A Promise Was Made

lord nasir marwan of house manderly, born in 110AC. hand of the king upon the council of king owen stark. protector of the faith of the seven within the north.

[nasirofmanderlys]

♛ → THE NORTH present(s) NASIR MARWAN MANDERLY, the RULING LORD OF WHITE HARBOR/HAND OF THE KING. 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 the THIRTY-TWO year old MALE who was FLEXIBLE & OPEN-MINDED before they saw the first of the flames, is now WITHDRAWN & RELUSIVE after seeing the last. through the ash, now they struggle to find the sliver of scales of a tail within the ocean current, the glistening rings of a sun upon a trident and the smell of dust being blown off ancient volumes  ( fc. rege jean page)

wanted connections: his youngest sister, a cousin of house manderly.

nasir has recently becoming ruling lord of white harbor following the death of his father, whilst all were in dorne. late lord hashim was the ruler of white harbor when the late dragon king found himself butchered within white harbor’s walls. his mother, lady manal, continues to live. 

he had been master of laws under king owen stark since the north became independent however, and has been in this role longer than the role of lord of white harbor. this changed when lord brandon karstark stepped down as hand.

he is of the old way, considering the manderlys once lived in the reach and were exiled by the peakes. he is seen as the protector of the faith of the seven within the north, and takes this duty incredibly seriously. his religious views are more open-minded and lenient, as he does not necessarily believe his northern-folk are damned to seven hells, for they were god-fearing. 

his closest friend is lord tion peake, a surprise as many expect them to be enemies considering their family backgrounds. history is history, according to these men. tion is hiding a major secret for nasir, one of great shame. 

he is not breaking off from oldtown. if there is corruption, it is the responsibility of the other levels within the faith of the seven, rather than the high septon himself. he also does not agree with getting rid of maesters and replacing them with wisdoms, or even just changing the name.

quiet, reserved bean!!! one can often find him near owen’s loud laughter, or brandon’s casual confidence, nasir will be sat there having a quiet discussion and dislikes attention upon himself. 

he is very confident in his beliefs and what he is passionate about however: he is able to talk about it comfortably and with ease, and that often includes the wellbeing and the realm. 

surprisingly, he loves wrestling and has no issue with getting in the mud in that circumstance. it is strange, what he’s comfortable and not comfortable with - one never truly knows until they see him give his response. 

voice of logic, sometimes he can be seen to rely too much upon it and this can make him seem a bit impersonal. he doesn’t mean it, you’ll often finding brandon or adam looking at him like ‘dude’ and he’s like ‘ah, okay, let me reword that’

[inkandcitrus]

vivienne listened, hands clasping neatly in her lap, though a muscle in her jaw tightened with each word. he was right, of course he was, and that stung more than she cared to admit. music was hers, yes, but it wouldn’t put parchments back in her hands, wouldn’t stop people from speaking of house penrose as though she had never been part of it. wouldn't stop her from wondering if her betrothed still held any respect for her, with not longer a keep to her name. she had felt the truth of it all the day the raven arrived, confirming her bastard brother had been legitimized and installed in her place. music kept her steady, but it was not a claim. not in their world.

she drew a slow breath, finally meeting his gaze without the shield of poise. “i haven’t forgotten how quickly names disappear,” she said, voice low, stripped down. “i’ve seen it happen to others. ladies who lost their seats, married away, and were never spoken of again except in gossip. i don’t intend to join their ranks.” it wasn’t defiance yet, not fully, but the shift in her tone marked something beyond pride, something closer to resolve.

he spoke then of kings and pressure and how even jaehaerys could crack, and though her expression stayed composed, something in her eyes sharpened. she had avoided such measures out of pride, yes, but also because she had convinced herself it would change nothing. still… the idea of murmurs in the stormlands, quiet weight gathering until even a king had to listen, it settled in her chest like a steady, deliberate heartbeat. perhaps it did not need to begin with a storm. perhaps it only needed a persistent wind.

“so... you’d have me be loud,” she said, not quite a question. her fingers traced the grain of the bench beside her. “not begging. but present. impossible to forget.” she considered it carefully. vivienne penrose had always known how to be seen, and how to let silence work in her favor, but perhaps silence had its limits. perhaps she needed the realm to hear her again, if only to remember she still existed.

her gaze shifted back to him, studying the way he carried both burden and defiance like two edges of the same blade. “you wear it well,” she said simply. “the weight. the refusal to disappear.” there was no flattery in it, only a quiet recognition. she could see, for a fleeting moment, the shape of a version of herself who refused to be politely forgotten. “maybe i’ve let myself be too quiet.” a beat. “that won’t last.” the thought tugged a soft breath of laughter from her. “though i suppose i should at least see whether the king hears reason first.”

her gaze lingered on him, thoughtful. “and if they don’t want to hear me,” she said, voice measured but steady, “then i’ll make certain they have to listen anyway.”

she let the words settle between them, her poise intact but no longer delicate. “you speak of their discomfort as though it were currency,” she added, the edges of her tone smoothing again but not losing their clarity. “most of us are taught to do the opposite, to ask only in ways that do not inconvenience. to make our claims small enough to be palatable.” her hands were still, but there was an unmistakable tension beneath that composure. “i don’t know if i envy your freedom or fear what it might make of me. but if the long hours you endure unsettle them enough to shift even a fraction of their certainty…” her chin lifted slightly. “then yes. perhaps that is worth the effort. and perhaps other kingdoms will follow suit, eventually."

[nasirofmanderlys]

✯

nasir sat with his forearms resting lightly against the edge of the quiet table, the din of the great hall pressing in around them without quite touching this small pocket of stillness. he looked at vivienne as she spoke, properly this time, not with the passing attention of court politeness but with the focused regard he reserved for those who mattered. there was something grounding in her presence, in the familiar lines of her face and the shared knowledge of what it meant to move through rooms never built with them in mind.

he did not name that feeling, not even to himself. instead, he answered her.

“right, and where i'm from most of the time you find that being loud is the same as being reckless. but truthfully, being loud does not mean being reckless,” he said calmly, his voice pitched to carry only as far as the space between them, it were not as though he thought she would be the reckless sort - what did one have to do when petitioning to jaehaerys targaryen? he knew he would rather remove his own eyes with an iron rod than find himself in such a situation.

“rather, you want to believe it means refusing to be misfiled - and i would assume you wish to make a convincing, practical case..” he paused, eyes drifting briefly over the crowd before returning to her.

“the one thing the war proved is that they count on women deciding it is easier to endure than to insist. but i suspect the matter would be different should it be framed as though the realm were forced to endure something.” he shifted slightly, the bench creaking under the movement. “i will not pretend to understand how a house fractures itself so cleanly over title,” he added, frowning faintly. “but a bastard legitimised over a daughter raised for rule… it sits ill with me.” the thought flickered uncomfortably through his mind—of his own blood, of lines crossed and futures bent—and he dismissed it just as quickly. this was not about him. his gaze steadied on her again.

“you are right about names disappearing. we've watched it happen." was her king not one who took part in the cleansing of the iron isles, as nothing more than a common foot soldier? he drew a slow breath, considering his next words carefully, not wanting to appear belittling but also wholly aware that it were not as though she had legitimate older brothers to advise her. “if you go asking for correction, you will have a better chance.” the corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but enough of a glimpse as he considered what the targaryen would have to say back. to say he had little faith in the ruler of what they called new valyria was an understatement. "something you can do, something you have, that he does not."

