冬来りなば春遠からじ

lord akhirah kaito tarth, 35, ruling lord of evenfall hall and the isle of tarth.

[fortheakhirah]

name: lord akhirah kaito tarth age: 34 years old region: stormlands / new valyria marital status: single title: ruling lord of evenhall fc: andrew koji

background information: lord akhirah tarth, the current ruler of evenhall, is a man of complex heritage and deep cultural ties. born to lord haruto tarth and lady mika, an independent merchant from across the narrow sea, akhirah was raised amidst a blend of cultures. his mother's influence introduced him to the "old way," a cultural practice that included elements from yi ti and other far eastern traditions. his father, madly in love with mika, made sure that akhirah was well-versed in both his native traditions and his mother's unique heritage.

personality:

strengths: loyal: his loyalty to his family and the people of tarth and the stormlands is unwavering. resilient: despite setbacks, he remains determined and focused on his goals, wishing to continue to push to achieve his aim. brave: akhirah is unafraid to stand up for what he believes in, even if it means facing great danger; it is the mark of great men.

flaws: prideful: akhirah has a strong sense of pride in his heritage and house, sometimes leading to stubbornness. hot-tempered: he can be quick to anger, especially when he feels his honor or that of his family is threatened. rigid: his firm beliefs can sometimes make him inflexible and resistant to change

current events: recently, the introduction of crippling taxes by lord maximus celtigar has forced akhirah to take action and depart form the ports of tarth for the snake pit he thought he would never set foot within. determined to protect his people and his lands, he has come to king’s landing to confront the injustice personally. rather than focus too much on the king, he points the finger at the whispering of maximus celtigar. with his storybook bravery and resilience, akhirah is prepared to face the political challenges ahead, driven by a fierce loyalty to his home and a steadfast commitment to justice. as of this moment, he is a man torn between his duty and his heritage, striving to balance the expectations of his birthright with the wisdom of the olders of his generation - to pick one's battles carefully.

hobbies and interests: martial arts: akhirah is skilled in both traditional westerosi swordsmanship and the martial arts techniques passed down from his mother's homeland. yes, he'd be a black belt in karate specifically at this point! sailing: what kind of tarth would he be if this was not there? inspired by his mother's merchant background, akhirah has a love for the sea and often spends time navigating the waters around tarth. cultural studies: he has a deep interest in the histories and customs of different cultures, making him well-educated and worldly. this is widely different to the valyrian supremacy ideology, as well as the hermit ideology of most of his stormlander peers. hiking and exploring: akhirah enjoys hiking and exploring the rugged landscapes of the stormlands, finding solace in the natural beauty and challenges of the terrain.

connections: stay tuned.

[craneofsteel]

sora received his courtesy with a slight inclination of her head, as measured as the rest of her movements had been that morning. the ritual of manners continued because it always had; it was the language they trusted when the ground beneath them shifted. she did not correct him about timeliness, nor reassure him it was of no consequence. instead, she accepted the promise as it was offered, silently noting that men like her brother rarely arrived early without reason, and that this was his keep to order, or not, as he wished. she took another small sip of tea, letting the warmth settle, her gaze steady on him as he gathered himself.

she listened carefully as he spoke of debt and burden, of uneven levies and quiet desperation, her expression composed enough that it might have been mistaken for distance. inwardly, none of this surprised her. she had anticipated the shape of it long before he named it, felt it in the way captains chose their words, in the tightening of ledgers, in the subdued gratitude of villages that once offered more. still, hearing it laid bare carried its own weight. she folded her hands together, thumbs resting lightly against one another, a posture of attention rather than defense.

when he spoke of the smallfolk, of their dependence and their immobility, something in her softened, just a fraction. tarth’s isolation had always been both shield and snare; it protected them, but it also made escape costly. she thought of faces she knew by name, of offerings left at shrines, of children who watched her birds with solemn curiosity. rising prices did not shock her. resentment did not either. she had learned long ago that hunger sharpened anger far more quickly than injustice alone. she inclined her head again, acknowledging what he had seen with his own eyes, what she had sensed from afar.

by the time he fell quiet and set his cup down, sora was already prepared for the next words. when they came, they did not jolt her, at least, not outwardly. inside, heat rushed to her cheeks, a flicker of feeling she did not entirely mask. there was anger there, though not aimed at her brother. it was for the circumstances, for being conquered by dragons yet again and finding themselves pressed beneath the will of a spoiled prince turned king. refusal, open and declared, was a dangerous choice. she breathed in slowly, the sound of distant bells threading through the silence between them, a small comfort, and let the moment settle before she spoke. calm, she had learned and practiced, was its own armor.

“you have decided,” she repeated softly, not as a challenge but as a statement of fact. her gaze did not waver. if they would not pay, then scrutiny would follow; that truth needed no voice to exist between them. instead, her thoughts turned to the names he had now confirmed. the hand. the lord paramount. friends, if more distantly now. children once, who had shared imagination and strategy and laughter before titles had hardened them. even the queen had been her friend, once…still. though their affection would not shield tarth, it might shape what came next. “and they objected,” she added quietly, not accusing, only curious.

she shifted then, just slightly, the lady of evenfall hall settling more fully into herself. her thoughts had already moved ahead to what must be gathered and set aside: rice, tea, smoked fish, dried fruits, all things that could be stored for a time, if needed. “will the hand speak to the king on tarth’s behalf, with our answer?” she asked evenly. even with fear and frustration coiled beneath her composure, she chose the language of unity; despite distance and difference between them, she trusted akhirah. her gaze did not leave him as she finished, voice calm and precise. “or will you give our refusal its voice yourself?”

[fortheakhirah]

☯

akhirah of tarth did not know whether his sister within these halls had always been the one to show little - there was never moments, at least of which he could remember, which made him think sora had ever been the emotive sort. the type to burst from the seams, or find herself unable to withhold what rambles were coming from her tongue. "wylliam swann objected, at least openly and clearly..." he clarified, a hand moving to rest upon his bearded jaw as he considered the narrative of events. that conversation by the rushing banks of the mander.

"but he's never thought revolt was the method we ought to use." akhirah took no personal offence at the stance of the hand, simply because it fitted with his previous pattern of behaviour and thoughts. they would have to do this without the backing of him.

"the lord paramount seemed unclear. as though he was making up his mind." in this moment though, he wished that something would give away how she was feeling: the man was never the most adapt at understanding and reading women, and whilst society often deemed them the fairer and more gentle sex, he wished he had something more to grasp onto in this moment. instead, it were as though she merely responded with more questions - questions to gain her footing, questions to gauge where they would be on a greater scheme. "he's got time. none of us are planning on offensively picking up arms against the crown." that did not mean arms would not be used against them - and thus was the reason he picked the term offensively.

he briefly thought of morgan wylde, and what steps he would make next to solidify his stance - there was little room to remain undecided now. and that thought slowly even made him feel a sense of nerves.

did she not entirely approve of the decision he had made? was she displeased with the fact he had made the decision himself without consulting her? it was entirely within his right as ruling lord to make those decisions in what he thought was best, but in this brief moment of reflection, there was ample space to sit and converse with his sister about the decisions that would be made in the name of their house. only, akhirah knew all too well why he had decided this himself - because he could not afford to allow anyone the opportunity to try and talk him out of it. one moment of weakness and the walls of self preservation would swarm over all.

