♛ → THE VALE present(s) MARIELA EGEN nee BELMORE, the LADY REGENT of MOONHILL. when the dragons danced in the sky they thought the BLACKS would still fly, but in the blink of an eye, they would all die. the TWENTY-EIGHT year old CISFEMALE who was INTUITIVE & REFINED before they saw the first of the flames, is now INSENSITIVE & BLUNT after seeing the last. they’re often associated with observant cat-like orbs, a bow moving elegantly upon violin strings, sunrise treks along green hills. ( adria arjona. )
"Just watching." The man of stone smiled, it wasn't a hint or ghost but an easy one that brought the corner of his mouth up as raven curls fell into his vision. There were not many, if any, that Domeric Stone would say he felt different around than everyone else and he would argue that it was her name on that short list. Old friends and Domeric Stone did not go hand in hand, some would argue it was even stranger for him to have any friends let alone old ones when he was still a Bolton that flayed his enemies. Which, one of the more unfortunate loses to his old house. As a Bolton if he flayed a man's finger it was expected but as a Stone it was a horror. Or, maybe it was always a horror but Northmen didn't cry as loudly.
"I am merely observing who has a need, in places like this men always have a need." Domeric looked at her with the rare glint in his eyes that didn't exactly imply mischief as much as it implied he already found a few those men and women who would need to borrow coin and he would make his face known. And Domeric would always make a grand offer to those desperate enough to look his way. So many were too prideful to ask someone that wasn't a bastard.
Domeric took a drink from his goblet, running his tongue over his lips. "From all I read about history the fall is never that exciting, it lingers on. Men will speak of the Dance long after we're all gone. They will condense it all down, cut out all the walking." He smiled, eyes watching the door as he waited for her to come in. She would have to come in because all of the royals would be at this gathering and he wanted to see what she would do. Honestly, he had the nagging desire to be seen and to get a rise out of her.
"Have you seen her?" It was a quiet question as he turned to face her, pulling his attention away from the door.
whilst mariela egen did not normally associate herself with bastards, domeric stone had become an exception - not only due to their history, forged in years shared at runestone. he had been a bolton then. in many ways, he still seemed a bolton now, though in name and standing, he was a stone.
the lady gave a light scoff, one shoulder lifting in a subtle shrug. “i do not take it that you would be able to satisfy the needs of men in a place like this,” she quipped, her gaze drifting over the crowd before her. she found the reach unbearably flowery, too much color, too much pretense. she preferred the green valleys and grey mountains of the vale, something steadier and certain, less dressed up in finery. “besides, what benefit could a reachman with a need bring you?”
though perhaps he had a point. mariela took a measured sip from her goblet, amber eyes still tracking the shifting conversations around them. she was, admittedly, glad when he shifted the subject, if only slightly. “they will certainly flourish it, make it sound pretty,” she said, tone even. though there was nothing pretty in it, not truly. not in the loss, nor in what was left behind for those forced to carry on. mariela knew that all too well.
at his question, her gaze returned to domeric, steady and unreadable. she knew who he meant, of course. “i believe she was meeting with someone earlier,” mariela said, offering the answer without embellishment, though she was not entirely certain of it herself. “there are many here who want the vale’s ear. it is a useful position, remaining neutral, when others are so eager to choose sides and make enemies.”
setting: the verdant concord, starter for @domericstone
the evenings events had settled into one of its livelier rhythms, voices rising and falling in measured argument beneath the sweep of banners and greenery. wine and ale not yet taking logic in their grasp, though they lingered as tongues loosened and tempers sharpened, slowly creating louder, more heated debates. mariela stood just off the main floor, a slender crystal cup cradled in her hand, the red wine inside catching the light when she shifted her weight. she listened without needing to look directly at the speakers, years of council chambers had taught her how to follow a debate by cadence alone. a few points were worth noting, a few worth remembering later, but none demanded her immediate intervention. for once, she allowed herself to simply observe the crowd around her without a true purpose.
it was then she caught sight of domeric stone half-shadowed near the edge of the gathering, his attention fixed on the exchange with that familiar, thoughtful stillness. it had been some time since they were more friends than co-council members, but recognizing a familiar presence in a room like this felt like finding a quiet note in an otherwise crowded melody. she tipped her cup back for a small sip, then weaved through the clusters of bodies with practiced ease.
“you always did prefer the sidelines,” mariela said lightly as she came to stand beside him, her tone carrying the easy familiarity she reserved for few. she gestured with her cup toward the debaters, amber eyes flicking back to his face. “it gives one the advantage of seeing who speaks to be heard, and who speaks to be right.” there was an amused tone to her words, softened by the relative informality of the concord.
she shifted her weight, shoulder brushing a pillar as the debate swelled again. “i was beginning to think i might be the only one enjoying the performance,” she added, quieter now, conspiratorial. “tell me, are you tallying arguments, or merely waiting for it all to collapse under its own cleverness…or the arbor wine flowing through their veins?” her brows lifted in faint humor as her gaze lingered on him, her own cup no doubt contributing to the rare luxury of not needing to guard every word.