[inkandcitrus]

vivienne didn’t move for a while. she sat like a painting half-finished, composed, but not quite still. beneath the surface, something buzzed, a tight vibration she didn’t dare let slip into her voice. there were too many things she could say. too many versions of this moment she’d rehearsed alone at the piano, fingers curled not over keys but through air. and yet, here it was, happening in this bustling room with nasir’s sharp honesty cutting through the murmurs of those around them.

she turned toward him slowly, her expression unreadable at first. then, with the barest tilt of her head: “they can’t take the music.” it wasn’t meant to be clever. it was just true. her voice held no quiver, but her smile that followed, small, coy, reluctant, betrayed more than she intended. “it’s not everything. but it’s mine.”

her fingers curled in her lap, and she forced them to uncurl. “no,” she admitted, voice quieter now. “no one’s reminded the king. least of all me.” pride had teeth, and hers had bitten deep. what was she supposed to do, beg? to jaehaerys targaryen? raise her voice in a room where the only thing more fragile than her position was her name? she had grown fond of the queen, as her lady they had grown closer, but the king? there was something about him that made her skin crawl, perhaps she was always waiting for him to snap. her gaze dropped for a beat. “maybe it is.”

she didn’t dwell long. she lifted her chin with a flicker of the girl she used to be, the one who could enter a salon and make silence feel like applause. “i like the sound of your king, though. acts, listens, thinks? it’s already more than most.” her smile returned, wider now, laced with something warm and honest. “i hope it eats them alive. truly. and you—” she gave a small nod, “you wear that pin like it was forged just for you.”

leaning back slightly, she let her eyes linger on him just long enough to suggest sincerity, not flattery. “you’ll have to invite me north sometime. i’d like to see the look on their faces when you walk in.” she let that sit for a moment before adding, softer now, “and maybe... someday, it won’t be a surprise. i mean, that's the point, isn't it.” it wasn't a question, it was a statement. she took a small sip from her cup, a small exhale leaving her afterwards.

[nasirofmanderlys]

✯

nasir regarded her closely, the faintest crease forming between his brows. he admired her composure—how she sat as though every word was measured and filed away, even when the truth was raw—but he could not let her retreat behind music without comment. what was this, some strange defense mechanism? his voice came steady, thoughtful, the kind of tone born from habit rather than performance.

“i understand it, truly i do. music and pride and background, the things that cannot be stolen unless you let them. not really." he thought briefly on what he knew about his brother, the ways in which he channeled the turbulence that was his own mind in the aftermath of the darkest chapter of their family history into a style of music which had long since ran within their blood.

and yet, keeping the music was not the same as keeping what truly mattered in their world; estates, money, power. and whilst he would have opened his mouth and told the penrose lady that very same fact, that it were nowhere near the same and to try and make oneself feel better by clinging onto the irrelevant was no help in the long run. but he did not. not as brashly nor bluntly as was on the tip of his tongue, at least.

he leaned back slightly, though his gaze did not waver from her. there was no sharpness in his voice, but the weight of a man who had seen what happened when good folk mistook stillness for dignity. “as children we studied how many houses fade from their days of glory. we've lived through some too." he thought briefly of house cole, who were more prominent than ever for the shortest period of time - burning hot like a star, then falling. "even if your king’s temper sits beneath that glory. jaehaerys is no friend to the north, and i do not pretend otherwise - we all know of it. but kings are not eternal. pressure cracks them, dissent starves them."

"if enough voices in the stormlands begin to murmur, who is to say they will not trade him for his cousin aegon?" the they remained ambiguous; he did not even make specific reference to

nasir shifted, fingers curling against the arm of his chair before he exhaled slowly. “i cannot tell you to beg, nor would i. but i will tell you this: if you stay still too long, the realm will learn to live without you. once that happens, no melody or piano, or whatever else you focus on, will stitch you a place back into the song.”

his expression softened then, just enough to temper the firmness of his words; his sisters had always told him that he could get far too wrapped up in the moment, not realising how flat his tone could be. “as for myself… being hand gives me purpose because it matters. it is weight, aye, but weight i choose to carry - even though many would rather not have to look upon my face in petition." including his own brother, who thought pushing the manderlys further into a situation of responsibility would allow them to become even more of a scapegoat. there was never stopping them - it was, what it was. he thought briefly on the amount of shockwaves that seemed to ring across the realm at the news of the lord of winter sun stepping down from his role as hand.

he knew many did not think he should be hand of the king: too wrapped in ambition, in southern politics; a skewered influence on a controversial king. it only made him want it more. he let a pause stretch, before his mouth twisted into a dry smile. “and, i confess, i do enjoy that it unsettles them. that every council, every hall, every lordling forced to bow their head is met with the sight of me, a man whose complexion alone undoes centuries of their self-made certainty. they cannot hide it, that flicker of doubt. confusion. anger. fear. it makes the long hours worth the while."

[inkandcitrus]

vivienne let the hum of the salon fill the pause between them. she didn’t look at him right away, not when the question came, not because she was startled, but because she wasn’t. of course he’d ask. it was the kind of thing people didn’t say in polite company, which was precisely why she preferred it from someone like nasir.

her fingers moved lightly along the carved edge of her chair’s armrest, thoughtful rather than nervous. for a long moment, she watched the speakers at the front resume their gentle sparring, though her thoughts had clearly turned inward.

“you can debate the technicals of a song endlessly,” she murmured at last, voice even. “beat, tempo, structure, rhyme. whether the words carry the message or the music does. whether a singer must be trained or simply honest.” a faint smile tugged at her lips. “you can make a beautiful argument of it, too, if you know what you're doing."

there was a wistful grin upon her features, an air of laughter leaving her lips. "i suppose you're right. in the end... people just listen to what moves them. that’s all. they don’t care how it got there.”

she turned her head toward him then, not guarded, but composed in that open, practiced way of someone long used to the stage, whether of court or salon or parlor hall.

“and yes,” she said simply, the smile thinning but not vanishing. “it’s true.”

there was no sting in the words. not outwardly. her tone was more like a note held just a second too long, neither cracked nor wavered, but unmistakably stretched. “he was legitimized. named heir. parchments will go to him.”

her gaze flicked back to the front of the room, where the conversation had shifted to something about accountability and legacy. her fingers stilled. “but i still have the music,” she added, with a quiet sense of confidence. vivienne penrose wasn't one to fold from a change of plans, no matter how drastic they were. she would find her own way, in time.

then, with a gentle tilt of her head, vivienne glanced sideways at nasir again. “how is hand of the king treating you?” she queried, fingers tapping once against her knee, a faint rhythm like a memory of drums. “i reckon something about this event was interesting enough to bring you all the way down here."

[nasirofmanderlys]

✯

nasir did not answer her straight away. he looked at her, properly this time—dark gaze settled, lips parting as though he meant to speak, but all he gave at first was a short, audible breath through his nose. not quite laughter. not quite disbelief. something in between. he leaned back, one leg folded over the other, hand dragging once along the line of his jaw as if trying to make sense of what he’d just heard. “so it’s true, then,” he said at last, voice low and more puzzled than prying, though there was no disguising the edge of curiosity.