"yes, lord swann will speak to the king first. i will also send forward a written stance to the master of coin, and to the lord hand. i don't trust him to not do anything and edit the document himself." this did not have to become something larger than it was: he was only refusing to give what they did not have. all they needed was one person to openly say they could no longer afford this - it could start a wider effect. and even if it did not, it would send enough of a message. "if there is a summons, i will attend." he had no intention of painting himself the traitor, after all. whatever they decided to paint him as.

"did you not have a friendship with the queen once?"

[fortheakhirah]

who: @ulises-trant context: the lord of tarth pays a visit to ulises trant in gallowsgrey. set after the verdant concord in the reach, akhirah's journeys means he needs to take a break at gallowsgrey first. "the enemy of my enemy is my friend,"

the sound of hooves hammering against pebbles was almost heard, if it were not for the sound of the storm hammering down from the gap that had opened up from the heavens - and yet, if akhirah tarth were the sort of man who looked for signs and symbols in more than he could understand, he wondered why was it the heavens were upset with them this time. the mud squelched at his boots as he slipped from his steed, hardly able to hear the words of the other as they continued their conversation through, even into the stables. it was little secret that the stormlanders were baring the brunt of an increasing taxation, and the stormlanders were not the sort to bare it quietly.

"you know, i've already spoken to sora of it." his gloved hands moved to hold onto the reins of his steed, his voice having to raise to be heard over the blast of winds that threatened to send them both headfirst into the barrels of hay in gallowsgrey's main courtyard.

the dark green cloak he wore around his broad shoulders was soaked down to the bone, and he was wholly aware of the fact he probably appeared a drowned rat as he spoke to his gracious companion - somewhere along the journey, they had gone from speaking of formalities to speaking what truly plagued the both of them, and that was nothing other than the policies and existence of a certain master of coin. "aye, she's quite jumpy…" his voice muttered towards a stableboy who attempted to take hold of the reins of his horse, causing noises of alarm to come from the beast. "slow down, calm yourself. cmon." akhirah uttered, his gloved hand still on the reins as he attempted to once again pass the reins over - if there was one thing akhirah tarth was not particularly skilled at, it was calming down animals. they did not suit him, and he did not suit them.

"we've spoken of preparing supplies incase it comes down to it, and other steps." he did not openly speak of picking up arms, or having to defend his keep from a siege - to besiege an island would already be a hazardous affair, yet he did not trust even for a moment that the valyrians would not find some method to their madness. to their sense of ownership, and belonging in a land where they were nothing but foreign invaders. whilst he did not ask outwardly what sort of hit gallowsgrey had taken as a result of maximus celtigar's evergrowing hands, a part of him did wonder what exactly happened to the backbone and strength of the stormlanders.

whilst he had insisted that none needed to openly join him in defiance, there was a small, almost guilty part of him which felt a sense of growing ire toward his fellow people- since the execution of lord caron, it were as though they had all merely been drawn of any breath. the backs they once held so high had cowered and bent to permanently bend. and, perhaps it were the storm only thundering further in his ears, he did not think he could take much more of it. "and your men?" he asked, his question obvious but vague all at once.

[craneofsteel]

sora inclined her head at his question, a measured gesture that acknowledged both his concern and the unspoken etiquette beneath it. she had not intended to eat, not yet, but to leave him alone with his meal would be discourteous, and discourtesy between them carried more weight than most. she lifted her hand slightly, signaling to the nearest attendant with a soft word for something light, fruit and bread, nothing that would truly break her discipline but enough to share the table. inwardly, she noted how easily he unsettled the order of her morning simply by arriving unexpectedly. outwardly, she remained composed, cup cradled between her palms. “it is earlier than i prefer,” she said evenly, “but not so early as to make a guest uncomfortable in eating alone.”

she listened as he spoke of the wind, of the journey, of being here at all, and allowed the polite rhythm of it to settle. small talk had always been their armor. manners and discipline taught from a young age that seemed to come far more easily for akhirah than it did her, even now, though it never showed. not anymore. sora let her gaze drift briefly to the window he had complimented, the pale light slanting in from the sea, before returning to him. “the light is kind at this hour,” she agreed. “it does much of the work for me.” it was easier to discuss stone and sun than the jump to reason he had risked the crossing. still, curiosity pressed at her thoughts, a quiet, persistent thing she kept carefully leashed.

when the tray was set before her as well, modest and unassuming, she thanked the attendant and waited until the room had stilled again. she did not miss the way akhirah lowered his voice, nor the fact that he made no effort to clear the space. if this concerned the isle, then the isle would hear of it soon enough. at his question, her expression did not change, but something sharpened behind her eyes. of course this was to do with their new king and council. lord celtigar’s reach had grown long, and not by accident.

“enough,” she answered after a brief pause, choosing honesty without embellishment. “the crown’s debts do not disappear simply because they are inconvenient. they are being paid in coin drawn from banners that can least afford to protest.” she took a small bite of fruit, more for show than hunger, and set it aside. she had read the notices, heard the murmurs from captains and stewards alike. stormland levies raised under the language of necessity, enforced with a zeal that suggested something more desperate beneath it. “tarth’s contribution has increased,” she continued calmly, “as have the expectations placed upon it.”

she folded her hands again, posture straight, every inch the lady of the keep. she wondered how deep this ran, whether this was merely another tightening of the crown’s fist, or the prelude to something far more dangerous. taxes could be survived. scrutiny could not. she studied her brother as he ate, as if weighing him against the unspoken shape of the problem. he had not crossed rough seas for figures and ledgers alone.

“what will tarth’s response to this be?” she asked at last. tarth, deliberately stated, because whatever decision its lord made, they would all live within its wake. agreement was secondary to loyalty; he was her lord and her brother, and where he led, she would follow. she lifted her cup again, meeting his gaze over its rim. whatever this was, it was no longer his concern alone. by stepping into her morning, into her hall, he had already made that much clear.

[fortheakhirah]

☯

he remained completely silent as she spoke, ensuring he was not chewing too loudly on his mackerel which was salted perfectly to his taste, ensuring to listen carefully to each word she spoke and prioritising what was needed and what actually was not worth a response. a small part of him recognised that his unannounced visit had no doubt disrupted her usual routine, something the tarths of the isle took incredibly seriously - even in his spontaneity, there was a rigid structure and routine to it most times.

