come  of  age,  he  was  the  ruling  lord.  that  title  meant  that  she  would  be  the  next  ruling  lady  and  falyn  had  always  taken  the  weight  upon  her  shoulders  seriously,  even  if  the  notion  scared  her  sometimes.  "i  do  not  judge,  princess."  she  nods  to  the  maid,  shaking  her  head  when  offered  wine  and  instead  picking  up  a  knife  to  spread  salted  butter  over  a  fluffy  piece  of  bread.  "not  to  speak  out  of  place,  but  i  do  not  offer  condolences.  i  have  lost  my  own  mother  in  the  last  years  and  if  anyone  understands  the  pain  you  are  going  through,  it  would  be  i."  her  voice  strong,  yet  soft.  she  may  not  offer  condolences,  but  she  can  offer  kindness.  "we  are  faring  as  well  as  we  can.  shaken  up  mostly."  from  what?  the  attack?  or  the  fact  her  cousin  now  sat  on  a  council  that  was  ready  to  elect  a  new  king?  that  his  horrid  hand  could  be  the  future  of  the  realm.  "what  of  you?  and  i  do  not  mean  to  ask  about  your  mother,  i  mean  yourself.  how  do  you  fare?" falyn  had  hoped  her  question  did  not  come  off  as  rude.  but  she  remembers  when  her  own  mother  died  she  did  not  wish  to  even  speak  her  name  let  alone  talk  about  her.  "i  do  like  how  direct  you  are,  your  grace.  it  will  make  things  easy  in  our  conversation."  she  nods,  taking  a  small  bite  of  the  bread  that  sat  upon  her  plate  before  putting  it  down  again  and  smoothing  the  wrinkles  of  her  skirt  under  the  table.  "to  answer  you,  yes,  you  shall  have  mine  and  my  father's  full  support  as  long  as  our  end  of  the  deal  is  held  up.  if  that  is  done,  then  the  ruling  lord  of  highgarden  and  future  ruling  lady,  shall  back  you  when  it  is  needed  and  by  any  means  necessary."  falyn's  dark  eyes  do  not  leave  maekara's,  they  are  kind,  but  powerful.  "however,  if  at  any  point  in  time  our  deal  becomes  moot,  if  we  are  not  offered  what  your  mother  had  so  graciously  given,  then  you  shall  be  certain  you  and  your  people  will  starve  without  the  reach  and  what  little  your  house  has  left,  will  meet  an  untimely  end  by  the  hands  of  our  manpower."  though  her  words  are  harsh,  she  still  offers  a  smile  to  the  princess  when  she  is  finished.  "i  do  not  wish  to  go  to  war  at  all  as  i  believe  we  can  make  a  wonderful  pair,  nor  while  your  house  is  without  the  power  they  built  themselves  upon,"  the  dragons.  "so  i  hope  we  can  continue  this  alliance  in  good  faith  and  companionship,  princess  maekara,  as  my  father  and  i  offer  it  to  you."

[bethemouth]

when falyn asks how you are, your breath hitches. your cheeks puff slightly before you let out a long tired sigh. you stare at your plate, blinking fast as your voice shakes. "i-i am managing. one foot at a time. baby steps, even if the kingsmoot demands we run," you murmur, a fragile, honest admission slipping past your guard. "i am grieving, but i have not lost hope. i pray every night she will come back. with each passing day the chances grow slimmer, but i tell myself… if she does not return within a moon's turn, then i will make my peace. i will bury her in my heart. but until then, i must have faith. who else wants to admit their mother is gone when there is still a chance?" before the weeping can take you, you look away from her face, turning your eyes up to the crimson roof and locking your lids open until the dry air burns the water from your sight. you take down the bitterness in your throat with a hard gulp, pull your spine straight, and savor a modest bite from the food on your plate and a draft from your cup, mending your countanance before the little lady of the mander can see something unreliable within your bearing. you cannot let her stray. not another one. you still have a mother and two stubborn sisters to protect. and a match you have just grown to like the idea of. "but that's for me and for me alone. not for the realm," you tell, more to yourself than to her.