“they really gave it to him. a bastard?” he tilted his head, as if her calm acceptance required closer inspection. “parchments, gone. just like that. and you’re sat here talkin’ about music?”

he didn’t say it cruelly—but he couldn’t pretend not to be baffled. it sat wrong in his chest, the way she said it. too even, too neat. i still have the music. as if the loss of a seat—her seat—could be cushioned by melody and verse. his brows knit. “forgive me, lady vivienne, but i fail to see how a tune makes up for losing what’s yours by blood. has anyone even reminded king jaehaerys of that? or have you all decided your voice sounds sweeter when you’re not shouting?” he paused, considering her profile in the flickering candlelight. she didn’t shrink. that, at least, he respected. but there was something about this quiet grace that unsettled him.

nasir had grown up learning that calm was often a disguise worn by those who had no power to rage. and power—real power—didn’t let itself get stolen without a scream or a sword. he shifted forward slightly, the weight of his voice heavier now, more deliberate. “you should've petitioned. called in favours. rattled every lord and lady until someone remembered your name. but maybe that’s the difference.” her question came gently, but it tugged something sharp from him. “it’s suiting me just fine,” nasir replied, his mouth twitching into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“being hand of the king. owen listens. he thinks. he acts. doesn’t waste time with ceremony unless it’s needed. and the position lets me get things done. real things. things that matter.”

he leaned in, voice lowering to something just above a murmur, though it carried all the same. “and i won’t lie to you, part of me enjoys knowing it eats them alive. them. you know who i mean. the ones who smile when we walk in, but can’t quite hide that flicker of discomfort—because i sit above them now. because someone who looks like me rules over people who’ve spent generations pretending we don’t belong at their tables.” he straightened again, slow and deliberate. “i see it in their eyes every day. confusion. anger. fear. they’re trying to figure out what it means that the north bends the knee to a man who looks like me." he paused, to take a drink of his cup as he cleared his throat. "it's great to see the wheels turning."

[purplespoiler]

In the source link you will find 110 gifs of Regé-Jean Page in Black Bag. All gifs were made by me. Please do not repost or add to gif hunts, please do not claim as your own. if you want to link back to this pack please feel free!

[nasirofmanderlys]

who: @mintharaestermont when and where: the estermont apartments, the verdant concord, nasir manderly ends up crossing path with the woman he only knows as luc's little sister (much to her annoyance, no doubt) context: nasir needs to speak with lucerys about something! (im not sure what i just found this setting funny)

the estermont apartments smelled of salt and polished wood, a faint memory of greenstone clinging to the drapes even here, leagues inland. nasir stepped inside with the measured caution of a man crossing an unfamiliar threshold—not hostile, but alert, his stride quiet, cloak drawn back as the door eased shut behind him. he had expected lucerys—his brother's soft, clever laughter, maybe a half-finished cup of tea or a book set aside. instead, it was who he could only presume to be his twin sister - presume due to the fact it had been multiple years since they had last seen one another.

lady minthara. he did not remember the last time he had seen her, though he was sure it was when she was hardly taller than his elbow; he almost needed to double take to ensure he were actually looking at who he thought he was. regardless, the moment he gained a view of her features, he knew it to be her; the same childish, round face. she stood at the centre of the room like she belonged to it. not ornamental, not idle—just there, in that still and deliberate way that made it clear she noticed everything.

nasir took a beat before he spoke, his eyes flicking once to the mantle, the chairs, the absent brother, and then back to her. had lucerys forgotten? “i was told lucerys would be here,” he said, his voice low, neither warm nor cold. he didn’t smile. not out of discourtesy, but because it wasn’t yet earned. “seems i was misinformed." he crossed a few steps into the room, keeping a polite distance. she was not familiar to him, not truly—barely more than a name in correspondence, a presence noted in passing. still, she bore the estermont blood, even if it ran quieter in her. it would be rude of him to merely leaving now, wouldn't it? why did he overthink such things?

“we’ve not spoken properly in some years, if i'm not wrong,” he added, his gaze steady on her face; sounding far more formal than he ever truly needed to. “minthara, is it?” his voice cooled, just slightly, but it were painfully obvious that this was quite awkward for everyone in the room. there came the sound of a bird tweeting in the shared silence as they looked at one another, and he didn't know why she was looking at him like he were confused. lucerys did live here.

"do you have any idea where he went?"

[tionpeake]

tion knew nasir well enough to know that his mind was set on condemnation, that no amount of reassurance could shift it. his mind was on his own father then, how he had taken his secrets nearly to his grave, only choosing to unburden himself on tion in his final moments. he did not know if the late lord peake had ever stared into the flames like this, ruminating over his choices with those he trusted most, as he did not know if this was something nasir could hold in as long as tion's father had.

"you could outrun it, if you wanted to," tion said at last, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. "men do it every day. they wash their hands of the past and pretend it never belonged to them." he spoke matter-of-factly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. perhaps to some, it was. "but you won't," tion continued. "you won't let yourself."

he leaned forward then, resting forearms on his knees and setting his empty goblet to the side upon a mahogany end table. "so you sit there drinking yourself into a misery over it, thinking that you failed him, failed yourself, and failed everyone that's ever met you. like that isn't more than most do over their baseborn children." that was something he would not let nasir deny. zakariya was not the only child sired in the belly of a battlefield whore during the dance, but he had certainly had more luck in life than most of them. he huffed a laugh. "so i say it again. you're too hard on yourself. you think a boy's only got one path to manhood? that if you aren't there, he's doomed?"

he shook his head, lifting one hand in a dismissive gesture. "he might not have your name, nor have you claimed him. but he has you in his blood and his bones. he is cared for. house peake will stand behind him, regardless of what name he carries. you not being there - it's not right, i'll grant you that, but it is not the end of the world for him. silence was the coward's choice when he was a babe. i no longer think it is now."

and yet it seemed that here, they would need to agree to disagree. if nasir's peace could not be made, then conversations about zakariya would always be like this, an endless circle of regret and reflection. "i haven't denied amir's suspicions," he admitted. "haven't confirmed them, either. i thought it best to let them linger." tion cleared his throat, eager to seize upon the change of topic, one corner of his mouth raised in a smirk. "true. but white women look for white husbands," he pointed out with a laugh, a sound that reverberated rich and deep in his chest.

but it was deeper than that. tion's expression shifted into something more contemplative. "ah, you know me, brother," he said, his tone more resigned. "and gods, i know myself. it would take a rare woman to keep me from looking over my shoulder for something else. and then i'll be sending you my bastards to keep." it were a joke, but a poor one. "if such a woman exists, i've yet to meet her. so until then, the pair of us are in the same boat."

[nasirofmanderlys]

✯

nasir let the silence linger a moment, letting tion’s words soak through the cracks in his defences. the crackle of fire filled the space between them, the soft hiss of wood breaking down to embers. he leaned further into his chair, his goblet warm in hand, and the corners of his mouth twitched, more in thought than mirth. for a man who’d spent a life mastering silence, mastering the mask, it was strange how easily he let it slip around tion. how little he had to perform. he would be forever grateful for it; even if there were moments when one said something which would cause the other to scoff.

“aye,” he murmured, voice low and slow, like a stone rolling over riverbed. “you’re right. i won’t let myself.” his eyes didn’t lift from the hearth, but his mind was far from it now; still, when his eyes did break from the crackling flames of the hearth, he moved to look directly into the gaze of tion peake - and it was enough to cause him a grin slightly. forever unable to keep a straight face, even in their years of adulthood that had honestly begun to feel as though they were merely old men.