Deimos rested his hands behind his back as she spoke of the mare. He was pleased with the good match the lady had been able to foresee for his daughter. As she told him about the young colt that could become Acheron's horse, he nodded in agreement, trusting someone as expert in the matter as Lady Egen to suggest a creature to be his son's future mount. Mariela's words resonated with him in a way, reminding the Lord of Driftmark of the days of dragonriders in his family. He and his kin bonded with their dragons at a young age for a reason, so they could grow alongside them, bonded through their experiences together, and forging everlasting trust. Horses were simpler creatures, and the bond wasn't quite as deep, but he could see how a similar principle applied. “You are right,” he said at last, nodding in agreement. Better they learn from one another. “I would like to see the young colt. Please have it brought when it suits you”.
The Master of the Tides felt the lady's eyes on him and then her question about Yna follow. Deimos' looked at her for a moment, keeping the silence, before he shook his head slowly. His expression remained composed, the usual mask of severity worn by him, but there was a gleam of something else in his violet eyes. Something raw, something burning. “You do not intrude with your question. You knew my wife, and I can imagine as someone who appreciated her, you too would wish to know who was behind her murder,” he said, his tone low and steady. “But no. I have heard nothing that lets me follow a certain path”. He had his suspicions, of course, but he knew it wasn't wise to throw accusations so flippantly at this point. But some pieces were falling into place, and his departure for Dorne promised an opportunity to shed some light on the matter.
Another moment of silence followed. Mariela Egen had dared to ask a question that she feared was intrusive, and Deimos had one in his mind that he also thought might qualify under the same category. “If I may ask a question, and forgive me if I am the one who intrudes,” the lord began, his tone slightly quieter now. “How did you speak to your sons about their father's death? They were quite young, as mine are, if I'm not mistaken”. It wasn't uncommon for families to be torn in this way, Deimos knew, yet he'd never experienced any death in the way he was doing now: a grieving husband having to measure what his children could hold upon losing their loving mother. “I find myself wondering what is best to share and what is best to withhold...” Deimos Velaryon was a straightforward man by all accounts, saying things in a way that very rarely spared the feelings of the other. But with his children, he did carry himself with a tenderness that was rare in him, and his own grief reshaped him in ways that were both familiar and entirely new to him. “It's not something I'm used to doing”.
mariela listened, her hand resting lightly on the mare’s neck, lightly stroking, the quiet rhythm of the animal’s breath anchoring the moment. grief had a way of hollowing out the air between words, and she felt the weight of it now in the stillness that followed his reply. “i’ll have the colt brought to the keep by week’s end,” she said, her voice steady but softer than before. “i’ll see to it myself that he’s handled gently until your son meets him. a creature that learns patience from the beginning is easier to trust.” there was a steadiness in her tone, the kind she used when building small bridges over large aches.
his admission of no leads, no clear path to follow, made something in her tighten, a quiet ache she didn’t show. instead, she inclined her head, respect threaded through every controlled line of her posture. “she deserved better than silence,” mariela said quietly, amber gaze lifting to meet his without evasion. “if there is even a whisper that points truer than the rest, i will see that it finds its way to you.” it wasn’t a promise spoken with flourish, but one offered like a steady hand in the dark.
when he asked his question, her fingers stilled on the horse’s mane, the only sign that it had struck something deep. she let a breath slip through parted lips, not quite a sigh. “it's difficult, when they're so young” she began, choosing each word as though placing thread through needle. “they asked for answers i cannot give. so i gave them truth, but in pieces. enough to understand that their father was gone because the world can be cruel… but not so much that they learned to hate it.” her gaze drifted to the far end of the stables, where light pooled like a quiet reprieve. “children carry what we give them. too much, and they bend under it. too little, and they find the weight on their own and resent us for not preparing them.”
she looked to him then, something gentler in her expression, not pity, but recognition. “you will measure it as only a father can, and that will be enough,” she said. “grief feels like failure when we cannot shield those we love. but it is not failure to let them see that sorrow exists. it teaches them that love did, too.”
"well, yes, but the difference is that's not a novelty for you, mariela. you've been joyless and restrained since i met you," he grumbled, though there was a flicker of mischief in his expression. "the bigger challenge for you would be to show a bit of excitement." one of his hand found its way into his pocket as he sloped behind her, back in the direction of the crowded ballroom.
he made a show of dragging his feet as they walked, almost theatrically slow, with all the enthusiasm of a man going to the gallows. "there's no mask," his dark eyes flicked to her, for a second, bewildered. there was plenty that younes corbray would not say in public, and the fact that there was more going on behind the scenes was one of them. he wasn't even sure he knew where the real him lay, these days. somewhere in between all of the rest of it, he supposed.
he cleared his throat, pushing the thought away. "besides," he began. "i know you won't be suffering. you like watching me squirm too much. it's perverse, the pleasure you get from making me dance to your merry tunes." there was no mistaking the fact her was teasing now. despite his promise to be on his best behaviour, his smirk grew.
she was saved from further complaint on that matter by the loud rumbling of his stomach, though this only gave him something new to complain about. "and i bet the roast is cold by now," he sighed. "what a waste tonight is turning out to be."
and though she warned him not to look, younes may as well have been an owl for the way his head snapped around to do just that, unsubtle and without hesitation. lady anne, much more downcast that she had been when he was speaking with her, and her fiance with his back ram-rob straight. "you know i'd beat him with one hand." it wasn't arrogance in his voice, but he left no room for doubt, either. "he's big, but he's stupid. i'd have a harder job fighting with a rocking chair."