"your hospitality at this early hour is appreciated, sora. i will try to be more timely next time." the dance of politeness continued, and whilst it was surface level, it was not laced in falsehood; he would take her own schedule and preferences more into account the next time he returned from a venture, even if the situation were urgent. some things could wait, and upon reflection, he wondered whether this was truly urgent enough to show up at her door early in the morning - it was merely the start of something. or was it needed?

it was needed; he quietly settled. she had not been in the loop regarding their home whilst he was away, and now was the time she needed to know what would be happening. his back straightened then, taking a moment to pause his focus from the food - it would be impolite to continue speaking on their next topic over food, and the miso could do with some more time to cool down. so he leaned back comfortably against the pillow behind him, enough to indicate he was comfortable, but with enough of a line that he did not appear as though he were lousing around in his own chambers.

his arms crossed over one another as they remained across his lap, listening carefully to each thing said by his sister as she expressed what it was she knew.

"debt to the west, of all kings." akhirah commented, as though to add to the point she had made: the most unpractical of all, something the dragon conqueror was desperate to unravel from around him. but at what cost? he nodded in acknowledgement, as though to confirm what she had heard was the truth - the geld had been levied unevenly across new valyria, leaving most banners of the stormlands to carry the burden. the panels of royal commissioners sent to each circuit of the realm had been trained with scrutiny, and it had resulted in widespread resentment and economic hardship.

"it's resulted in many of the free folk having great dependence on their lords, who are too, strained. there is limited mobility - whilst they could be encouraged to shift to kings landing to find work, they cannot even afford the journey." he leaned forward to have some of the tea, as though to give his sister some time to digest the information he shared. he thought it important to pause between communication, to allow the other time to digest - his own mind thought of his conversations with minthara estermont and tirius rowan, as well as his most recent conversaiton where he had laid down his final judgement - despite the pleading of the hand of the king.

"and we too have felt strain. prices have risen i hear, due to demand - but few can afford common items. the price of a plough being sold, i saw myself when coming through the villages..." he trailed off, his mouth momentarily drying. angry smallfolk were dangerous, but so was a dangerous king, was it not? what path would he tread? it was looking upon sora that was throwing him off, knowing he would be dragging her into it. and so he thought of his next words carefully, clearing his throat as he watched the steam rise from the cup he placed back down. and then, he spoke as though he spoke to a partner.

"i have decided we, and our smallfolk, will not be paying the increase. to keep things moving, the smallfolk will pay the original rate made in the last month of the late queen. we will use it so important more food in - because we will not be paying the crown anything." there was the sound of bells from the courtyard, and the sound of a bong being hit - the prayers had started, and it were almost perfect timing, for he knew they would need them. "the hand and the lord paramount both know."

[craneofsteel]

the mornings on tarth were a gift she never took lightly. sora moved through her routine with practiced calm; prayer spoken softly while the horizon blushed gold, a measured stretch of meditation as the sea breathed in and out below her balcony, tea poured and allowed to steep just so. she scattered seed along the low stone rail of her private gardens for the birds that gathered there each dawn, a familiar flutter of wings and quiet chirring answering her presence. the isle’s isolation had always been its blessing; it kept the world at bay, let her hear her own thoughts. and yet, some mornings, it pressed close in its stillness, a loneliness she acknowledged and then set aside like an unneeded blade.

she was enjoying the salt heavy air, extra heavy with the presence of looming clouds and rougher seas, when the sound reached her. it was distant, but unmistakable. a single drumbeat. sora stilled, fingers pausing mid-motion as the birds scattered in a flurry. her brow knit faintly. the waters had been restless; she knew that as well as any sailor. akhirah had not been expected until tomorrow at the earliest. the fact that he had come at all, and through such conditions, settled uneasily in her chest. he had always been willing to take risks, but that willingness rarely came without cause. she set the seed bowl aside and turned toward the door, her calm held together by discipline rather than ease.

when she opened it and found him there, freshly arrived and already carrying the weight of intention, she inclined her head first, proper and composed. “akhirah,” sora said, voice even, as if she had stated a restrained my lord rather than uttering her own brother’s name. her eyes searched him briefly, taking in the signs of travel he might not bother to notice himself. the formality between them was as natural as breath now, learned young, reinforced by distance and unspoken tensions, but beneath it lay the familiar pride of shared blood, even when paths diverged. she stepped aside without hesitation. “you are welcome. please, come in.”

her wing of the keep bore the marks of constant use: low tables set with scrolls and folded cloth, her naginata resting in its place along the wall, free of dust or neglect. cushions were arranged with care but without any sort of ceremony. it was the quiet evidence of a life actually lived within its walls. the scent of tea and incense lingered in the air. sora gestured him inside and closed the door behind them, the sounds of the sea softening once more. “you’ve arrived earlier than expected,”  she noted, observational, though beneath it lay a clear understanding. this was not a message meant for raven, nor a visit made for pleasantries. she could scarcely recall the last of those. “the waters were unkind this morning.”

she moved to pour another cup, setting it before his place before taking her own seat. the birds had already begun to return to the rail outside, curious and unafraid. sora folded her hands neatly in her lap, posture straight, gaze steady on her brother. “it’s strong,” she said quietly. “the tea.” inwardly, her heart thudded a little faster, though nothing of it showed, another thing she had mastered with time, alongside her once fiery temper. now, more than anything, she felt wary concern rather than a flare of irritation at the sudden arrival. “well,” she continued evenly, “what news do you bring?” and she wondered, not for the first time, who had died, or what distant shore called to him next, or whether, against all expectation, he meant to say he would finally stay.

[fortheakhirah]

☯

the sound of the birds chattering away through the open doors and windows played some strange backdrop against the scene that was unfolding before him; a flurry of movement as she indicated for tea, when in reality he felt his stomach squeezing and making quiet noises out of hunger rather than thirst, and still he only bowed again out of respect when she was willing to call for anything to be given to him. a gracious host in her quarter of the hall she had played, and she had always played; it was rare he visited her in such occasions in such scenarios, and yet usually he did so when he was sharing his intentions of taking up another quest on behalf of one who asked it of him. he did not request gold, only a mere favour back someday as was usual in the realm of chivalry and knighthood; only this may be the most treacherous of quests he had chosen to undertake.

and in doing so, for the first time, he would not be undertaking it alone - for he knew they would not see them a seperate entities, but a unit. collusion, perhaps even the word that would submit them to the mercy of a dragon king considering what the sentence would be.

he sat formally across from his sister as the attendants began to quietly pour the tea, before bowing in their own way; before the most experienced left however, akhirah asked quietly for some food to be brought alongside the food. in his mind, he thought it better than to ask sora to have it ordered when she had already intended for it to merely be a tea ceremony - however the man needed food. his stomach was rumbling, and he was not the type to be as patient when he was hungry. 'you have kept your quarters in good condition. there is good lighting from that window." it were not as though he did not know what to say, it was rather the opposite: it was polite and good manners to thank and compliment one's abode when they were playing host to you.

this was only natural, part of their very weaving; their parents had raised them to ensure they remained graceful and civil, rather than yelling and play fighting with one another - and it had stuck, even as they had aged. he leaned back as the tea began to be poured, and he thanked sora once more before beginning to drink from it.