“i’ve carried worse things on my back and called them armour. what’s another sin, really, but more weight to bear?” he took a sip, the drink sharp against his tongue, burning the back of his throat in a way he welcomed.

“i know he’s luckier than most. i do. luckier than i was, in some ways. and he’s got you, which is more than most boys like him can say.” a beat passed. “but that doesn’t make it right. try to talk me out of it all you want, it is fact at the end of the day." the words hung there, raw and unguarded, and for once, he didn’t pull them back in. he let them sit there in the comfort that was sharing a space with tion peake. he let them exist, weighty and exposed. nasir finally turned his head then, casting a glance toward tion—not the usual sharp-eyed look of a man ready to deflect, but something wearier, older, open in a way he rarely allowed.

“you’ve never asked me to explain it,” he said, quieter now, “and i'm bloody grateful for that.” the warmth returned to his voice then, a bit of that old swagger as he lifted his goblet again in a mock-toast. “and i’ll find you a white woman or two, don’t worry. plenty in the north, as long as you're fine with furs." he knew it would be rare that tion peake would actually go for marrying anybody from the north; no, he knew what marriage was in his mind. benefit, and there was only a small number of candidates that would be able to benefit an already wealthy lord. he sank deeper into the chair, letting the conversation settle like dust on the floor. they’d circled this ground too many times, and they both knew no more would come of it tonight.

end of thread.

[jalabharmooton]

what: open starter where: the reach event

The scent of crushed mint and warm stone clung to the air in Highgarden’s upper court, where fountains whispered and butterflies floated lazily through shafts of morning light. There were no banners flaring, no horns blaring—just the hum of strategy disguised as civility, ideas wrapped in sweet wine and rose-scented diplomacy.

Jalabhar Mooton stood beneath the arch of a marble arbor, wine cup cradled loosely in one hand, his other resting lightly atop the pommel of his walking stick—not for need, but for style. He wore rich burgundy, white-gold thread curling like rivers across his chest and cuffs, dark silk trousers tucked into polished boots.

His eyes were moving constantly—watching, not just looking. He noted who entered the courtyard, who avoided whom, who drank too quickly, and who smiled too long. Beneath the surface of progress and peace, he could feel it—ambition with teeth. And he liked it. This was the battlefield he craved.

"Funny thing about peace," he murmured, more to the air than to anyone present. "Folk tend to forget it’s just another kind of game. Quieter, aye—but the stakes? Still sharp."

[nasirofmanderlys]

✯

nasir leaned against the warm stone with the weight of someone who had endured too many courtiers for one morning. the sunlight crept lazily through highgarden's latticework, casting dappled shadows across the polished tile, but he barely noticed. his gaze slid sidelong to jalabhar, wine in hand, dressed like he’d been poured into that burgundy silk. "yeah, a game that can be played for as a long as possible. i ain't trying to deal with an outbreak of something international when me and amir have the boltons on our head." there was always something calculated in how jalabhar carried himself—refined, poised, and sharp behind the charm.

“you know,” nasir said, voice low but laced with humour, “only you would show up to a peace summit lookin’ like the seventh son of a saint and still clocking every soul here like you’re about to start a heist.” his eyes dropped to the walking stick, and for a moment, he was quiet. then—he exhaled hard, shaking his head before laughter spilled out, warm and unguarded; he knew the man could walk just fine. he had seen him just moments ago, gliding through the crowd unbothered, as quiet as possible yet still making his way to various different individuals. still, the sound of nasir manderly's laughter echoing through the halls was something most would no doubt not have expected to hear.

but there was always something about being with his people that always sent him to a level of comfort he felt with none other. his tone gentled slightly, still amused but laced with familiarity as he brought his hand to his mouth, still half laughing though it sounded more like a wheeze now. “half these men wield swords. man is wielding atmosphere."

[steelandfrost]

edrick’s icy hues held steady on nasir, the flickering firelight reflecting off their icy depths. his jaw tightened briefly, but he let the words hang in the cold air between them before answering. he did not pace, nor raise his voice—he was not a man who wasted breath on posturing. he simply stood, firm as the stones beneath them, his stance rooted like the very image he had invoked.

"you speak of pride as though it is our weakness," edrick said, his voice low but carrying. "but pride is not what binds us. It is memory. it is blood. it is the bones of those buried beneath these stones, who stood when others knelt."

he took a slow step forward, boots scraping against the stone, the subtle weight of his words pressing into the space. "the old gods watched over this land before the seven ever whispered from their septs. they watched when the snows came, when the dead marched, when the south left us to face ruin alone. and when they look down now, what do they see? a north asked to bow its head once more—this time, not to a king’s sword, but to the whims of a god who was never ours."

his fingers flexed briefly at his side before returning to stillness. his voice softened, though the tension in it remained. "i understand the lure of opportunity, lord manderly. trade routes, alliances, coin in our coffers—these things matter. we cannot thrive on snow and honor alone. but what good is gold if we sell the soul of the north to earn it? what is prosperity, if it demands we forget the faces carved into our trees?"

he met nasir’s gaze, unflinching. "the north can prosper without becoming something it is not. we can stand taller—not by bending, but by building upon what is already ours. i will not see our people at the mercy of a figurehead in the south. a high septon, a king, or some robed old man holding the fates of our kin like a tally on his ledgers."

[nasirofmanderlys]

✯

nasir let edrick speak—he had no intention of interrupting. the man’s voice had that slow, measured weight of someone convinced silence was a weapon, as though restraint could pass for wisdom. but as the words unfurled, all nasir heard was the familiar rhythm of northman nostalgia, dressed up in reverence and half-buried threats. memory, blood, bones—he could practically recite it before edrick did. and by the end of it, nasir’s face didn’t shift. not in anger, nor disdain. only the slight lift of his brow betrayed him.

“you’ve said much, lord bolton,” he murmured, folding his arms across his chest. “and yet, you haven't said a single sentence that actually tells me what you would do differently.” his eyes flicked over the man, cool and sharp. “all this talk of soul and memory—pretty, yes, but empty. they’re the same stories your side has told for centuries."and still you’ve offered me no plan. no policy...." and it was in that moment a glimpse, a spark of almost taunting amusement filled the gaze of nasir mandery: the ruling lord of white harbour knew how his presence, his position, left the other feeling a sense of anger. resentment.

"nothing."

his gaze didn’t waver, and when he spoke again, it came with the edge of iron. “as for the high septon—don’t mistake me. he’s not a concern of yours. you may think him southern, foreign, irrelevant—but it is my people who pray in those halls. my septs that have fed the poor. so if you think to wield that as some distant threat, be very clear: if you involve yourself in the faith, i will take it for what it is—a strike at me and mine. and i do not take strikes lightly.” what happened within the walls of white harbour was of no concern to the likes of people like him; all brute and savage, hiding behind a veil of civility. they knew well enough what this was.

the air between them grew still. not quiet—just waiting. “i know your kind. all talk about tradition and history...we know what you really mean. ain't no need to be explaining yourself.” nasir said, voice lowering. “i know exactly what your soul stands for. it's in every look cast my way when i was named hand.” he stared at him directly: it was the same rhetoric, the same thought process which had resulted in masses of smallfolk joining the umber, the false king. even if that were with pitchforks rather than a quill, or the title of lordship - he saw no difference between them. only this time, nasir manderly swore to himself time and time again: he was here to stay.

"so what is it you plan to do? i don't see karstark backing you."