mariela allowed the amusement in his complaint to settle between them like a familiar draught, a thing she acknowledged, but didn't indulge. “perhaps,” she said softly, fingers finding the bend of his sleeve as if testing the fabric rather than offering comfort, “but there is a difference between being joyless and being deliberate. any outward stillness of mine has cost less than the chaos your theatrics tend to invite. i prefer the cheaper toll.” she glanced once at him, amber eyes cool, though lips curved in a slight smirk. “and for the record, watching you squirm is not entertainment so much as observation. you are far more interesting that way.”
when he lifted the matter of masks, her expression sharpened with the quiet patience of someone who has watched men misplace themselves. she didn't remark much upon it, though. mariela had learned things of younes she knew were not common knowledge, and she would not try and dive into that topic now. “still," she began, “if you want to try excitement, try it where it costs you nothing.”
the rumble of his stomach earned a small, indulgent roll of her eyes. “the roast will be fine,” she replied, voice dry. “and if it's not, there are breads and preserved cheeses to be coaxed life from.” she adjusted her grip on his arm, steering them toward the hall with a measured step, savoring the cool air before the candlelight claimed them both.
her gaze flicked to where lady anne and her fiancé stood, and mariela’s tone grew firmer, not unkind but without patience for needless peril. “do not look for trouble,” she warned. “and do not make it for others. you will not fight him, you will not provoke his honor, and you will not give anyone a reason to speak of duel or scandal. remember what is at stake, your foolish pride is not worth another's grief.” she paused, the smallest edge of steel in her voice. “behave, younes. you can challenge him in a tourney, and be satisfied in the victory you will have amongst a larger crowd, where such a spectacle is expected.”
The People of the Last Rite, or Los del último rito, as they are called in their shared tongue, is a cultural group that was born many centuries before Aegon's conquest. It is said they hail from the coasts of the Stormlands, but their beliefs and customs spread into the Marches and even into some regions of Dorne.
Those of the Last Rite are known that way because of one of their oldest and most enduring beliefs: that death is not an end, but a journey that begins when the last breath leaves the body. To them, the Stranger is not a figure to be feared, but a guardian, the final companion they will all have. They believe he was once an older god by another name, long before he became part of the Seven, and those of the Last Rite pray so he will welcome the souls of their loved ones into his realm.
Each year, during the season known as the Gallows Days, the living pay tribute to the dead. Families tend to their dead with devotion, building personal altares with ofrendas: food, drink, tokens of memory, candles, and flowers. These offerings are not merely gestures of remembrance, but gifts meant to nourish the departed as they continue their journey, and to allow them to return and dwell among the living once more, if only briefly.
The heart of this ancient culture beats strong in Gallowsgrey, the seat of House Trant, which is one of the locations where ancient ruins of these people still exist. Most notably, a massive stone calendar wheel can be found there, intricately carved with numerous symbols that track what is known as the Storm Cycle.
Other houses that of the Last Rite, who can trace their heritage within this culture that has endured, are House Caron, House Belmore, House Egen, House Dondarrion, House Uller, and House Selmy.
Under the cut, you'll find more details cultural elements about those of the Last Rite.
NOTE: This will be continuously updated as muns from the houses mentioned above include more regional practices or specific elements about their houses.
TRADITIONAL FOOD & DRINK:
House Trant: They grow a variety of maize, chiles, and nopales in their lands. Some of their typical dishes include maize-based foods with tortillas or other masa meals like tlacoyos, tamales, chilaquiles, and gorditas. Af for drinks, Gallowsgrey is famous for their fermented agave-based drinks like tequila, mezcal, and pulque (which can be drunk natural or flavored).
LANGUAGE:
Those of the Last Rite have a shared language (Spanish, in our world). There are variations of this language in the different regions where the people of the Last Rite spread over the centuries.
CULTURAL DAYS
Day of the Dead (Día de los muertos): During the season of the Gallows Days, this day is celebrated by welcoming the souls of the dead back to the world of the living. Altares and ofrendas are set in advance of the official date. Two days prior, it is believed that dogs are the first ones to cross over, so they may guide the human souls back. One day prior, it is believed that the souls of children and babies can cross over, so they may have more time with their mothers. The rest of the souls cross over on the Day of the Dead for a celebration of remembrance, and the joining of the living and the dead.
CHARACTERS OF LAST RITE ORIGIN:
Ulises Trant
Marisol Caron
Mariela Egen née Belmore @moonhillsunsets
Nicolas Belmore
Doran Uller @lorduller
Graham Royce (via his mother from House Egen) @rememberences
The Lady of Moonhill had waited for him at the stables. It was a fitting location to meet with her, considering the request he had. “Lady Egen,” Deimos greeted in return as he walked with his hands clasped behind his back, pausing not far from the stall where his late wife's mare was. “She was always a fine animal,” he said, voice quiet but steady. Once the lady faced him, he offered a polite tilt of his head.
Yna herself had picked the creature from among the fine stock bred by House Belmore. His wife had practically glowed when Lady Mariela visited Driftmark to deliver the mare. That was another memory that now weighed inside of him. Though Deimos Velaryon still moved about in the commanding and steady manner he always had, there was an undeniable heaviness to him, born from the grief that time had made bearable but not erased. Even the harsh line of the scar that curved across his collarbone and into the base of his neck was that constant reminder, the visible reminder of the attack that took Yna from him. The same cut had opened her up. Different pressure upon the blade, more depth as the cut was made, a slightly different positioning from the attacker's hand... each variable made the difference between him surviving and Yna perishing.