then, as you fall quiet, lady falyn lays out her terms, outlining the ruin she will bring should your house forgets its debts. it is a monstrously hostile ultimatum for a morning meal, but behind your mismatched eyes, a realization takes root. you recognize that protective desperation, for it is the same terrifying instinct your own mothers used to guard you and your sisters. you recall the talk you had with you mum, how she explained everything to you, so you could lead the house with some footing to your steps, following the phantom trail delfina had left for you, including a whispered mention that falyn's accord with her involved a bastard child (possibly?) needing legitimization. something to not be said so upfront, so as not to offend the delicate sensibilities of the reach. yet witnessing the raw, maternal poison behind the lady's docile gaze makes everything certain. this is no simple grab for highgarden. there is a baby tucked away in the reach, and this little flower is ready to poison the world to keep it safe.

dabbing at the corners of your mouth with a linen handkerchief, you set it down, take another slow sip of your cider, and lean forward over the dark oak, anchoring yourself to her space. you were raised a dragon, kara. do not cower. show no fear. "nor do i wish for war, lady falyn. that is all i am trying to avoid, even despite my mother stripped from my grasp. and the other poisoned nearly unto death, before that, alongside my sister," you shake your head ever so slightly. "as you see, house targaryen has been struck time and time again, and yet, we refuse to fall. ever. i give you my word, lady falyn. you and your father shall not stand alone whilst i draw breath. aegon the conqueror himself raised house tyrell to the dignity of liege paramounts. why would i desire anything less than to see the work of my own forebear continue to flourish?" your expression softens, a knowing look easing the lines of your face. "but i understand your concerns. you remind me of my mothers, with how fiercely protective you can become… for all the right reasons. i shall honor those reasons. i shall see that reason protected, and its future. just as she swore to you." and then you lean back slowly, just an inch. "would you like to discuss of how this should be done yet or...? we could set a plan. somewhat. i may have an idea or two. you'll find it easier once you allow your allies to help you."

[firercts]

✶  ⸺  𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝  𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫  ! with @bethemouth

she  heard  the  door  before  they  saw  amaya,  familiar  sounds  of  moving  about  the  chambers  they  count  interpret  as  not  being  one  of  the  attendants  easily.  their  nerves  had  taken  them  to  the  balconies  to  look  over  the  charred  remains  of  the  dragons'  attacks,  hands  flexing  and  releasing  on  the  tops  of  the  railing  as  they  fought  to  keep  their  mind  from  going  in  more  useless  circles.  clinking  of  plates  of  the  lunch  that  she  had  called  to  be  ready  for  when  amaya  returned  signaled  for  their  ruminating  to  cease,  padded  steps  leading  them  back  into  the  antechamber.  “  i  almost  thought  that  you  would  remain in the council room  through  the  night,  ”  they  greet  quietly,  placing  a  light  hand  onto  amaya's  shoulder.  dark  hues  cast  over  her  expression  quickly,  in  search  for  any  signs  of  discomfort,  before  they  continue  to  take  their  seat.  “  the  princess  has  returned,  lady  amerei  has  been  found,  and  now  dorne,  "  they  begin,  reaching  to  pluck  a  few  grapes  from  the  bunch  that  had  been  prepared  for  them.  “  what  are  your  thoughts  ?  ”    

[bethemouth]

the council chamber had wrung every ounce of patience from you. the moment you step through the door, your gloves are the first casualty, tossed carelessly onto the nearest table. your fingers work at the clasp of your cloak before it slides from your shoulders, heavy wool tinted blue with embroidered silver moons all over it, surrendered to a waiting hook. by the time you have kicked free of your shoes, leaving them abandoned by the doorway, you already feel half a woman again. "no," you answer with a tired breath, something like a laugh following it. "i could not wait to leave." you cross the floor before the echo can die. your hands go up to take amahle’s face in your palms, drawing her down to your mouth without a word of greeting. there is no courtly caution in it, nor any briefness, but a wild sort of hunger, as though the world beyond the door had grown so dark and strange that only her skin could tell you where the earth lay. this warmth the one proof that tells you you are still here, that you exist, and that you have a reason to endure the venom of the council and the madness of this moot. when your breath fails you, you lean your brow against their brow. "...i missed you." you tell the quiet.