[inkandcitrus]

open starter (0/2)

setting: the verdant concord, vivienne finds herself seated at a gathering of two speakers engaging in philosophical discourse and civil debate, with input from the crowd, and is fascinated.

the salon had a hush to it, though not the kind born of boredom. it was the hush of minds in motion. glass walls let the light pour in, catching on silk sleeves and polished brooches, but no one seemed to care for the finery. all attention was bent toward the small platform at the front, where two figures were mid-discourse, measured, eloquent, circling a question older than the crown itself: what did a ruler owe to their people, and what did the people owe in return?

vivienne sat angled slightly forward, chin resting in one hand. her expression was thoughtful, not drawn tight with judgment, but open in quiet fascination. she liked the tempo of it all. how words built slowly, how disagreement wasn’t sharpened into insult but softened into inquiry. even here, at the height of spectacle, there was space for sincerity.

one of the speakers gestured gently, likening power to a garden: tended rightly, it bore fruit; left alone, it choked itself. the other countered that too much tending could strangle growth. they weren’t arguing, not really. they were circling something true together.

vivienne’s eyes lingered on the two speakers as they volleyed another thoughtful exchange, engaging, but precise and almost tender in its civility. she admired how they peeled back each other’s points without drawing blood.

then, with a small turn toward the person seated nearest her, she murmured under her breath, “i wonder what they'd make of something truly divisive... like whether melody or lyric carries the heart of a song.”

a flicker of a smile followed, quiet, curious, not smug. her gaze returned to the front, but her mind was already drifting toward the music rooms she'd overheard someone praising earlier. she'd come here for questions, yes, but not all of them needed to be spoken aloud.

[nasirofmanderlys]

✯

nasir hadn’t expected to enjoy himself; though something told him it was more about the company he was able to meet rather than the actual contents itself. it did not take him long before he found himself in the company of his closest, as well as those of the old way he had been meaning to catch up with; for all the way the manderlys had attempted to outrun their southern roots, there was no denying them. still, salons like these often left him cold—too much talking, not enough listening, too many ideas chased for the sake of appearing clever. but this one… this one had teeth, and discipline.

the speakers were well-matched, neither letting the other get away with too much, but both seeming genuinely curious. they weren’t performing. they were thinking. that alone made it worth sitting still for.

he had noticed vivienne penrose before she spoke. it was hard not to—she had that particular kind of stillness that drew the eye, all considered silence and sharp attention. not stiff, though. relaxed, but alert. like someone who expected to learn something and didn’t care who noticed. that kind of posture was rare in a room full of people who only sat still when they wanted to be seen doing it. when she turned slightly toward him and made her quiet remark about melody and lyric, nasir didn’t laugh. he didn’t need to. instead, he shifted in his chair, the slow, comfortable movement of a man used to long hours at court but not entirely dulled by them.

“i think they’d flounder,” he said simply, not unkindly, speaking back to her casually as he attempted to get himself more comfortable in the seat he was upon. something about the length of his legs was not quite agreeing with where he had found himself sat. “a debate like that isn’t about ideas. it’s about taste. and taste—” he gave a small shrug “—you can’t argue someone into changing it.” it was a glimpse into the way nasir manderly saw the world; some people knew how to carry themselves, and someone - well, they had no clue how to.

he didn’t look at her fully when he spoke, just slightly turned in her direction, eyes still on the speakers as they moved on to another point about the moral obligations of succession. “i reckon this works,” he added after a moment, quieter, “because it has rules. shared language, shared aim. you throw music into it and half the room gets sentimental. the other half gets confused. and no one learns anything.” he glanced at her then, just briefly. he had recently heard about what had befallen her claim to parchments; they had all heard about it, and all were simply tiptoeing around it rather than ask upfront. he would ask.

"is it true?"

[owenstark]

who: open starter where: winterfell, owen's birthday ball notes: takes place before the reach gathering.

The Great Hall of Winterfell roared with life. The longtables groaned under the weight of roasted boar, venison pies, and trenches of steaming stews thick with barley and herbs. Horns of ale and spiced cider passed from hand to hand, and the music—pipes, drums, and old Northern fiddles—rolled through the rafters like a storm threatening to never end. The fires were high in the hearths, casting golden light across the faces of warriors and lords, ladies and singers, even the occasional knight who bore no love for snow yet found themselves drawn north for the name day of a king.

King Owen Stark stood at the center of it all, shirt discarded, sweat at his brow, and a grin spread wide across his face. A goblet of dark beer was raised in one hand, while the other was being shaken by a red-faced northern knight who had just been bested in a wrestling match.

“Next time, Ser Harwin, keep your knees under you!” Owen laughed, clapping the man on the back with enough force to stagger a lesser soul. “You almost had me before your arse kissed the flagstones!”

Owen Stark had sent invitations far and wide. To bannermen and strangers, allies and rivals—even the lion’s kin, should they dare enter the heart of the wolf’s den. His message had been clear:

"All are welcome, if they come in peace. I was born in winter. Let’s see if fire and frost can drink from the same cup."

There was no crown on his brow tonight, no heavy cloak about his shoulders. Just the man, the king, and the wolf in him all laid bare for the feast. His dark hair was tousled, his beard damp with drink, and his laughter came easily—too easily, some might say, for a man with enemies watching from the shadows of his hall.

Owen grabbed a fresh horn of ale and found a place close to the dias but not on it, he didn't want to feel apart from it all, he wanted to be in the thick of it. "I've coin on the big lad there, who do you think will win?" Owen asked as he watched two new fighters enter the open space.

[nasirofmanderlys]

✯

nasir rolled his shoulders, bare-chested now, the cool air of the great hall clinging to the sheen of sweat that glossed his collarbones and the curve of his back. the fabric of his undershirt—discarded somewhere behind a longtable—had been damp within minutes, and he hadn’t bothered with it since. the stone floors of winterfell had grown slick with snowmelt and the churned-up muck of boot-trodden earth; the wrestling circle at the centre of the hall looked less like a sport and more like a battlefield—mud-splattered, steaming, and wild with shouts and laughter.

he wasn’t even sure who had thrown his name in the first time, but he’d not refused. gods, he’d leapt at the chance.

he moved through the throng barefoot, hair half-fallen from its usual tie, sweat-darkened strands clinging to his temple. streaks of dirt marked his ribs where he’d hit the floor hard in the last bout, and a faint bloom of red was beginning to form along his side from a badly aimed elbow. and yet, there was a sharp gleam in his eye, a restless sort of delight thrumming just beneath the surface. he looked nothing like the careful, calculating hand of the king most were used to. and that, he thought, with the faintest curl of a grin, was precisely the point.

he heard owen’s voice before he saw him—loud and laughing, naturally, already halfway into his next horn of ale and cheering as though his lungs had never known caution. nasir angled toward it, weaving past swaying dancers, overeager squires, and a pair of braying lords who reeked of smoke and onions. he came to stand beside the king, arms loosely crossed over his chest, the firelight catching along the flat of his stomach and the pale scar that ran across his left shoulder.