“My oldest daughter took a liking to her,” he said, glancing toward the mare, a faint gentleness threading through his voice. “And she to Aelora. You’ll be glad to know she doesn’t spend her days idle in the stalls anymore, not since the riding lessons began”. It felt right, in the end, that Aelora would find comfort in a creature Yna once loved so dearly. Deimos had even heard his daughter talk to the mare as if the creature remembered her former rider. He'd not had the heart to tell her that horses didn't carry memories like that. But it made sense, he supposed, that his child would hold on to whatever she could to keep her mother alive in some way.
“My son is eager to begin his riding lessons as well,” he mused, glancing around the stable. Every corner of Driftmark had Yna's ghost etched onto it, and Deimos had found his way of carrying that weight with more familiarity by now, as something he'd learned to survive despite the profound ache. “I’d like to acquire another horse from your family, my lady. Something suited for a young boy, not too wild for a beginner. A creature that could grow with him and be his companion when he reaches his youth”.
the late lady velaryon had always struck mariela as a woman both gracious and sharp, with a presence that lingered long after she’d left a room. it was rare, the sort of marriage she and deimos shared, built on real affection, not just strategy. her amber gaze dipped once, briefly, to the scar that marred the lord’s collarbone, though it did not linger. “she was a good match,” mariela said softly, giving the mare’s neck another affectionate stroke. “and she’s found her way back to where she’s needed.”
a small smile tugged as he spoke of his young daughter having taken to the late lady's horse. the mare shifted its weight and exhaled heavily through its nose, the sound soft and grounded in the hush of the stables. “then it sounds like they’ve both kept each other steady,” she replied. “horses hold onto memory and feeling almost as well as we do. i imagine they bring one another comfort."
she turned to face him more fully now, brushing a stray piece of hay from her sleeve with one gloved hand. “you’ve chosen a good time,” she said, her tone gently shifting into the steadiness of a lady accustomed to decision. “we’ve a young colt with a good head and soft eyes, still growing, but patient. born of a mare who hasn’t yet given me a single unruly one. i’ll send word to have him brought to the keep. your son can meet him when you’re ready.” there was a flicker of something lighter in her expression then, a glimpse of who she’d been before the court and the council had taken root in her. “they grow fast, both horse and child. better they learn from one another.”
she pressed her lips together, letting a measured silence settle between them. “have you heard anything?” mariela asked at last, her voice low but steady. “any word of who might be behind it?” she didn’t press further, only met his gaze with a calm that belied the sharpness beneath. “i don’t mean to intrude,” she added, her tone softening. “i only hope you find the ones responsible.”
Percival offered a subtle nod of approval when Lady Mariela accepted, the faintest easing of his posture the only sign of his satisfaction. It was no great public triumph, no grand gesture, but in the careful language of the court, small things spoke loudly. “Then the morning improves all the more,” the knight replied smoothly, guiding his horse with practiced ease as they began to fall into step. Though the Commander of the Queensguard very rarely sought companionship beyond what duty required, there were few whose presence he found agreeable. Lady Mariela Egen was one of those rare few.
The question she posed drew a slight, contemplative smile from him, one corner of his mouth tugging up with restrained amusement. “It's a bit of both, I confess,” he answered with an honesty he reserved for those he respected. His gaze flicked briefly to the towering mountains ahead, where the early mist still clung, encircling them. “Mastery is only mastery when one continues diligent practice. So I seek the opportunities to keep tempering the spirit and honing the skills of the body”. Percival had learned from a young age the value of such discipline— the same discipline he grew to wield in battle, and at court. “And to deny the pleasure of the hunt entirely would be dishonest. Victory, after all, carries its own sweet savor”.
He turned his head just enough to meet her gaze, a glint of dry humor in his eyes. “Would you join us in the hunt? Or prefer to stand back?” he asked, with more curiosity than judgement. After all, some women of the Vale also became huntresses, not only spectators. With an easy flick of the reins, he led them both toward where the others were gathering, the low thunder of eager horses filling the crisp highland air.
there was the faintest curve of amusement at her lips at the way the knight of ninestars carried himself, measured, composed, but unmistakably pleased. a quiet victory, well-earned. “you flatter me, lord commander,” mariela replied, her voice smooth, though not without warmth. one hand adjusted on the reins as her horse kept a steady pace beside his, the muffled crunch of leaves underhoof reminding her, distantly, of childhood rides through hidden trails without the woods of strongsong.
she considered his reply with care, nodding slowly, raven curls bouncing gently with the motion. “i suppose it’s not so different from music,” she mused. “for some, it’s little more than a means to survival, something to show, to catch the right eye. for others, it becomes a craft. a refuge.” her gaze flicked toward the treeline ahead, thoughtful. “and when one has worked that long at something, surely the pleasure it brings is not indulgence, but a deserved return.”
at his offer, her brows lifted slightly, and a rueful smile played at her mouth. “I’m afraid I’ve never had much cause, or opportunity, to learn,” she admitted, though the words cost her more than she liked. “huntresses in storybooks always seem to carry something fierce in their blood. i suspect i’d be a hindrance more than a help.” the smile lingered faintly anyway, graceful in its honesty. “but i’ll observe with interest. that, at least, i know how to do.”
younes blinked slowly, studying mariela for a split second. for a moment, it looked like he might point blank refuse. he exhaled through his nose, the beginnings of protest caught in his throat. "oh well, that's cruel, mariela," he grumbled, arms coming to fold across his chest. the gesture was entirely defensive, and for a moment, younes allowed silence to settle while he contemplated it.