"yes, the wind in particular offered me no patience." akhirah nodded, almost engaging in useless small talk before coming to the true crux of the matter; he noted she had recognised the weather and considered his wellbeing, and he found himself grateful for it. he too thought often of her wellbeing when he was travelling and away, though there was no place that would be safer for her than their own sapphire isle. "but i am here." it was then a tray of food arrived, placed before the lord; he did not consider whether sora too wanted some food, as he had only insisted on one serving - if she were hungry, surely she would have just insisted they break their fast together? he looked down upon his usual breakfast, picking up his chopsticks and mixing the grilled fish with the rice as he awaited for the soup to cool. when she asked the question, he nodded in acknowledgement, as though to assure her that he would tell her the whole story and leave nothing out.

"is it still too early in the day for you to break fast?" he asked, looking upon her cup of tea and realising he did not quite like eating in front of her when she was not.

he put his food down, ensuring to lower his voice - he did not ask for the servants or attendants to leave, for they would know. they would hear, and he believed it their right to know what may soon be forming in the skies over their home. they need be swift and prepared to answer, lest they be questioned by the king's sadistic tax man. "what do you know of lord celtigar's taxation policy regarding the stormland banners?" he asked, wishing to gauge how much she knew so to tailor his explanation as such.

[fortheakhirah]

who: @craneofsteel when and where: the isle of tarth, following akhirah's meeting with the hand of the king and the lord paramount of the stormlands, akhirah tarth decides it time to break some news to his sister.

dawn light spilled like molten gold across the isle of tarth, turning its pale cliffs the color of burnished pearl as the ruling lord pulled into the bay; he had sailed through some conditions he probably should have tried to wait out from a safe distance, however the man felt as though he were transfixed on one thing he needed to do - he could not risk another managing to put quill to parchment and passing on the message to her before he did. this was a moment with a gravity he felt all too well, as though he were a rock that could be tossed to the bottom of the depths with the sense of weight he felt upon his shoulders; it did not have to be him, that he knew.

logically, it could have been any other lord of the stormlanders to do this - and all he could do was hope that eventually, he could inspire some change. and yet still, he did not expect others to follow in his steps: a heroic curse, was one that plagued akhirah of house tarth, as though he were a crane that threatened to fly far too close to the sun that could burn his wings. still, at least he would land in the sea.

the sea breathed softly against stepped stone quays, where slender minarets rose beside tiered pagoda towers, their eaves curved like the wings of cranes in flight. silk banners stitched with crescent moons and sunbursts fluttered above tiled roofs of indigo and jade. the scent of salt mingled with incense drifting from harbor shrines, where carved wooden spirits stood beside intricate mosaics of lapis and onyx; the smoke from them made it clear they had only been in use some minutes earlier, that he could tell by the mere scent. and still, as he seemed to chase the rising sun with the speed in which he climbed the mighty steps leading up to the main keep, he again risked flying too close. too quickly. for akhirah tarth knew that this was the only one of the things he needed to do this day.

and the most tremendous, being a letter. a letter that once sent, could not be taken back - and he would watch the bird until it was no longer in his sight. he bowed his head in respect toward the eldery servants, those who had raised the two of them under the same sun for years, before continuing to walk towards a not so familiar wing; it was rare he stalked this part of the hall, and yet he knew she would be awake, for he had seen the cluster of birds within her private garden eating their morning feast. he stood outside the door of her private apartments, not considering that it was too early to wish to speak of such serious matters, but his back straightened nonetheless as giant drum was beat once to announce his presence. he heard the sounds of a windcatcher above him as he waited. and thought. would he need to try and send her to duty? she would insist to fight alongside him, if it came to it; but they could not both risk perishing and being swept up in treachery.

and yet still, he was stubbornly prideful in his notion of honour: they would both stand united in intention. whilst survival would call on her to make it clear to the valyrians she played no role in this, he knew they had been raised to perish together if need be. and so he waited until he heard the door open, before bowing in the presence of the lady of evenfall hall, bringing his hands to clasp together. there was a formality between them, as there always had been; it was in their custom, to address one another with titles and terms of respect. "forgive me sora, for i know it is not long since sunrise - but know i bring news."

it was then he indicated toward her chambers, and for a moment his gaze remained fixed on a new type of bird within her chambers. what bird was that? he did not think even he knew. "may i enter?"

[intothewylde]

morgan sat still, eyes on the water as if measuring its pull. “too late or not,” he said plainly, “once a river picks up speed, you don’t stop it by standing in front of it. you reroute it, brace the banks, or it floods everything in its way.” his voice held no flourish, just observation. he looked between them both. “right now, the tax is the current. you can plant your feet against it, akhirah, but if it sweeps you, it won’t just take you. it’ll take whoever’s holding on behind you too.”

he glanced toward wylliam then, acknowledging him with a slight incline of his head. “will’s been sandbagging the river for us at court. it’s thankless work, and it won’t hold forever. he knows it. i know it.” his brow furrowed slightly, the closest morgan came to showing strain. “but a single man can’t hold a flood back. not with ledgers or titles.”

turning toward akhirah again, his voice remained level, not unkind. “where your people bleed, you’re right not to ignore it. but if the crown names it refusal instead of protection, they’ll send collectors with swords instead of quills. and once soldiers start marching, getting them turned around again costs more than coin.” he drew in a breath, steady. “we survive by knowing when to give ground and when to reinforce it. not by taking the whole strain on one hall alone.”

morgan shifted, watching a fallen branch caught in the faster current, spinning helplessly until it snagged against a rock. “you don’t need to kneel,” he said, quiet but firm. “but if you plant your hall like a rock in the center of the flow, don’t be surprised when the river tears the foundation before it bends course.” he lifted his gaze to wylliam once more. “if we’re to hold, it has to be together. stormlanders setting the terms, here, before someone else sets them for us.”

his eyes swept the bank, then both men. “so if this isn’t rebellion, and it isn’t submission either, then we decide, now, what it is. and what we’re willing to risk to keep it from turning into something worse.” he fell quiet again, letting the rush of water fill what didn’t need to be said twice.

the lord of the rain house ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands as if the motion could steady the tension coiling in his chest. he let out a low breath, shoulders tightening for a moment before loosening again to speak. “our numbers are greater than theirs, even if our coin isn’t,” he admitted, voice quiet, almost swallowed by the rush of the river. “that’s what keeps me up some nights, the thought that we could have the people but not the means, and the crown will still call us out of line. we can’t pretend that strength alone solves everything.” he pressed his palms against his thighs, leaning slightly forward, as if the weight of that simple truth threatened to pull him under.

