the language of waves.

ayca mallister, lady of seagard, two and thirty.

[ofsacredseas]

♛ → THE RIVERLANDS present(s) AYCA MALLISTER, the LADY of SEAGARD. 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 CISFEMALE who was PATIENT & STRONG-WILLED before they saw the first of the flames, is now INDECISIVE & RECKLESS after seeing the last. they’re often associated with the cresent moon's reflection in the sea, charmed words and direct conversation, brush strokes upon a canvas. ( melisa asli pamuk. )

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[betweencloakandcrown]

Roman almost laughed at her comments and he would have to admit that he would be the last to argue against it if only because it would be happening to Reachmen. But, it was not long before he did laugh in that short way men laughed when they were not the sort to let laughter over take them. As much as their alliance was meant to mean, he could not deny the annoyance that came with being around those so arrogant he imagined they gathered around to clap for their king when he squatted over his chamber pot and fought for the right to wipe him as he read from books about art and whores, whatever it was that second sons read between plotting to overthrow their families.

"Ah, the Gods you say?" To the spy master the Gods were more than a word on the page and the quiet voice one heard during their prayers, they were a compass that guided them down the path set before them. "They do have a way of making ones feet to carry them where they need to be or who they should be near." Roman shrugged, his behavior casual as he watched the smirk appear on his face. Her dark eyes holding a glint of what he would call mischief or maybe a drop of challenge and Roman Prester enjoyed a challenge. Challenges were the bread and butter of a Lord who never failed to rise to the very top.

A brow raised briefly, women were something of a sport to him. They were, typically, beautiful creatures who thought themselves clever. They would enjoy a bit of banter and then they would flutter their eyes at you. Rarely were these the sort of women he would consider marrying, that was still a journey that was taking his mother quite a time to realize what he wanted. His mother wanted him to marry an Andal, as his father has done, and he would not. It would not happen. "Well, between us, I find Reachmen insufferable." He smirked, laughing to himself, "Especially when they host. Say we were in the Riverlands, then I would complain about the amount of rivers and how disappointing they are when you are sea born." He smiled at her, "I'm sure you understand."

"We are oxen in Feastfires." Roman knew their King was a lion but he did not think one should adopt the sigil of their royals outside of battle. After all, would he stand here and talk to a trout? Maybe not. No. There was only one trout worth speaking with and she was married to the child king in New Valyria.

"Scandal?" He stepped toward her, the ghost of a smile on his face. "Tell me of scandals and I may share with you."

[ofsacredseas]

ayca watched him with rare, quiet patience as his laughter came and went, her expression unmoved save for the faintest curve at the corner of her lips. she did not rise to meet his amusement, nor did she interrupt it, simply allowing it to pass between them. “wow, i was only teasing. you give the gods a great deal of credit,” she said at last, her tone playful, though her gaze lingered on him a moment longer than necessary. “i’ve always thought men preferred to believe they choose their own steps, even when they don’t quite know where they’re going, or whom they may run into along the way.”

his admission about the reach earned a softer exhale of amusement, though she did not fully smile. “i’m sure you can understand how i disagree.” her head tilted slightly as she considered him, something quieter passing behind her eyes. her late husband had been of the reach, as was her some of her closest friends. “i think reachmen are perfectly pleasant, though the smell of flowers might be suffocating, sometimes,” she added, a sly grin ghosting across her features. “and no, i don’t think i would complain of rivers. disappointing or not, they tend to know where they’re meant to go. that’s more than can be said for most men wandering away from their duties.” she gave a small shrug, the words light, though she had always enjoyed pressing just enough to test the line.

she let his nearness settle without shifting, though her fingers stilled briefly against the stone. there was something familiar in the way he approached, measured, deliberate, as though every step was a test, and ayca had always preferred to be the one setting them. she had never quite decided if she found it irritating or… interesting. perhaps both. “oxen or lions, it makes little difference to me,” she said, her voice quieter now, though no less composed. “titles and symbols change depending on who is speaking. the people behind them rarely do.”