when he spoke again, it was with little warning, abrupt and irritable in his delivery. "what am i supposed to do, then? stand around talking about taxes and the weather?" he made a noise in the back of his throat. the whole thing sounded entirely too dull for words. "it sounds insufferable, mariela. and i'm going to be insufferable too. i hope you know that."
he allowed his arms to drop to his side, casting her a glance of annoyance, but any who knew younes well would plainly see there was no real irritation in it. not really. mariela, who knew him better than most in the vale, would pick up on it quick as blinking. "no dances, no flirting, and no early exits," he counted on his fingers her list of demands. "you are asking me to be a decorative object. to stand around looking pretty and do little else. worse still, i can't even complain about it. because that would be losing."
he scowled, the sighed with a practised theatricality. there was a reluctance in the set of his shoulders. because he would lose, wouldn't he? how long had it been since the last time he had gone somewhere, and lowered all the defences he had carefully constructed, allowed himself just to be? younes didn't know.
"a normal woman would have just asked me for a flower or a poem or something. or a cheeky kiss behind the curtain. not that i am offering," he added, quickly. "i'm just saying. you're a hard woman to please, lady egan."
and yet, he stayed, reluctance turning to resignation as he offered his arm to mariela to return to the feast. "just so you know, i am terrible company when i'm not performing. dreadful, actually. moody, sarcastic, prone to long silences and looking out of windows broodily when i'm forced to experience my own thoughts for too long. i might even become philisophical, mariela. nobody wants that. all for the sake of your joyless little challenge."
mariela did not immediately take his arm. instead, she stood still beneath the swaying lantern light, head slightly tilted, studying him with the quiet intensity of a woman measuring a string of pearls for flaws. whatever she found in his scowl, in that practiced sigh and theatrical surrender, it coaxed the faintest lift at the corner of her mouth.
“oh, i do hope you become philosophical,” she said softly, stepping forward at last, the fabric of her gown whispering against stone. “i imagine it would suit you. you’ve always worn masks so well—i admit, i’m curious to see the face beneath.”
she took his arm then, light and deliberate. the melodies found their ways back into her mind, lutes and low strings, too lovely for the nonsense most of the guests would do with it. mariela didn’t glance back toward the banquet hall just yet. her gaze remained on him.
“i’m not asking you to be a decorative object,” she said after a moment, tone smooth as silk pulled taut. “though, perhaps you’ll finally understand what it is to be a woman at half the functions you so enjoy flitting through.” her eyes flicked over his features, amused. “and to endure a room full of dull people without making yourself the most interesting, if not foolish, thing in it. just for one night.”
the lady of moonhill could practically feel his reluctance in the steps they took. “if it helps,” she added, voice low, “i will be just as joyless. just as restrained. you will not be alone in your suffering.” though truthfully mariela would be quite content with not having to make nice for the rest of the evening.
she guided them toward the hall, her pace unhurried, savoring the cool air before the heat of candlelight would gather them back in its hold. “besides, flowers wilt,” she said lightly. “poems, i already have shelves of.” a glance sideways, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at her mouth. “kisses behind curtains… that’s another game entirely. not one that partake in."
she glanced to the side, just beyond the lantern glow and the first circle of revelers. lady anne was there, rose-gold silk, too much perfume, laughter like glass, and beside her stood the fiancé, eyes skimming the room with that particular stiffness of a man who suspects more than he says. mariela caught the line of his jaw, the way his hand hovered just a little too tense on the small of the woman's back. "and please, do not even look their way. i fear he's eager to call for a duel."
setting: driftmark, prior to attending the verdant concord, mariela stops by the keep to visit deimos velaryon, whom she had sold a prized mare to for his wife. ; starter for @deimos-velaryon
driftmark was quiet, as always. the sun was beginning to dip lower, casting long shadows over the stone courtyard. the scent of salt and seaweed lingered in the air, and the distant roar of the waves was a constant backdrop. the lady regent of moonhill entered the velaryon keep with the guide of a steward, with a quiet step, her gaze briefly taking in the familiar stone walls and the quiet hum of the place. it had been some time since she’d last walked these halls, before yna’s passing, when things had felt far more settled in an overall sense. she pushed the memory aside, folding it neatly behind the silks of her thoughts. there was no room for lingering on such things now.
her visit to deimos velaryon was not unexpected. she had done him a service not long ago, selling him one of her finest mares for his wife, yna. mariela knew the stories. she knew what was spoken of the attack that had taken her life, the grief that had settled over him like a storm cloud. yna's death was a tragedy, but there were always things beneath the surface, things that mariela could not ignore.
as they moved deeper into the keep, the scent of the stables greeted her, earthy, raw, a stark contrast to the pristine air of the halls. the mare she had sold the lord of driftmark had been one of her family's prized creatures, a favorite of hers, and though it's rider was no longer alive to appreciate it, mariela still felt a pull to ensure the mare’s well-being. it was, perhaps, a small thing in the grand scheme of things, but she knew that sometimes, the smallest gestures carried weight.
the steward had already gone ahead to announce her arrival, but mariela didn’t rush. she had no need to seem eager, and when the footsteps came, she didn’t look up immediately. instead, she murmured, “she looks well, lord velaryon.”
she turned to face the lord and unfortunately could not say the same for him, it were clear grief clung to him like a cloak, and whilst she could understand a strange sort of emptiness of losing a spouse, father to her children, someone who played a large part in her life for many years, she couldn't quiet understand the true anguish that came with a loss that was a union of love rather than duty.