@malcontentswanns

[malcontentswanns]

➳

wylliam swann stood with the mander at his back, the river’s roar needling at his thoughts as akhirah’s words settled heavy in the air. he felt them not as rhetoric but as weight, the kind that lodged behind the breastbone and refused to shift. he dragged a hand through his hair, dislodging it from its careful order, then pushed his spectacles up with a sharp, habitual motion, buying himself a breath before answering. “look, don’t mistake me,” he said at last, his foot slightly tossing a rock into the stream and he watched how quickly it was carried away - and in that small brief moment, he never found himself relating to an inanimate object more. he turned back to akhirah, frustration leaking now, thin and bright. "we aren't talking about numbers. we aren't even going to consider that."

“you say it’s too late, but you’re making it later still. you’re forcing a line to be drawn with your name at the top of it, and i don’t know if you realise how dangerous that is.” he stepped closer, boots pressing into damp earth, ignoring the slight feeling of a raindrop rolling from the bridge of his nose. when had it started raining? he was not even entirely sure yet. he just could not bring himself to understand how akhirah would think this a worthwhile move, all whilst not knowing what he was dealing with - how could he, when he was isolated on tarth? how could he understand jaehaerys targaryen's reaction from the isolation akhirah tarth moulded himself around?

“i don’t doubt your care for your people. seven hells, i believe you. but belief doesn’t stop soldiers. belief doesn’t stop collectors turning into men with swords.” his jaw tightened, “you think i enjoy this? i’m a stormlander too. i want our people to be better off than they are, but giving them even an inch..." he trailed off, letting out an exasperated sound as he could hardly get his words into the correct order he wished for them to come out. there was so much happening in his mind, so much he wanted to say and try and get across, and yet it felt as though his words had failed and betrayed him.

he glanced briefly at morgan again, voice easing despite the tension in his shoulders. “what you said about the king is true. he listens poorly...pretends he listens but, doesn't really. not always. and he listens least to those he thinks already lost. that’s the problem. once they mark you as defiant, you stop being heard at all.” he exhaled sharply, fingers flexing as if he wanted to seize the thought and shake it into order. “i can argue mitigation. i can argue adjustment. i cannot argue exception forever, not when one lord refuses outright. it makes every stormlander look like they’re testing the same edge.” wylliam ruffled his hair again, the gesture betraying how fixated he’d become, and forced himself to still.

“we already knelt, long ago." he said bluntly; there was no use in pretending the spirit of independence would do them any well. it would be selling mere dreams and delusion, nothing more and nothing less. he had never entertained such thoughts, and now he still would not. “you won’t call it rebellion, but the crown may, and intent won’t matter. the carons thought they were right too. you remember how that ended.” he paused again, attempting to knit his words together, despite feeling like he merely wanted to walk away from his conversation and that he was talking to a wall. he could tell by the look on their faces, they weren't listening - they did not understand.

"don’t give them cause to brand you a traitor. pay, loudly protest, document every wound, and let me take that into rooms you refuse to enter.” he adjusted his spectacles again, a precise motion after the disorder. “but you cannot be the only stormlander not paying. i can’t shield you if that is the case."

@fortheakhirah

[fortheakhirah]

☯

the rain had begun without ceremony, a fine mist at first, clinging to his lashes and darkening the leather of his gloves. akhirah stood unmoving with it, the river’s voice steady behind wylliam’s words, and he let the man finish without interruption. he did not bristle, nor did he retreat; instead, he felt the familiar settling of something final inside his chest, the same feeling he had known the day he first chose duty over ease. when he spoke, his voice was low, even, and carried no heat. “i understand exactly what you’re saying, will,” he said, eyes fixed on the water as if it were a ledger that refused to lie. “i know why you stand where you do. i know you are trying to keep me from being the lone nail that gets hammered down.”

he turned then, slowly, the reins creaking softly in his grip as his horse shifted. “and i know why you don’t want tarth standing alone,” he continued, his tone firm but not dismissive; there was no mockery in it, only acknowledgement. “i would not ask any lord of the stormlands to put themselves on that line. not caron, not wylde, not swann. i will not be the man who demands sacrifice from others while counting my own courage as currency.” his gaze slid to morgan then, steady and unflinching, and something quieter threaded through his voice.

“especially not you,” he said plainly. “i won’t ask you to plant your hall where mine now stands.” the admission sat heavy, deliberate, and he did not dress it up. he had no interest in shared martyrdom, no appetite for dragging good men down with him to soften his own fall.

he drew a breath, rain cooling the back of his neck, and squared his shoulders. “but knowing all of that does not change my answer,” he went on. “i will not pay the tax. not now, not quietly, not with a protest letter tucked beneath the coin as if that absolves the act. i won’t pretend compliance is wisdom when it guts my people. you speak of soldiers, will, and collectors with swords. i hear you. i have weighed that outcome, and i am not ignorant of the cost.” his jaw tightened, not in anger, but resolve. “i simply find the alternative worse.” he let the reins slacken slightly, the horse settling as if it too sensed the end of the argument drawing near.

“there is no use in us walking this circle again,” he said, not unkindly. his eyes lifted, meeting wylliam’s at last. “my decision is made."

the river surged on, relentless, uncaring of crowns or councils, and he gestured to it faintly. “i will take the weight of this on my hall alone. you do not have to like it. you do not have to defend it. but you will not convince me otherwise.” he inclined his head, a small, respectful gesture that did not concede an inch. “do what you must at court, will. argue mitigation, adjustment, delay. keep the stormlands breathing where you can.” his grip tightened once more on the reins, anchoring himself.

@intothewylde

[intothewylde]

morgan shifted his weight slightly, boots sinking a little deeper into the damp earth as he watched the gnats swirl and scatter over the reeds. he did not speak at once. instead, his eyes followed the sweep of the current, the way the mander surged forward with its restless push and pull. “the river’s fast here because of the bend, the riverbed is also rockier, easier for the water to glide over,” he said at last, his tone quiet, almost reflective. “narrow banks, a sharper turn upstream. it drives the water harder. where it widens, or where the riverbed is muddy, it slows.” his fingers brushed absently at his sleeve, though he did not swat at the insects as akhirah had. his gaze flicked to the crushed body of the one akhirah had killed, and there was the faintest downturn of his mouth, hardly a frown, but enough to betray that he noticed.

“they don’t mean harm,” morgan murmured, as though speaking more to himself than to akhirah. “we're just in their way.” he let it go after that, shoulders drawing back with a breath as he forced the thought aside. he wasn’t one for scolding or sentimentality, but some small part of him bristled at the casual end of a thing so small and persistent. he turned his eyes back to the water, letting the silence settle a moment longer.