then you settle into the chair beside them, your stomach letting out a sudden, roaring growl at the scent of the lunch set upon the table; you had been too consumed by the wolves to realize you were starving, and a wave of quiet gratitude washes over you as you watch her fingers pluck at the grapes. you then reach for a slice of cheese, then another. and, only after the first few bites, does your body seem to remember how to function again. your shoulders sink. "well, my thoughts are, i wish i'd listened to you." you stare down at your plate as you help yourself with the food. "had i known..." your mouth wrinkles. "had i known what awaited us here, i would never have crossed the bloody gate. i want to go home." a long sigh escapes you. your elbow finds the table as fingers rub slowly at your temple. "but we are far beyond that now. there is no turning back until we see it through." your gaze lifts. "this voyage to dorne could very much be a plot from lady rosalei, but what choice do we have now that the dragonkeepers are all wiped out?" you then grab the leg of their chair a pull them closer to you, the wood screeching against the stone floors. now that's much better.

"i presented my schematics to serve as the blueprint for the new dragonpit, but it will cost a monstrous amount of coin. the crown's coffers cannot afford it; we will have to make sacrifices in the keep, by letting go of half the staff. and the noble houses will have to lend from their own pockets to reconstruct the city and the lands the wild dragons are terrorizing. the longer we delay, the dearer rebuilding becomes." you fall quiet. then, almost reluctantly, "...we cannot leave perceon where he stands. every day he remains hand, he plants another root." your jaw tightens. "today it is the council. tomorrow..." you do not finish the sentence. you don't need to. instead you reach beneath the table until your hand finds your spouse's. your fingers weave between theirs. "...he's getting too close." for the first time since entering the room, your composure slips. only a little. "...i'm frightened, my love."

[firercts]

✶  ⸺  𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝  𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫  ! with @bethemouth

they  were  certain  they  must  have  looked  like  a  mad  woman,  dashing  through  the  corridors  of  the  keep  as  quickly  as  their  legs  could  carry  them.  they  had  been  on  the  banks  of  the  bay  for  less  than  a  half  hour  before  word  had  reached  them  that  they  had  been  found  —  the  hand  ignored entirely,  their  chest  loosening  slightly  at  the  name  of  the  lady  tully,  but  the  princess.  they  had  not  thought  as  they  ran  in  search  of  their  friend,  refusing  to  take  the  word  of  another  in  it  all.  it  seeming  as  though  countless  days  and  nights  out  in  search  that  it  was  a  light  at  the  end  of  the  tunnel,  flashing  just  enough  for  hope  to  blossom.  “  maekara  !  ”  bursting  through  to  where  they  believe  the  princess  to  be,  practically  bursting  at  the  seams  once  they  skid  to  a  stop  next  to  her.  “  is  it  true  ?!  ”  a  pause,  lowering  their  voice  once  it  dawns  on  them  that  if  it  was  true  :  she  needed  to  be  more  quiet  and  allow  deflina  her  rest.  “  is  it  true  ?  have  they  found  her  ?  ”  lana  asks,  practically  in  a  whisper  now,  casting  their  gaze  around  before  it  landed  back  on  maekara.    

[bethemouth]