scent of saltwater clings to the threads of naijas gown even after she's stepped foot on belmore land. journey from her home to the that of a sister that could have been is a small stop on the way to the reach, but one she feels inclined to make anyhow. her art as of late had an equine nature about it, and it isn't often that the lady allows herself to indulge in silly desires that takes from the manderly families coffer. yet the need for a companion with little opinions to offer brought her to the very spot she stood, requesting an audience with those who maintained it.
thanks are given in a kind cadence once she's granted access to their stables. the air is thick with conflicting smells, and it takes her senses a moment to adjust its overpowering aura before her focus is settled on the animals going about their day. their unbothered presence is enough to capture the ladies full attention, and she's almost forgotten formalities until a familiar voice breaks the lull of whinnies and horseshoes on packed earth.
"the honor lies with you and your welcoming family, lady mariela." she begins, corners of her lips tugging up into a genuine grin. "though i must apologize for arriving on such short notice. i hope it is not too heavy of an imposition." weight of shared history between their houses begins to stir the ladys nerves the longer she stands in place. she does her best to conceal the growing restlessness, but subtle shifts to either side and the way her fingers tap together under partially concealing furs aeem to defy her efforts.
"if i remember correctly, your family has the best horses in the vale and i happen to be in the market for a companion." honeyed hues glance towards the open field where some of them grazed, "they are quite beautiful, i find it difficult to decide. might you guide me in the right direction?" refocus her attention towards mariela, glimmer of hope in her gaze that this might bridge a long-lasting and deep-seeded gap created by a failed betrothal.
the smile mariela offered did not waver, though her head tilted the slightest degree, as if weighing the apology in her hands and finding it lighter than expected. “you are no imposition, naija,” she replied, voice low and deliberate. the sound of it, spoken so plainly and without artifice, carried more weight than a dozen courtesies. “strongsong is always open to those who show it respect. and you always have.”
her eyes flicked toward the open field, to the dappled greys and rich bays grazing beneath the cool morning sun. one young colt gave a joyful kick into the air, his energy at odds with the quiet tension that stretched between the two women. “you remember correctly,” mariela added after a pause. “our bloodlines are as old as the stones we ride them over, and every generation has bred them better.”
she turned then, motioning with one gloved hand for naija to walk with her. their boots crunched softly over the straw-strewn earth, the silence between them filled by the occasional huff or snort of a nearby mare. “if it is a companion you seek,” mariela continued, tone smoothing into something more thoughtful, “then we must find one with a good ear, a good heart, and no desire to run too far, too fast. you want a listener, not a leader.”
it was a pointed remark, but not a cruel one.
her gaze darted sideways, catching naija's profile beneath the furs. something fragile wavered there—in the tilt of her lashes, the twitch of her fingers. mariela remembered that expression. she’d worn it once herself, on the edge of decisions that changed everything.
“there is a mare,” mariela said at last. “sable coat, temper like late autumn. she doesn’t startle easy, but she doesn’t suffer fools either. i’ve always liked her.”
they reached the edge of a smaller paddock, and mariela nodded toward the horse in question. “she might like you. they have instincts about people. better than most.” mariela’s gaze lingered on naija a moment longer than politeness demanded, deciding if there was anything more to this visit than naija had let on. she had always been fond of the youngest manderly, despite the distance time and fate put between them. “will you be traveling to the reach for the verdant concord?” she asked, voice low, melodic, and deceptively soft against the steady rhythm of hooves nearby.
there was an exhale of air from halima's nostrils, not quite a snort, but not a sigh either. in someone else, it might have resembled amusement, but not her. "there was an exhale of air from halima's nostrils, not quite a snort, but not a sigh either. in someone else, it might have resembled amusement, but not her. "i have seen mountains before," she pointed out, though the red mountains of dorne were nothing like the peaks of the vale.
"you've seen one, you have seen them all. they loom." the words were spoken utterly seriously, which made them sound all the more ridiculous. "and they keep out those you don't want to let in. so i suppose they have their uses." it was as close to a compliment as halima yronwood would get.
she lifted her cup again, peering at the contents warily, and in the end, decided she did not want to drink. the wine here was cheap, sour on her tongue, and making her feel vaguely sick.
"never you mind why i am here." the answer was a simple one. she was here to attend the gulltown festival, no need for secrets. but that was simply halima's way ; she never revealed anything she could help revealing, even if it was seemingly innocuous. "doesn't matter anyway, does it? point is, i can't leave."
the look she gave mariela was a curious thing. certainly wary, but less haughty than one she would normally give, and not at all dismissive. she had no fondness for people who watched others too carefully, and asked too many questions, for they were all too often thorns in her side. still, there was a skill to it she could begrudgingly appreciate.
"it's a long way to come for a change of scenery," she grumbled. "besides, have you ever been to dorne? why would any want to leave." she sniffed. "if you haven't, you should. i will not host you or vouch for your welcome, but someone might."
the faintest huff of breath left mariela's lips, not quite laughter, but something akin to it, something knowing. halima spoke with a sharpness she had come to expect from her kind, a bluntness that might have been mistaken for rudeness if one was unfamiliar with the ways of dorne. but mariela was not unfamiliar. she had spent too much of her life unraveling the words of others to mistake their meaning.