“depends,” nasir said, his voice smooth but still touched by exertion, breath just short of even. “if it’s coin you’re wagering, the big lad’s got the reach—but he’s flat-footed. short one’s quicker. twist him down by the knees, it’s done in under a minute. like you did to poor ser harwin, if memory serves.” he glanced sidelong at owen, one brow arched with mock solemnity. “you’re heavier than you look, stark. though i’ll not call it fat. not on your name day.” he flicked his gaze toward the far wall where his brother stood with arms folded, face drawn into its usual mask of contempt. “amir’s furious,” nasir went on, tone dry. “no boxing. says the north doesn’t hold with proper sport. too cold for bare knuckles. makes the blood slow.” he rubbed his jaw idly, wincing faintly at the bruise forming along it.

“though you lot have no trouble tossing each other around like bags of wet flour.”he stretched his neck with a slow pop, the muscles along his back shifting like drawn bowstrings. then he cast owen a sideways glance, half-daring him to a challenge of his own. “so. have you thrown your name back in the circle, or are you too busy being king of the ale?”

[nasirofmanderlys]

@amirofmanderlys @naaijas

[naaijas]

silent thank you is sent up to the gods with each flavor-filled morsel naija takes in. prayers whispered from the cool dawn of the morning to the unforgiving winter dusk have been answered so clearly in the form of a brother returned unharmed. at least in the physical manner. shes sure that somewhere behind the steady cadence he has when bringing up mariela, lies a heart dented by the endless possibilities of a future dismantled. "indeed it is.. i trust the meeting was somewhat amicable." slow sip of wine as she studies him, unsure of whether the topic is fleeting small talk or something he wished to venture into. despite their undeniable blood connection, she never trusted her insticts in reading the silent mannerisms of the eldest manderly. "it must have been for you to count her amongst these other comrades you meandered across during your travels. which you have yet to tell me of, by the way."

shes more unprepared for his line of questioning than she thought she would be once asked. does she disclose that her time has been consumed by prayer? that moments between education and erractic depictions of her own inward spiral, which should have been spent aligning for her future, were instead spent begging the gods for another deep breath or beat of a heart? "nothing too exciting," naijas tone is an octave away from monotonous, exchanging the onset of dread for something more manufactured. "the girls are coming along quite nicely, though theres more work to be done in terms of their penmanship." its uniform, the way she carries on about things she should be focused on. has she said this before? a quick blink sees the thought ushered from the forefront and she takes another bite to buy herself time to think.

"oh, i almost forgot!" a sudden shift in demeanor to one more excitable as she motions for her nearby maid to join her, taking the rolled canvas from her patient hands into her own. one might have thought the page hot to the touch by the way she tosses it so flippantly in his direction. "open it up, and spare no thought. i want an honest truth or none at all."

[nasirofmanderlys]

✯

nasir caught the scroll with practised ease, his fingers tightening around the parchment as he studied it for a moment before unrolling it. the candlelight flickered across its surface, illuminating the careful strokes of paint that lay beneath his gaze. for a long moment, he said nothing, his expression unreadable, his jaw set in that familiar way that often made people uneasy. he traced the details with his eyes, noting the precision of her brushwork, the way the colours bled and blended into one another with deliberate care. he let the silence stretch, let it grow thick between them like mist rolling in from the white knife. then, finally, he exhaled, pressing the edge of the scroll flat against the table with his palm.

"it’s good," he said at last, his voice even, thoughtful. then, after another pause, he added, "i like it." the admission came without embellishment, without the usual pleasantries people might expect from a brother offering praise to his sister. but nasir had never been one for empty flattery. he would not coddle her with meaningless words. no, he meant what he said, and he let the weight of it settle between them. his fingers brushed against the parchment once more before he leaned back, the faintest trace of something—approval, perhaps—touching his features. he looked at her then, really looked at her, the way one might assess a structure for cracks unseen.

there was something different in her, something in the way she carried herself, in the way her excitement flickered and died too quickly, as if it were something she had to force into existence rather than something that came naturally. he did not press, not yet. instead, he returned to her earlier words. "what is there to tell? i stopped in starpike on my way to oldtown," he admitted, setting the scroll aside with careful precision. "wanted to see how the faith moves beyond white harbour—to see if what we’re dealing with here is the same disease spreading everywhere, or if it’s something else entirely." he reached for his wine, taking a measured sip before continuing. "it’s different, but not by much. i wanted to see where the donations the faith collects are going."

his gaze flicked back to her, weighing her reaction. she had always been sharp, always understood things before others did. "i don’t mean to dampen your spirits nai, but you asked where i meandered off to, and this is the truth of it. boring, i know." his tone was quieter now, not unkind, but tempered with the gravity that never seemed to leave him these days. he considered mentioning mariela again, but thought better of it. whatever had been between them, whatever had once been meant to be, was not his alone to claim. naija and manal had their own history with her, their own memories to carry. he would not stir that. not tonight. instead, he tapped a finger against the edge of the scroll, a small shift of focus. "you’ve improved," he said simply, nodding towards her painting. "though i imagine you already knew that."

[amirofmanderlys]

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

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

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

[ofsacredseas]

ayca sat with her back straight, shoulders tense, hands pressed lightly against her knees. her usual sharpness dulled, tempered by the weight in the room. she watched amir, the way grief hardened into fury behind his eyes, but she did not look long. it felt wrong somehow, to hold his gaze when her own thoughts were so scattered.

she had never cared much for faith beyond what was expected—prayers before meals, quiet offerings at dawn—but this was different. this was theirs. demir had been theirs.

her thumb brushed the fabric of her dress, finding a loose thread she hadn’t noticed before. she twirled it between her fingers as amir’s words settled over the room like stones.

when the silence stretched, she spoke, her voice low but steady. “the high septon will call this a tragedy. an end. the closing of a chapter.” her eyes flicked toward amir, then away. “but it’s not, is it? not for us.” her fingers tightened slightly. “what’s left for us, if our place in the faith is already buried alongside him?”

[lucreziasredwyne]

∞

the scent of incense had settled thick in the air, cloying against the skin, but it did not mask the raw undercurrent of grief. lucrezia stood to the side, her hands deft as she folded her prayer mat, though the movement was mechanical, thoughtless. her fingers trembled slightly as she smoothed the fabric, pressing down as if to will the shaking away. her other hand rested against her mouth, a silent anchor against the rising tide of unease swelling within her. she had expected sorrow.

she had expected anger. but this—this sharp-edged confusion, this creeping sense of something unravelling beneath them—this, she had not foreseen. septon demir had been her close confidant, she had always insisted on seeing him whenever she was in oldtown as a girl, and it was he who carried out her marriage vows to omer just some years ago. it had been him to circumcise both of her sons. it had been he who had performed the funeral janazahs of father, mother and son alike. and only recently, she had received him in the arbor on multiple accounts, having taken the time to speak to him of sleepless nights and worries that began to twist and turn in her mind - things she spoke about with no other. and she would not speak with no other.

she remained veiled, the black abaya draping over her in comfort, but she felt exposed nonetheless. the room was filled with the old way, with those who had held fast when others had wavered. the weight of their presence should have been a comfort. instead, it only sharpened her uncertainty. amir’s voice still echoed in her mind. the high septon ordered this. the words had landed like a blow, the force of them reverberating through her bones. why? it did not make sense.

they had been the high septon’s last and truest supporters. when others had sought to twist faith to suit the ruling class, they had been the ones to remind the world of what was right, of what was true. and yet, it was demir who lay beneath the dirt. her voice was soft when it came, barely above a whisper, yet it carried in the hush of the room. “but why us?” she exhaled, shaking her head. “if not us, then who?”

her eyes flickered toward ayca, toward amir, toward the weight of unspoken questions hanging between them all. she looked toward tirius and nasir here, considering they were the ruling lords of their houses. “what purpose does it serve for him to cut down the ones who held his power upright?” she did not say his faith, because that was the question gnawing at her. was it faith at all that the high septon served? or something else entirely? her fingers clenched around the prayer mat.