“the king…” he began, but the word caught in his throat before it could shape into anything else. morgan shifted again, this time glancing at akhirah with a weariness he did not bother to disguise. “it didn’t go well.” the admission was blunt, but his voice remained low, level, as if even here the grass and the wind might carry his words back to the wrong ears. “i thought i’d prepared myself for it, knew the whispers, knew what was being said in the halls before i even set foot in them.” his jaw tightened. “but still, it surprised me. that i was surprised.”

he exhaled through his nose, uncharacteristically frustrated, for one so often calm and collected. “there was no reassurance in that room, no listening, no room for reason.” his hand closed loosely around a reed, thumb running along its edge until it bent under the pressure. “i’ve been thinking since i left what it is he actually expects of us stormlanders, and i’ve yet to find an answer that doesn’t leave a sour taste in my mouth.”

it was the most he said of the conversation since it had occurred, and after a moment, morgan’s eyes returned to the rushing water, its surface bright and fractured under the sun. he let silence fill the space between them for a few moments before his eyes caught the lanky figure of wylliam swann approaching along the treeline, the hand of the king moving with careful, thoughtful steps. morgan raised a hand in greeting, deliberate and steady. “oh look, here comes will, now."

@malcontentswanns

[malcontentswanns]

➳

wylliam swann descended the slope toward the riverbank with the deliberate gait of a man who would rather be anywhere else, but knew that duty left him no such mercy. the damp grass clung to his boots and the air was thick with that sour, buzzing quiet that followed tension long before words gave it form. he saw the two figures waiting—a contrast in composure and temperament if ever there was one. morgan wylde, steady as a carved stone, his manner always too mild for the stormlands’ reputation; and beside him, akhirah tarth, standing as if the ground beneath him were his own battlement. wylliam’s eyes lingered on him a fraction too long before he spoke.

“morgan,” he greeted, his voice clipped but not unkind as he reached the bottom of the slope. “you look the same as ever—calm as the godswood, though i can’t say the same for the rest of our kin.” the faintest twitch of a smile threatened his mouth before fading as his gaze shifted to akhirah. “and you, lord tarth. it’s been some time since you’ve deigned to leave your isle.” there was warmth nowhere in his tone—rather scathing sarcasm at the man who had been so intended to making himself a target he had made them all one. he stopped beside them, his hands folding neatly behind his back.

the sound of the mander filled the silence that followed, a ceaseless reminder that even the calmest surface could carry undercurrents strong enough to drown a man. he studied the river a moment before saying, “you know, morgan, you could give half the maesters in the capital a lecture on river currents. at least yours would be worth listening to.” but the humour was brief, swallowed by the seriousness that shadowed his next words. “as for the currents of men and money, well, those seem far less obedient.” his gaze turned fully on akhirah now, sharp and assessing - a frazzled bundle of irritation and desperation, all at once.

“i’ve heard the news from tarth. or rather, i’ve heard the lack of it. no coin, no tithe, no common sense.” the edge in his voice was unmistakable—an irritation born less of authority than of weary disappointment. “i’ve spent months keeping the stormlands out of the king’s mouth, and you—” he gestured vaguely toward the river, as if the water might carry the weight of his frustration away “—you go and set yourself apart like you’re itching for the crown to notice you.”

he knew how it sounded—accusation, not advice—but there was no helping it. wylliam had always struggled with diplomacy when dealing with his own. it was easier to scold a lannister than to rebuke a stormlander; easier still to feign distance with men who weren’t raised on the same salt and fury that bred him. “what is this then?” he continued, his tone tightening, a gloved hand indicating to the three of them stood there on the banks of the mander. “is this rebellion or pride? because if it’s the former, i’ve had enough of rebellion to last a lifetime.”

wylliam finally met akhirah’s eyes again, his tone less scathing now, but heavy with warning. “you don’t have to like it. i don’t. but you’ll pay, and you....you need to just pay it, akhirah. better to lose some coin than your head. you’re not the only one of us with a temper, but i’d like to think you’re one with sense.” then, quieter, almost begrudgingly, “if you want to change something, do it where it matters. make them hear you at court. force them respect you, because jaehaerys- he can be talked around. it's the right of the valyrians we need to just swat away, like these bloody bugs."

@fortheakhirah

[fortheakhirah]

☯

the mander bit at the bank with a steady, urgent voice, and akhirah stood with the reins coiled in his hand as if the leather itself could bind his resolve. his cloak smelled faintly of salt and damp, and the horse shifted beneath him, impatient in a way that mirrored the restlessness pressing at the back of his skull. he let the river speak for a moment, letting its motion settle the hot words that had been thrown at him; then he unfurled himself and answered, quiet but without apology. "it's too late."

“i know what you think, will, and i know where your patience comes from,” he said, his voice even as the line of his jaw set; “you think the court will fix what celtigar has broken because numbers and manners soothe a king. you plead practicality, and i see the sense in your ledger. you’d rather feed the dragon a little than watch the dragon burn the village.” but a dragon was a dragon - he could not pretend any further.

he shifted his weight and watched the light catch in the water, thinking of the farmers who had come to tarth with empty baskets, the fishermen whose nets had been taxed until the holes mattered less than the take-home. “but my backbone does not bend to appetite where my people bleed,” he continued, his tone planting itself like a stake in the riverbank. “i will not take coin from the mouths of my own, pile it into another man’s vault, and call it wisdom. that is not stewardship; that is starvation.” he let the words sit between them, sharp as a drawn blade, and felt the small tightening in morgan’s face at the admission that this was no simple refusal but a pledge.

the memory of morgan’s report—the hollowed room at court, the king’s distracted eyes—was a small stone in his gut that doubled his certainty. “morgan just told me how the king listened,” he said, voice lower now, narrower with the cold of disappointment as a gloved hand indicated towards the lord of rain house. “he told me of a room where the king, didnt listen. if jaehaerys’ ear is tied by those who profit from our plight, what faith do i owe a council that polishes ledgers and ignores hunger?” he let the sound of the river answer him, filling the pause with its indifferent truth. there was no hint of a politicians diplomacy in his tone, no assumption that akhirah tarth should be anywhere but his own hall, or on the battlefield. no council chamber.

he bent his head slightly, imagining the ledger-keeping men of the capital, men who balanced names as if they were pieces on a board. he shook his head against the mander's wind and flow at the idea of him going forward to court. “i will not trade the agency of tarth for the fleeting approval of men who count loyalty by coin. i will not venture to the capital, until the taxes have been lifted, or made equal with those houses within the crownlands." he realised it was not about valyrian lineage - for even the estermonts had to pay the taxes, and they shared the same blood.

“i will not call for a rebellion,” he added, slower, deliberate. “we will keep our houses fed, we will reroute what we can, we will tighten sails and hold councils in our own halls. we will refuse to be the treasury for a tax that crushes our people.” there was a beat, and then a slight exhale. "and if that is to be painted as rebellion, then..." the certainty in his voice was tempered by the knowledge of consequence—he had weighed it as carefully as any blade before choosing to press. he paused, the river folding sound into the dusk, and drew breath as if to throw a final, firm thread across the space. “help me then, will—if you still can. bring what sense and counsel you have to the table here, with us, not merely from the king’s chair. do not ask me to kneel where my knees would happily be broken."