your lips purse into a trembling, disbelieving grin as you look at her, your eyes instantly turning glossy with a thick sheen of happy tears that you stubbornly refuse to let spill over your lashes. you stand on shaky legs and reach out, your fingers finding elliana's hand and squeezing it with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity as you nod your head over and over. "yes, yes, it's true! she's alive! she's out of the woods, and the maesters say she is going to recover," you whisper, your voice thick and vibrating with a profound, breathless shock that has kept you shivering for the last few hours since you were finally allowed at her bedside. you swallow hard, trying to wrap your mind around the sheer miracle of it all; she is terribly wounded, her flesh torn by a dragon's claw before the sea swallowed her, and she survived days in those freezing, unforgiving waters, but she is home because the gods had a purpose for her that the stranger could not touch. unable to contain the sheer, exhausting joy of the moment, you pull elliana into a grounding hug, clinging to the lannister girl who represents the warmest, safest pieces of your youth, before you finally pull back just enough to brush a stray tear from your cheek with the back of your hand, a sudden light returning to your mismatched eyes as you murmur, "the gods have not deserted us, lana. we shall prevail." then, you dart and gaze to what's behind you, the table set for dinner at the targaryen apartments. "have you eaten yet? come, join me. we can talk of dorne. you've heard of it already, have you not?" and of mara. we can talk of mara. or rather, where house lannister stands now.

[rottedhearts]

the  repetition  of  stroking  your  fingers  through  your  daughter's  hair  keeps  you  grounded.  if  maekara  didn't  rest  her  head  in  your  lap,  you  would  have  drifted  above  yourself,  suspended  in  a  torment  of  regret.  it  has  happened  every  night  since  blackwater  devoured  delfina.  your  life,  given  to  a  larger  love.  and  now,  she  is  gone.  she  has  yet  to  be  found,  and  with  each  passing  day,  your  faith  wavers,  just  as  it  did  when  you  knelt  at  your  siblings'  bedside.

maekara's  presence  allows  you  focus.  in  this  quiet,  you  hum  an  old  valyrian  lullaby.  you  first  learned  it  by  listening  to  delfina;  only  after  three  years  of  marriage  did  you  ask  her  to  teach  you  the  proper  enunciation.  you  dare  not  try  valyrian  now;  you  cannot  bare  to  listen  to  yourself  butcher  it.  and  you  cannot  dwell  too  long  on  the  memory  of  delfina  holding  your  mouth,  her  other  hand  pressed  on  your  throat,  and  humor  dancing  on  lips  as  she  instructed  you.  the  hum  must  suffice.  allow  a  softer  space  for  maekara  to  grieve  than  outside  the  room,  confronted  by  the  noise  of  a  realm  preparing  to  move  on  past  their  rightful  queen.

and  so  you  nearly  miss  when  maekara  begins  speaking.  the  hum  fades,  but  you  do  not  cease  brushing  maekara's  hair.  you  do  not  interrupt  and  you  do  not  interfere.  not  until  maekara  pushes  herself  upright  and  pleads.  and  she  might  ask  for  your  council,  but  it  is  delfina's  she  mourns  for.  it  is  delfina  she  misses.  and  gods,  you  miss  her  too.

what  are  we  to  do,  delfina?

you  do  not  ---  you  cannot  ---  break  maekara's  gaze.  you  owe  her  that  much.  "in  this  room,  she  would  not  scold  you  for  crying."  you  cup  maekara's  cheek,  thumb  softly  brushing  beneath  her  eye  to  catch  any  tear  slipping  past.  "in  front  of  her  .  .  .  in  front  of  me,  you  are  encouraged  to  release  what  you  don't  allow  yourself  to  feel  out  there."  there,  the  confirmation:  everyone  is  watching.  their  grief  cannot  be  the  realm's  entertainment.

swallowing,  you  take  a  deep  breath.  it  is  somehow  easier  slipping  into  the  role  of  advisor.  to  allow  yourself  a  moment  where  despair  cannot  touch  you,  not  while  in  the  throes  of  strategy.

"we  will  solidify  the  alliances  we  already  have.  we  can  afford  to  lose  one  of  the  families,  but  we  will  try  to  hold  onto  them  all.  your  mother  promised  lady  amaya  the  position  of  hand  ---  i  do  not  believe  that  should  change.  lady  amaya  certainly  has  her  opinions  and  you  must  be  able  to  explain  your  reasoning  behind  your  choices  to  her,  but  she  is  loyal.  and  i  will  do  my  best  to  leverage  the  royce  connection  with  her.