"we are all he has, or had, left...i cannot make sense of it."

[younescorbray]

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

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

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

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

[nasirofmanderlys]

✯

nasir’s hands were still damp, the cold water clinging between his fingers as he rubbed his palms together, the last of the dirt scrubbed away but the feeling of it—of the burial, of the weight of the earth—still lingered. the scent of incense curled in the air, heavy and choking, threading through the grief that sat thick in the room. he listened, quietly, as younes spoke, the man’s words low but laced with something brittle beneath. the question hung there, heavier than the smoke. where do we go from here?

nasir let the silence stretch for a moment longer, his gaze dropping to the wet lines trailing down his wrists, catching in the folds of his sleeve. there was a hollowness in his chest, a slow, expanding ache that had grown since demir’s body had been laid beneath the soil. he had thought he might have something—some answer—to offer them. but he didn’t. not yet.

“you’re right,” nasir said at last, his voice rough. “demir was dangerous for those who have taken to power in the faith." he thought of the sept, of demir’s voice rising only a fortnight ago, condemning the brutal treatment of oldtown’s sex workers, calling it what it was—an abuse of power, a sickness in the city. “he stood where others stayed silent. and now he’s dead for it.”

his jaw tensed, the grief sharp against his throat. “but i won’t tear white harbour away from the faith and declare a new head of the faith, not like those disbelieving westerlanders. not for this. the high septon… he’s not the whole of it. the faith is bigger than one man’s rot. we know that.” he lifted his head then, gaze sweeping the room, resting briefly on his brother's own figure, the weight of his grief a mirror to his own. and suddenly, he realised he was thinking of another funeral.

“but i know we in white harbour will stop any coin, donation and all, that has the destination of the starry. not a single copper until we know who that coin serves." his words were a suggestion; he could not dictate any lord or lady what to do with their own lands. but he knew he would stop any and all coin.

[tionpeake]

the fire flickered, it's light beginning to burn low, and tion continued to study nasir in the dying light. "i am not calling you a coward, nasir," he said, far more gently than when he had spoke before. "you are judging yourself far too harshly. it might choke you, but your restraint is saving that boy from a lot of turmoil." he did not know if it mattered what he said to nasir. tion understood the weight of carrying such a secret, but he knew it was nothing compared to the weight nasir felt. tion had the advantage of being able to tuck away any guilt he felt, knowing he did what he did as the act of loyalty. he could convince himself this was a good thing.

he had known nasir for a long time now - long enough to be able to read between the lines of what was pressing on him. it was duty - the act of trying live up to the legacy carved by manderlys before him. he could not pretend to know what that felt like, for tion was the first good man in a long line of bad ones. there was no expectations on tion's shoulders, for the path he was forging for himself was a legacy cast anew, without the pressure to follow the footsteps that came before. for all the steady confidence in his words, he could not provide a balm for nasir's soul, could do nothing but sit in his company, and listen as those thoughts took shape into words.

"another?" he asked, gesturing to the half-full bottle with a wry smile. "or have you had your fill?" he was glad to see nasir laugh, but though he said nothing of it, something flickered in tion's gaze that was unfamiliar. perhaps it was something to do with the way nasir spoke of the belmores. he did not speak of his betrothal often, and it felt like something tion knew better than to poke at. instead, he merely raised his eyebrows, inviting further comment without asking with words. or perhaps it was because he was too close to the situation, too attached to the boy, to fully smother the flicker of protectiveness at nasir's words. all this. pathetic.

tion ran a hand over his jaw. "making do has served plenty of men well enough," he managed a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes, evidently his own turn to fall into thought. well enough had never been something tion was content with, and nasir knew it well. in business, that was no bad thing, to hold ambition close and keep a steady eye on your goals. in the marital bed, it was different. if he took a woman to wife, how long would it be before his gaze began to wander, before he had set sights on the next best thing that he had to have? was there such thing as a woman so brilliant that he would find the sort of contentment that had never found him anywhere else, in any other aspect of his life. there was always something more.

"look at us," he chuckled. "sitting around like a pair of miserable bastards talking about women when neither of us have one." his laughter was low and warm, the kind that was a familiar sound to nasir in the years of their friendship. "perhaps that is our problem, brother. without a woman, we've both had much too much time to think."

[nasirofmanderlys]

✯

the fire crackled low, casting faint, flickering shadows over the room as nasir leaned back, swirling the amber liquid in his goblet absentmindedly. his gaze flicked to tion, who sat across from him, that familiar mix of steady confidence and quiet care etched into his features. nasir knew tion meant well, his words chosen with the kind of precision that came from years of understanding the weight they carried. still, they struck sharp against nasir's thoughts, the truths in them both comforting and damning.

"issue is, i don't see it as restraint," nasir began, his voice low but firm, his dark eyes meeting tion’s in the dim light. "it isn’t restraint, not truly. restraint would have been stopping myself that night, knowing full well the consequences. but this—this silence, this... distance—it doesn’t feel like strength. it feels like failure. like cowardice."

his voice softened, but the bitterness lingered. "i’ve told myself it’s for his sake, that my absence spares him from scandal, from whispers of illegitimacy. but tell me, tion, how does a boy grow into a man without knowing where he comes from? without a father to guide him?" nasir’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, his gaze drawn to the dying fire. "i’ve always thought a man is defined not by his words but by his deeds. and a father..." he paused, his throat tightening. he thought of his own father.

"a father is meant to be there, no matter the storm, no matter the burden. i've always said that, that boys need their father. yet here i am, leaving that boy to grow under another’s roof because i lacked the courage to claim him. because i thought i could outrun the shame."

nasir sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. the weight of his thoughts felt heavier than ever in the stillness of the room. "you’ve done right by him, tion. you’ve given him a home, stability, all the things i should have. and for that, i owe you more than i can ever repay. but don’t mistake my gratitude for absolution. this isn’t something i can make peace with, not yet." and the man's face couldn't help but laugh slightly now as he accepted the refill of the drink, indicating his glass toward his tion himself. "and amir keeps thinking he's yours." he took a sip of his drink, letting the burn settle his frayed nerves before continuing. he didn't speak more on mariela egen.

"as for marriage..." nasir let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "bringing a woman into this mess would be cruel. how could i ask someone to stand beside me when i’m not even sure i’ve got my feet under me? no, not until house manderly is secure, not until i’ve put the pieces in place to ensure the north can’t afford to overlook us any longer. then, perhaps. but not now." his gaze returned to tion, and for a moment, the stern façade cracked, revealing a flicker of vulnerability that only ever showed with tion peake. "i’ll make it right one day, for the boy. for the family i’ve failed so far. but until then... well, i’ll keep trying to be the man i should have been all along."

"what's your excuse? it's not like there aren't enough white women in the south." the words, said in nasir's typically serious, quiet voice, was enough to cause a crack of a grin that cross his features.

[moonhillsunsets]

her hands loosely clasped as the flickering firelight painted warm shadows on her face. mariela's posture was poised, though the subtle rhythm of her thumb brushing against the fabric of her sleeve betrayed an undercurrent of thought. the hall around them was alive with laughter and conversation, but the space where she and nasir stood seemed removed from the revelry, their voices caught in quieter, more personal tones.