@intothewylde

[fortheakhirah]

who: @malcontentswanns / @intothewylde when and where: the lords of the stormlands meet by the rushing banks of the mander, miles away from the bustling gathering of the verdant concord. akhirah tarth and morgan wyde are already there, awaiting for the arrival of the hand, lord wylliam swann. context: the tide is turning in the stormlands - a small decision by akhirah tarth has started a ripple.

the banks of the mander were alive with the restless rush of water, a ceaseless roar that pressed against the ears and gave rhythm to the silence between two men. akhirah tarth stood with the reins of his horse wound loosely about his hand, the animal shifting its weight now and then, its dark eyes reflecting the flickering light of the river. beside him, morgan wyde seemed at war with his own patience, his gaze flicking irritably from the drifting current to the faint swarm of gnats that hovered about the reeds. akhirah could see it for what it was—morgan’s constant battle to seem unbothered whilst every twitch of his hand betrayed the nuisance.

the stormlander lord had learned to watch men quietly, not with suspicion but with that same calm distance he kept from the sea when he felt its temper growing. now, as they lingered together on the grass that sloped down to the water’s edge, he found the silence stretched enough to warrant words. it were painstakingly obvious what they were all here to discuss; the fact that as of now, not a single bit of coin had been sent forward to the master of coin's collectors - to the king's collectors. a summons had not yet been received from the halls of kings landing, but they all knew it was a matter of time.

“it's moving fast, ain't it?” he remarked, his voice measured, carrying as much observation as it did intent; both of his arms crossed together over his torso almost defensively, as though his mood was beginning to reflect in the rush of the currents. he did not know why rivers moved so fast and why some did not, though he knew the lord of rain house would very much know - whilst he was not one for distraction, something felt needed to distract themselves from what felt like impending doom. from akhirah standing his ground, refusing to change his mind despite seeing it from the others point of view - it would be the beginning of a dangerous chapter, one the carons had already suffered from. “why's it do that?”

he let the words hang there, knowing morgan would likely shift them back toward the waiting at hand. akhirah had always preferred stillness to chatter, but he also knew this meeting was no mere courtesy. wylliam swann had summoned them, under the banner of duty if not unity, and it was not often that akhirah agreed to travel this far away from his own isle. he was, in many ways, estranged from such gatherings—his refusal to attend king’s landing was known well enough—but this was different. akhirah swiped briefly at his sleeve as another insect hovered too close, killing it with the quickest swat - before remembering who he had done such a thing before. akhirah let his mouth tilt into the faintest ghost of a smile, trying not to find the matter amusing. "sorry - i don't like the buzzing."

he turned slightly, his gaze following the bend of the mander until the treeline swallowed it from view, looking for the direction in which wylliam swann would be approaching them - he was the last to show up to their hunting spot, and akhirah found himself resisting the urge to stray from their meeting spot and merely meet the man half way, considering it would probably be faster. "and how'd your meeting with the king feel? make you feel reassured, morgan?”

[villanela]

𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐖 𝐊𝐎𝐉𝐈 , gif  pack .

in the source link you'll find 𝟗𝟑 𝐆𝐈𝐅𝐒 of 𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐖 𝐊𝐎𝐉𝐈 in 𝐆𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐍 (𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝟑). all of them were made by me from scratch, for roleplay purposes. 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 repost, edit in any way or claim as your own. and if you find them useful, a 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 / 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆 would be much appreciated. — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 : gun, violence, blood, choking, wounds, partial nudity.

[saffroninsilk]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[fortheakhirah]

☯

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[saffroninsilk]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[fortheakhirah]

☯

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[saffroninsilk]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

her fingers stilled.

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

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

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

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

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

[fortheakhirah]

☯

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[saffroninsilk]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[fortheakhirah]

☯

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[fortheakhirah]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[mintharaestermont]

"no, i suppose i wouldn't," she conceded. had akhirah greeted her with the same enthusiasm with which she had greeted him, it definitely would have given her pause, left her to wonder what he was trying to tell her without words. "can't really miss the red keep. just keep walking uphill, you'll spot it eventually. but i'll take you there, no problem." she didn't think he truly needed her help to find it, but it was nice to feel like she could be of some help anyway, or at the very least, like her company was welcomed, even if she'd tease and needle and wind him up along the way.

"follow me, then." her steps were light, alternating her gaze between him and the path before them as she manoeuvred their way through the docks, and onto the gravelled path through the city. "yeah, you'd make a shit mummer. you've got the presence for it, but only one facial expression." she'd been missing the sort of familiarity that allowed her to banter with people, and so akhirah was bearing the brunt of her pent up energy, all she had missed since leaving the stormlands. it felt a little like the first gulp of air after resurfacing from diving underwater.

"yeah, no, i guessed they'd just been busy. had a few scribbled words, but the shorter the letters are the more i think there's something they aren't telling me," she wasn't sure why she was telling him this. he was right - an invasion by dornish forces was not likely, but that didn't stop her imagining other conclusions. one ship wreck, one sinking, and she had lost a father and brother in the stepstones, and she knew the king had lucerys out on the waters, at least. it would not even need be the dornish who did it - a storm could be just as dangerous.

she plastered a smile on her face anyway. "nah, you're right. they'll be fine. i'll be fine." and soon enough, she'd be home. she let out a soft snort, shaking her head in a way that had the beads in her braids glimmering in the light. "of course it isn't for me. i'm not exactly blending in well with schemers and snakes." she were far too honest for that, and that was to her own detriment. "maybe you'll do better than me." somehow, she doubted it. they may not have much in common, but they did have that - the simple fact they did not belong here.

the look she gave him then was sharp, almost reproachful, but the light had come back in her eyes, and when she spoke again, it was with laughter on her lips once more. "marry me? akhirah, the only men who'd marry me would need to be a saint or a fool. i'd not have a fool, and this city is running low on saints."

[fortheakhirah]

☯

akhirah listened as they walked, his strides steady against the uneven gravel, though minthara’s words pulled at the rhythm of his thoughts. she spoke freely, too freely, her disdain for the court pouring out with a casualness that unnerved him. their path wound upwards through the city, its din a constant hum in the background, but the real danger came not from the clatter of hooves or the babble of traders—it came from loose tongues. he glanced at her, her light steps almost defiant in their carelessness, her braids catching the sunlight like ripples on the sea.