"for  the  lions  .  .  .  "  you  sigh.  "if  mara  declares  for  either  the  celtigar  or  hightower  family,  you  must  ensure  cedric  does  not  follow  her.  if  the  house  splits,  let  the  majority  of  the  family  turn  to  you  rather  than  mara.  we  must  not  allow  the  betrothal  to  break."

another  deep  breath.  for  a  moment,  your  chin  wobbles  ---  would  any  of  this  be  what  delfina  would  utter?  doubt  plagues  your  mind  as  the  poison  did  your  body.  and  yet,  you  must  move  forward.  you  cannot  stop.

"between  the  two,  the  hightower  family  is  our  greatest  threat.  the  realm  believes  willas  and  alysanne  are  already  betrothed,  but  we  are  still  in  talks,  no  matter  how  anyone  speaks  of  it  otherwise."  you  swallow  the  rest  of  your  distaste,  finally  pulling  away  to  stand  and  cross  the  room.  when  you  reach  the  desk  delfina  used,  you  drag  your  hand  along  the  top,  until  you  gently  knock  against  ink  well  and  quill.

"which  is  why  we  must  keep  seraphina  hightower  on  our  side."  raising  your  eyes  to  maekara's,  you  hesitate  for  only  a  moment.  the  more  you  share  with  maekara,  the  more  it  feels  as  if  delfina  will  never  return  to  your  side.  and  yet,  you  must  share.  you  cannot  stop.

"your  mother  had  a  few  informants.  amerei  mallister  was  one  of  them.  the  other  seraphina.  if  we  wish  to  know  what  her  family  plans,  then  you  must  approach  her  discreetly,  away  from  any  of  lord  perceon's  spies  or  lady  rosalei's  crows."

[bethemouth]

you listen to your mother in a quiet, stunned sort of submission, but when the mention of the lions leaves their lips, your breath hitches in your chest. "mara?" you whisper, the name tasting like ash and old summer days on your tongue. "you think mara would stray from us? mara?" you stare at the floor, your mind spinning backward to the days of your youth, desperately trying to reconcile the possibility of a duplicitous character in the new lady lannister with the girl you grew up beside; the girl with whom you shared your very first kiss, the girl you shared meals and long, golden afternoons with while you were squiring at casterly rock under her father. it is a quiet, devastating realization that hurts more than any blow you ever took in the melee; the thought of being betrayed by mara is a knife you do not know if you have the strength to pull out. but if your mum is saying this aloud, if they are putting the warning into words, then there must be something there you do not yet see.

you swallow the lump of grief and betrayal, listening as she speaks of the hightowers being the greatest threat to your family's future. you nod, your jaw tightening, though you do not entirely discard house celtigar and the redwynes from the board; they have their own rotten ambitions, but it is lord hightower who has already wormed his way into the hand's seat. "yes," the answer comes without hesitation. "i understand why ma allowed those rumors to breathe. i understand why she tolerated them. our house needed time." your fingers curl tightly into the fabric over your knees. "but i will not allow alysanne to marry our enemy. not if i have breath left in me." you lift your eyes. "i will not let lord perceon leverage my sister against us." but then mum's voice cuts through your resolve, telling you that lady seraphina must be kept on your side. the words make you go entirely still, the breath dying in your throat. seraphina? you think, your mind stuttering. what of seraphina?

and then your mother speaks of the informants, of amerei and of seraphina, and it feels as though the world has cracked completely open like an egg, the yolk spilling at your feet. your irises become restless, darting across the patterns of the rug as your mind races back through every interaction you've had with her; the whispered words in the godswood, the way she had slipped into your tent to offer her quiet congratulations after your victory in the melee, the steady, strange warmth of her words as she offered you a friendship you had been too proud and too terrified to accept. it all clicks into place with a devastating, beautiful clarity. "seraphina was working for us?" you breathe, looking up at hira with wide, wet eyes. you reach up with a trembling hand, wiping the lingering tears from your cheeks as you force your breathing to steady. "…then lady amerei's... presumed death leaves us with one less pair of eyes. perhaps… perhaps we ought to seek another." you think on it a moment, considering your options, and then: "lord alester's bastards. they have very little left now. no lord father. no certainty. no true protection. they may be persuaded." you sigh. "…what do you think?"