“hmm,” she hummed softly, considering just what starpike must bring for him. her gaze turned to nasir, thoughtful. “i’ve heard it spoken of, but never visited myself. strange, isn’t it? how places can hold so much meaning for some and be no more than names to others.” her lips curved faintly, a smile too fleeting to linger, the subtle image of the young girl she was upon her features. mariela did not wonder aloud much, these days, as she had when she was younger. “i suppose the journey is always worthwhile when it leads us to something, or someone, familiar.”

for a moment, mariela’s thoughts drifted to their younger years, when the future was an open horizon instead of a labyrinth of duty and intrigue. those days had felt simpler, unburdened by the weight of betrayal, loss, or whispered secrets. she had been so certain of who she was, of what her life would be, and she wondered if he had felt the same. how strange, she mused, that the years could strip away such certainties and leave them searching for fragments of the people they once were. did nasir still carry that certainty somewhere, she wondered, or had he, too, been reshaped by the tides of time?

she glanced away, her gaze drawn to the tapestries along the walls—scenes of hunts and victories, captured forever in vivid thread. “you’re right about resilience,” she said, her voice quieter now. “it shapes us, though i wonder if it leaves more cracks than strength some days.” a soft breath escaped her, carrying a hint of the wistfulness that lingered beneath her polished exterior. “but then, there are moments like this. When you see someone again and realize not everything has been lost to time.”

she straightened slightly, her composure returning like a veil settling over her features. “it would be nice, to see white harbor again. not for matters of court or duty, but for something simpler, as you say. i should like to walk through its gates with no need for pretense or purpose.” a pause, and then, more softly, “i think i would enjoy that.”

[nasirofmanderlys]

✯

nasir’s gaze held on mariela, the quiet between them stretching like a thread that could either snap or weave something new. the hall around them buzzed with laughter, music, and the clink of goblets, but all of that faded into the background. he noticed the way the firelight painted warm shadows across her face, how her hands were clasped loosely in front of her, betraying a calm that he knew from years of familiarity to be a mask.

her thumb brushed against the sleeve of her gown—an unconscious motion, a reminder of the girl she had been, the one he thought he’d never lose touch with. yet here they stood, worlds apart from the innocence they had once shared.

“you always could find simplicity where others saw only the tangled,” nasir said softly, his voice almost wistful as it carried across the space between them. “starpike… well, it’s a place where contradictions thrive, isn’t it? guess everyone expects me to try and push some claim, even if it's just in my mind. i know i've never lived there myself, and i don't believe in things like past lives but...” he fell silent for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle between them.

"i'll happily find any opportunity to go. as you know." he was not sure why he said such things - perhaps because, after all this time, he was certain she would understand. she always had before. how was she ever supposed to know the other reason why he found himself returning back to starpike? a piece of him he had left entrusted to his closest friend. he studied her as she listened, that faint flicker of a smile catching his eye. it wasn’t much, but it was enough to stir something in him. when she had spoken earlier of resilience, of cracks in the stone, nasir had felt a strange echo in his chest.

it wasn’t just her words; it was everything that had led them to this point. both of them, so changed, yet so fundamentally the same in their underlying frustrations. he could hear the quiet wistfulness in her voice when she spoke of moments like this, of seeing someone again and realising not everything had been lost to time. nasir glanced at mariela, his gaze momentarily softening as he took in the subtle shifts in her posture. her presence was familiar, yet the years that had passed between them seemed to stretch the distance between who they had been and who they were now.

there were questions he had, things he wondered about, but it seemed strange to ask.

and yet, he found himself wanting to know—maybe because the silence between them was far too heavy to bear. “do you have children now?” the question slipped out before he could stop it, the words almost feeling foreign on his tongue. nasir winced inwardly, wondering why he had chosen such a personal subject, but curiosity gnawed at him. the world had reshaped them both, and she had once been a vision of what could have been—a life full of simple joys and shared futures. had she lived that life? had she found joy in motherhood? he couldn’t quite explain why the thought unsettled him so. he forced his gaze back to mariela, his expression unreadable, though the slight tension in his jaw betrayed the uncertainty he tried to keep hidden.

“you must have had your own life by now,” he continued, his voice lower than before. “the years have passed quickly, but... i imagine you’ve found peace in your own way.” he suddenly thought about the fact he still had no children of his own, except one whom he could not claim. one sister dead. what choices had he committed to end up in such a way?

[steelandfrost]

the firelight flickered over edrick bolton’s pale face, casting shadows across his sharp features as he studied the hand of the king in silence for a moment. the hall around them was quiet save for the crackle of the flames, the weight of winterfell’s ancient stone walls pressing in like a silent audience. when edrick finally spoke, his voice was low and measured, each word carefully chosen.

“lord manderly,” he began, inclining his head in a gesture of respect. “the north has endured much—weathered storms others couldn’t even name. we’ve survived because we know who we are.”

he stepped forward, his boots heavy on the stone floor, closing some of the distance between them. his expression was calm, but there was an edge of tension in the way his hands were clasped behind his back. “i’ll not argue the world is changing. it always does. but change doesn’t mean abandoning the roots that have kept us standing. without roots, a tree does not move forward—it falls.” his voice, though measured, carried an edge now, a flicker of the passion he rarely revealed.

his brother had left chaos in his wake, forcing edrick to pick up the pieces of a legacy now teetering on the edge of ruin. domeric's secrets, his lies, and his sudden absence had left edrick vulnerable—left the North vulnerable. and now, there were those who sought to carve away even more, pressing to reshape the north in a southern image.

he studied nasir carefully, his gaze sharp as a blade. “you say the north cannot remain as it is. i say it cannot afford to become what it is not. tell me, my lord, what future do you see, if we abandon the very heart of who we are?”

[nasirofmanderlys]

✯

nasir manderly’s gaze lingered on the fire for a moment, its flames dancing in uneven patterns, unpredictable and consuming. his lips tightened slightly, but his composure held steady as he turned to face edrick bolton fully. the flicker of contempt was well-hidden behind a mask of pragmatism, but it simmered beneath the surface. he clasped his hands behind his back, the weight of edrick’s words pressing against his thoughts like the oppressive chill of winterfell’s stones.

the words of his brother danced in the forefront of his mind; words of desperation, of yelling how they would never be like the others - in this moment, nasir realised he was right. but in all his stubborn and prideful nature, rather than meeting anyone in the middle, he was adamant they would need to see the light. "what exactly is it," nasir began, his tone measured but laced with a sharp edge, "that you think we’re abandoning, lord bolton? the heart of who we are, as you so fervently put it. define it for me."

he took a step forward, the soles of his boots striking against the cold stone floor with deliberate precision. his voice lowered, not out of fear but out of calculation, the quiet intensity of a man who knew the value of a pointed question. "is it the stubborn pride that keeps us tied to isolation while the world evolves around us? the refusal to adapt that has cost us not just lives, but opportunities? or perhaps it is the insistence on being a tree, as you say, with roots so deep in unyielding soil that it cannot bend without breaking." nasir tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes narrowing.

"because to me, that's not strength. that's a death knell." he paused, letting the crackle of the fire fill the silence between them, its warmth doing little to temper the chill in his voice. "so, i ask again, lord bolton: what is it that you think we are abandoning? and more importantly, is it truly worth holding onto?"