“they do loom,” she conceded, tilting her head as if considering the weight of the mountains beyond the inn’s walls. “they divide, they protect. and yet, for all their might, people always find ways to cross them.” her gaze flickered back to halima, something thoughtful lurking beneath the surface.
she swirled the wine in her cup, though she knew it would not improve its taste. it was a poor vintage, but it served its purpose. she drank regardless, slow and measured, letting the warmth, artificial as it was, linger on her tongue.
“a prisoner of circumstance, then,” she mused, letting her eyes linger on halima for a moment longer. “and yet you do not seem troubled by it.” mariela did not press for more, nor did she feign disinterest. she simply observed, letting the silence stretch just long enough to become something tangible before she filled it once more.
"i have been," she admitted after a pause, letting the words settle between them. "some time ago, when peace was still an illusion people wished to entertain." she did not say the summit had failed. there was no need. the outcome was known well enough. "it is a place of contrast," she went on, voice smooth but distant, as if sifting through old memories. "a beauty that is both harsh and indulgent. freedom worn openly, where elsewhere it is kept behind closed doors."
her fingers traced the rim of her cup, a slow, absent movement. "though i expect the true dorne is not the one seen by visiting outsiders."
she set her cup down, fingers tapping idly against the wood. “still, an interesting offer. or, rather, the lack of one.” her gaze did not waver, sharp and considering. “and should i find my way to dorne without a vouchsafe, i wonder what fate would greet me at its gates?”
it was not a true question, nor was it a dismissal. just another thread cast into the air, waiting to see if halima would pull it or let it drift away.
there was something in younes' face that indicated that he found the whole affair quite entertaining. he suspected mariela did, too, her measured words and composed posture at odds with the faint amusement he could sense lingering beneath it. she always had a knack for disarming him, not with sternness or scoldings, but the unflinching ability to see right through him. it was as maddening as it was impressive.
his lips parted, as though poised to deliver another jest, another deflection wrapped in silver-tongued charm, but for once, he held it back. instead, he exhaled, rolling his shoulders as though the whole ordeal had worn him out. "you wound me, mariela. i thought you had more faith in me than that," he smirked, tapping his fingers idly against the stone of the wall.
"what is it you would have me dedicate myself to, if not my craft? something noble? respectable?" he said the words with a scoff, as though they were preposterous, as if that was not exactly how he wanted to be seen, once upon a time. "i hate to disappoint, but i fear i get far too much entertainment from playing the rogue."
her mention of knowing him, of understanding how the game pulled at him, struck a chord younes wasn't willing to fully acknowledge. she must know, as all knew in the vale, that imran corbray was little more than a ghost, that it was younes shouldering a burden that was not his to carry. he would not discuss that, though, not here. instead, he shifted his weight, getting more comfortable against the wall that continued to prop him up.
"ah, but i know the stakes," he pointed out. "i just like playing close to the edge. keeps things interesting." he was teasing her, letting the words settle, dangling like a challenge between them. "but i suppose i owe you a favour for saving m from myself, don't i? if you tell me how you would have me surprise you, we can make it two." there was a flicker of something genuine in his eyes, a rare glint of curiosity he couldn't disguise. he knew not what it was that mariela saw in him, but he wanted to, even if he wasn't sure he wanted it exposed.
the garden was alive with the hush of leaves shifting in the evening breeze, the glow of lanterns swaying in slow arcs, casting fractured patterns of gold and shadow along the marble path. beyond the hedges, the distant strains of music and laughter floated from the banquet hall, where wine flowed freely and flirtations were exchanged with reckless ease. this was the kind of night where secrets were whispered behind gloved hands, where promises, meant or not, were made under the cover of candlelight.
mariela had always preferred to watch rather than partake.
she tilted her head slightly, studying younes with an expression that was unreadable but not unkind. “you speak of surprising me as if it were a debt to be settled, when really, it’s an impossible task,” she mused, clasping her hands lightly in front of her. “but i’ll offer you something easier.”
she stepped past him, her fingers briefly trailing along the cool stone of the wall, her voice steady, low. “don’t dance with anyone else tonight. or flirt with anymore ladies. ” a cool breeze blew then, hand reaching to tuck a loose strand of hair before continuing.
“you can’t leave early, either,” she added with a quiet smile, watching his reaction carefully. “you’ll stay for the duration. no slipping away to avoid the discomfort of it.”
mariela allowed the weight of the words to linger between them. this, she knew, would be no small task for him, but it was exactly the kind of challenge he needed, no distractions, no audience, just the night and the quiet pressure of restraint.
“i will think of a favor for you later,” she continued, her voice now lighter, the briefest trace of amusement flickering at the corners of her mouth. “but for tonight, your only task is to sit in the discomfort of your own company. and, perhaps, you’ll find that it’s a far more rewarding game than you imagined.”
she turned then, facing him fully, allowing the silence between them to stretch long enough for the meaning to settle. she knew what he was, knew how deftly he maneuvered through the world with a smile and a well-placed jest. but she also knew something else, something he worked so hard to bury: restraint was not beyond him.
it was not an order, nor was it a request. it was a simple statement, offered with the weight of something greater beneath it. “just this once, resist the urge to play the game. not because i tell you to, but because you can.”
“Lady Mariela,” Percival greeted the regent of Moonhill, his voice smooth and his courteous movements deliberate as he bowed his head. “Right on time,” he added, appreciative that she had brought the steed just before the hunting expedition was set to begin. His attention then shifted to the horse, eyes narrowing just slightly as he studied the animal, taking in every little detail about that creature of great stature. He allowed himself a moment to appreciate his latest purchase, as his mind, always calculating, weighed the continuous benefits of this transactional bond with Mariela's house.