[fromashe]

seraphina could not disagree that it was the very happenstance in how her lord father manipulated such an arrangement. but it only painted a clearer picture of the targaryens... for it was for many a good reason why there existed an estrangement between sera and her own siblings, the hightower supposed she suspected the princesses were all much closer with loving mothers and a shared care for each other and the fortune their adoptions afforded them to a better life. yet in reality, unless the princess alysanne was an exceptionally great liar, it seemed her thoughts on willas were softening and something could blossom, or at least not end with one of them dead by the other's hand. in fact, this interaction revealed that much was not shared transparently in the house of dragons. while she could not stand in judgement as one of perceon's living five children who likely knew the very least of the true machinations resulted from her father's ambitions, eylas was father's heir and keeper of secrets.

princess maekara, on the other hand, seemed to have not been informed of her involvement with their house. well then, she would not draw more attention, doubting the skittish woman before her would even believe the suggestion that a hightower spy and gather intel for a targaryen princess. "... that is quite alright, princess. i do not expect you erase the name which was bestowed upon me at birth and branded onto my soul in more ways than one. i don't enjoy my hair in braids." her free hand twirls loose lock i her fingers. "in truth, i much rather allow the wind to do as it pleases. but the matter remains, you have my friendship, maekara." she foregoes precious titles to accent a point. "should you ever wish to claim it. i would not betray you to my father." seraphina sets the goblet down, the gesture of solidarity and friendship rejected (for now). "it'd be too much a pity to risk your gorgeous face." there's hope for the future. hope for falyn's future and that of her great-niece, hope taliesin and their siblings and securing a name and safety, hope to build some future with taliesin. "all you'll ever have to do is simply ask."

[bethemouth]

TIMESKIP: some days after the ruin of the dragonpit.

the note bears neither flourish nor signature, only a place and an hour. folded twice. sealed with black wax impressed by the three-headed dragon. discreet enough that only those already accustomed to moving unseen would recognize its meaning. you arrive well before dusk, long after the streets have emptied of merchants but before the taverns begin filling with drunks. the inn itself is unremarkable, which is exactly why you chose it. the upstairs chamber has already been cleared. two guards stand outside the corridor leading to the room, another watches the stairs below. the neighboring chambers remain empty by your own command, bought for the evening despite no one occupying them. old habits have become necessities. trust no wall. trust no doorway. trust no silence unless you have paid dearly for it. you are already seated when the door opens. a cup of wine rests untouched between your fingers. another waits opposite you. your eyes lift to meet hers.

"i understand everything now," you say softly, the words dropping into the quiet room without the anger or the sharp edges that usually guard your tongue. "the deal you struck with my mother. your loyalties… strayed so far from your own family. i appreciate your loyalty to her, my lady, to the point of you keeping it secret even from me." you gesture toward the empty chair across from you, beckoning her closer. "sit." you wait, letting her settle into the space and get comfortable before you speak again. "would you..." the words falter. the choice of them catches you off guard. serve beneath me. heat rises uninvited into your cheeks. your eyes fall briefly to the grain of the table as though it might spare you from your own thoughts, the memory buried beneath white bark and crimson leaves threatening to surface for no reason at all. foolish. utterly foolish. you clear your throat. "...would you continue serving house targaryen?"

when you finally look back at her, the embarrassment has already been forced beneath discipline. "we are far enough from the keep that lady rosalei's crows cannot overhear us. the guards outside answer only to me. the corridor has been secured. the neighboring rooms are empty." your hands fold neatly before you. "you may speak freely. you have my word." you lean forward, ever so slightly, regarding the dark strands cascading over to her shoulder. twice as aware of the heaviness pulling you under. the water sloshing in your ears, as if a shell was pressed to your ossicles; hungry waves crashing down, again and again and again. "i know now that you were serving as our eyes within house hightower. and i would like very much for you to continue that service. should you have anything, anything at all, i want to hear it. let us talk."