“you’re honest to a fault, lady minthara,” he began, his tone low and measured, though his words held a firm edge. “but that’s not always a strength in king’s landing. these streets have ears, and they love nothing more than the sound of treachery. if you must air your grievances about the court, at least do so where the stones cannot repeat them.”

his gaze returned to the path ahead, his brow furrowed. her openness might have been refreshing in another place, but here, it felt like walking through a field of thorns with bare feet. “you’re right—we don’t belong here. neither of us.” the words were softer now, an acknowledgment rather than a rebuke; something he had come to accept within himself before he had ever even uttered the words in response to minty. “but we are here, and that means we must tread carefully. this city is a gameboard, and every step is a move. don’t let yours be used against you.” akhirah tarth did not like to consider himself some sort of hero figure; and yet, he did not like the idea of something befalling minthara.

as the incline steepened, she laughed at his mention of marriage, dismissing herself with a quip that made his jaw tighten. he stopped abruptly, turning to face her. the city sprawled behind her, its chaos a backdrop to her deflection. “that kind of talk doesn’t suit you,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less resolute. “belittling yourself as if you’re some lost cause—it’s beneath you.” he stepped closer, allowing his shoulder to be close to hers as he glanced sideways at her. his gaze was steady, searching hers. “you’re no saint, that much is true, and you’d never suffer a fool. but don’t mistake that for unworthiness."

his words hung in the air for a moment before he began walking again, the sharpness of his tone softening as he added, “though perhaps you might temper that spirit—just enough to keep your head on your shoulders. there’s no shame in playing the game, so long as you’re the one holding the dice.” and for a moment he thought about how he had seemed to make himself sound more like his best friend than he could have ever expected. his conversation with tirius rowan remained steadfast in his mind.

[tiriusrowan]

“Wylliam Swann’s genuine nature has earned you nothing,” Tirius said bluntly, his words cutting through the quiet hum of the chamber like a blade. He leaned back slightly, his tone laced with sarcasm as he continued, “Ah, yes. That’s what will tame the dragon—a genuine earnest.” He let out a scoff, his lips curling faintly in disdain at the notion. For a brief moment, his brow furrowed, and his gaze seemed to drift. Being Hand of the King was a dangerous role, one that placed him in the path of whispers and daggers. Sitting on the council meant sitting in a nest of vipers, a position that earned enemies whose faces were often obscured until it was too late. He had learned long ago to approach every conversation like a battlefield, one where words could wound more deeply than steel.

"You Stormlanders,” he said after a pause, his voice sharper now, “carry on about saltwater and dreams of simpler lives. And yet, you cling to your keeps, your titles, your lands. A lord’s life isn’t a simple one, and it never will be. So, yes—this fantasy you cling to will be your undoing. Thinking you are above it all will be your undoing. Believing you’re just simple folk, trying to live quiet lives, will be your undoing.” Tirius’s gaze fixed on the man before him, unyielding. “You’re not farmers or blacksmiths. You’re not smallfolk. You are lords—leaders. Your people look to you for guidance and strength, not for quiet humility. And gods help us all if you forget that.”

With deliberate care, he set down his fork, “I am right, Akhi,” he said, almost soft if only for a moment, a reminder of the familiarity between them. “A man must speak for his lands and his people. Not for the Andal cunt I nearly set my men on.” His voice was steady, but there was an edge of restrained fury in the words. That was the way of Tirius Rowan—not a fighter unless on the battlefield, though he was as well-trained as any lord of the Reach. He had earned his knighthood with steel, but he did not rely on brute strength. No, Tirius was a man who paid brutes. He wielded influence and power with the same precision others wielded swords. “It would have been glorious, though,” he added after a beat, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Lord Celtigar ought to learn his place.”

His tone shifted, the smirk fading as quickly as it had appeared. “Perhaps not,” he mused, almost to himself. “Perhaps the king only sees little men to move along his board. Perhaps the king is mad, and all he sees is what is directly in front of him. And that is why you must place yourself before him. Make him see you. Make yourself known. That is the only way to ensure your lands and your people are not forgotten.”

“You do not need to sit on his council to have his ear,” Tirius continued, his tone sharpening again. “Put yourself in his court. Make yourself more than banners to be called upon in war. Be seen. Be heard. That is how you rise above the games of little men.”

Tirius reached for the cloth napkin by his plate, wiping food off his face. He resumed eating, his movements calm as though the gravity of the conversation hadn’t touched him. Picking up a piece of bread, he tore off a bite and paused, his gaze flickering briefly toward his companion.

“And of course, I will,” he added, his voice more casual now, as though the matter was already settled. “I have many men who are worthy of this bride—and of the son she will surely give them.” He paused, the faintest shadow crossing his expression, though his voice betrayed nothing. “Gods willing, let it be a girl,” he murmured, almost to himself, before continuing his meal as though he had not spoken at all.

[fortheakhirah]

☯

akhirah leaned forward, the weight of the conversation settling heavy on his shoulders. the flickering light from the hearth cast shadows across his sharp features, making his dark eyes seem even more piercing as they fixed on tirius. the silence stretched for a moment, heavy and deliberate, before he finally spoke, his lilt wrapped around his words softening the sharp edges of his words but not their meaning. the man was known for his lack of engagement in courtly politics, which meant he knew little in how to conduct conversations as though they were a battlefield - they were conversations.

akhirah tarth knew a battlefield when he saw one.

“aye, thank you for the life lesson i never asked for.” he began, his voice low but steady, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips. “i'm hearing hear you out—always. and you've got your points, but you're also missing a fair amount of them.” he reached forward to continue to cut at the meat which was upon his plate, lamb specifically as he continued to look across the table at the ruling lord of goldengrove; a man who has no doubt been given the shittest card life had to offer in recent times. and that made him dangerous.

he leaned back slightly, his hands resting on the arms of his chair, the tension in his frame evident even in his repose. “you’re right about some things, i’ll not deny it. the life of a lord is no simple one. we’re not farmers or blacksmiths, as you said. but that doesn’t mean we have to become the vipers we despise. it doesn’t mean we sacrifice every shred of our humanity to ‘rise above,’ as you put it.” akhirah’s eyes softened, and his voice dropped to a quieter, more introspective tone.

“you think i cling to fantasies of simpler lives, and i do. but what i cling to, is tradition. to what court once was, before weakness allowed for the door to be pried open by those twisted enough to take advantage of it. and i'm not asking for too much, any man with a backbone would know it. respect and decency are the bare minimum."

he paused, his gaze steady, weighing his words carefully before continuing. “but if we are doing this, then let us. you’re spiralling. i’ve seen it before, in other men, and now i see it in you. hiding yourself away in the reach, pulling back from the world as if that’ll keep the storms at bay. you're making yourself shrink, tirius. you’re a man who commands. a man who leads. and what do you think happens to a house when its lord loses sight of that?” akhirah’s tone sharpened, though there was no malice in it, only the firm conviction of someone who cared too deeply to sugar-coat his words.

“you’ll stain the honour of house rowan. not because you lack courage or skill, but because you’re letting yourself be consumed by this isolation. you fuck who you want, and you are here siring a bastard. you've probably sired more. when mathis did the very same, you were unhappy - for those are your morals. you know what you wish for your family, and what you do not. you’ve always been a man of strategy, of calculation, but now you’re letting your own doubts blind you. there is nothing strategic about what you've been doing."

he leaned forward again, his gaze locking with tirius’s, his words measured but firm. “you tell me to make myself known, to put myself before the king and ensure he sees me. and you’re right about that. but let me offer you the same advice, friend. put yourself before a mirror and wake up."