“A fine morning indeed, and the hunt promises to be just as excellent as this magnificent creature at my side,” the Knight of Ninestars added as he extended a gloved hand to accept the reins she offered. “He does not disappoint”. Just by studying him here, the horse did not disappoint. The Commander of the Queensguard would put the animal's skill to the test once the hunt began.
As Mariela spoke of strength and understanding, Percival nodded in agreement. “Know he's in good hands. I have always believed that a knight must know the ways of his mount as much as that of his sword,” he said with confidence, his hand moving to rest atop the creature's muzzle.
His gaze met hers again, kinder now, but still carrying the shine of their positions, the undeniable propriety and poise of the Vale courtiers. “You know, I would hate to see you come to Ninestars merely to deliver this precious beast. You should join the hunting trip, my lady,” he added after a moment. “My sister and other ladies will accompany us. There will be good company,” the Commander added, clarifying there would be more women amongst the hunters. “What say you?”
"ser templeton," mariela inclined her head in measured acknowledgment, hands remaining steady upon the reins until he had taken them. the morning air carried the crisp bite of the highlands, laced with the scent of damp earth and pine. behind her, slopes of forest stretched wide and green, the land quiet in the hush before the hunt.
"i am pleased he meets your expectations," she said, her voice composed yet carrying the quiet pride of one who knew the worth of what she offered. "strength is best met with understanding, and i believe you will find both in him." the steed stood calm beneath his touch, bred for endurance, for battle, for men such as percival templeton, knights who demanded the finest from both steel and steed alike.
his invitation was unexpected, and at first, she had only expected a short visit for delivering the horse, but as she considered, she found no true reason to refuse. duty would wait a little longer. hunting was no idle pastime; it was skill, patience, a measure of one’s instincts.
"you honor me with the invitation, ser," she said after a moment, a small, knowing glint in her gaze. "i had not intended to linger, but i will accept. the morning is fine, and the company, i expect, will be as well."
a member of her own party offered her the reigns to her horse as she fell into step with the knight of ninestars. "tell me, ser templeton," she continued, allowing the conversation to carry forward as he led the way. "do you favor the hunt for sport, or for the mastery of it? there are those who chase for pleasure, and those who seek the test it provides." her tone was measured, but there was curiosity there, genuine, if restrained.
halima did not startle at the unexpected conversation. she never did, but neither did she soften. her spine remained as straight as it ever was, the jut of her chin a mixture of defiance and pride and her gaze unsettling as it lifted from the rim of the cheap cup in her hand to meet the woman's gaze with little hesitation. there was no warmth to it, nor any sign that she welcomed being drawn to speak, only a sharp coolness, a calculation.
she had took note of the woman the moment she stepped through the door. the way she carried herself, the steady watchfulness of her eyes. this was a woman practiced at taking stock of the scenes she found herself in, who moved through the world with a sort of watchfulness that could be dangerous, and halima would not give her an inch.
"you are a fine one to talk," her lips curled with amusement, though her words were cutting. "for a moment, i thought it was an uller sitting there staring at me." the cup was placed on the table with a weighty clink, though not a drop of its contents spilled over the rim.
halima knew she did not belong here, trapped between stone and sky where the wind bit with unfamiliar fangs. her world was that of the dunes, the red mountains that were nothing like the rock here, baked in the harshest of suns. she had heard tell of the vale, but seeing it with her own eyes was another matter entirely. she loathed it, hated the way the mountains loomed, the horrible damp smell that seemed to cling to her cloak and her hair and weigh her down. she hated the way people looked at her here - not with open hostility, but as though she were some sort of rarely seen curiosity, something to gawk at. she had no patience for this, and yet, the weather had seen fit to chain her here longer than necessary.
"the cold is an inconvenience. nothing more," she continued, dismissive, as though she did not feel the chill of it in her bones. "or is the highborn blood of the vale so thin that all it takes is a little ice to unsettle it?"
at the uller remark, the lady's amusement showed in the slight lift of her brow, the faintest curve at the corner of her lips. she did not often find herself entertained in places such as this, but this woman from far south was a different sort of company.
“the cold is an inconvenience to most,” she allowed, tilting her cup in idle thought. “though i would not say the blood of the vale is so thin as to be unsettled by it. we are quite used to ice.”
her tone remained pleasant, but her gaze did not waver, still quietly assessing, still searching for the shape of things beneath the words. this was no country for dornish blood, yet the woman before her did not flinch from the cold, did not seem eager to retreat to fairer lands. mariela could appreciate one who endured, even in unfamiliar territory.
the wind shrieked against the stone, rattling the inn’s old frame. the candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows over the uneven floorboards. mariela took another slow sip of her wine, though it was poor, before letting her eyes settle on halima once more.
“but i doubt you traveled all this way to debate whose blood fares better in the frost,” she said, voice smooth as silk. “no, i would guess you are here for something more than idle conversation.”
the words were not a demand, nor a direct inquiry, but an invitation. a gentle tug on a thread, though she was already near certain it would lead nowhere. still, habits were not so easily set aside. and she was curious, if nothing else, to see how halima chose to answer.
"then again, i could be wrong, and you are simply looking for a change of scenery. the mountains of the vale are a sight to behold, after all."