at his final question, her gaze flicked to him, sharp again, but distant in its intent. she did not step back, nor did she lean in to meet him halfway. instead, she let the silence stretch just enough to feel deliberate. “i think,” ayca said after a beat, “you’d find them far less interesting if i told you outright.” a faint pause, then softer, almost thoughtful, “some things are better left… half-known.” her eyes drifted back to the river, as though the matter had already passed from her mind. “or for you to find out on your own, lord prester. i know you too well to spill every little scandal or gossip your way.”

a smirk formed on her lips then, glancing away before back to him. "so...you really didn't know i was here?"

[romanprester]

Roman huffed a soft sound that might have been a laugh as he came to stand beside her rather than behind her, his shadow cutting across the stone. "If it is proof of anything," he said, gaze following the line of the river, "it is that the gods are intent on ruining my attempts at solitude. Whether they use you as their instrument in this, my lady, is a matter I have yet to decide." He glanced down at her, dark eyes catching the way the wind tugged at the hem of her dress before he looked away again.

Her comment about the rowboat drew a faint, more genuine curve of amusement from him. "Undignified, certainly," Roman said. "A Mallister slipping away in a fishing skiff as if she were some dock girl. The gulls would never cease screaming about it. Besides, if you vanished by boat, I would be the first accused of aiding your escape. I have enemies enough without adding your whole coast to the list."

Roman could not recall a time when he didn't prefer to be alone, even when he took women to his chambers he wished to be alone before the night was over. He thought himself above others, only seeking their conversation when it was necessary, every person a different rung on the ladder of courtly affairs. But, no one wanted to hear a

"There are only so many sermons and toasts a man can endure in a day. The Reach is very proud of its wine and its opinions, and both are poured too freely. Every lord thinks himself a better steward of the faith than the last, every lady a finer judge of the next alliance. It becomes a bore after a time." That and Roman thought Reachman and those who were educated in the Reach were more show than substance.

[ofsacredseas]

ayca listened with an expression that hovered somewhere between patience and amusement, one dark brow lifting as he spoke. “gods, roman,” she murmured, eyes flicking back to the river, “if boredom were a crime, the reach would be a mass execution.” a breath of a laugh left her, soft but edged. “wine, sermons, and posturing - an unholy trinity if ever there was one. i’d have fled long before you, if i had a good excuse.” truth be told, she would be in the arbor still if she’d had her way, the salt air suited her better than highgarden ever had. though she at least found enjoyment in painting here, she didn’t care to do so in front of so much company.

she turned then, studying him more openly, gaze sharp and knowing, as though weighing how much truth he might tolerate. “and don’t pretend you don’t believe that perhaps the gods brought you here because i am better company than any solitude.” her lips pulled into a smirk, always finding a certain pleasure in pressing him, in seeing how he weathered it. she tucked a loose strand of dark curls behind her ear, eyes drifting back to the river for a heartbeat before returning to him again.

“you don’t believe the west has its own sermons and pride?” she asked, tone turning coy, a brow lifting in challenge. “or is it simply more tolerable because it’s…shinier? a place where ambition wears gold instead of green?” the corner of her mouth twitched, as if she knew the answer already and was daring him to deny it.

her expression shifted, something playful and provoking glinting there. “still, a lion straying from the pack. that will have tongues wagging. good and well lord prester, stealing away for a moment’s peace.” a brief pause followed, deliberate. “careful. someone might mistake it for introspection.” she leaned back against the stone at last, eyes returning to the slow moving water. “now that,” she added lightly, “truly would be scandalous.”

[iona-tully]

The aroma from her mint tea was soothing, and the Queen of the Riverlands blew softly on the hot beverage before taking a small sip. Iona's clear blue eyes were set on the Mallister lady as she confirmed what the queen had mentioned. The shared understanding of the particular weight women like them carried. There was a small form of comfort in being understood like that.

Iona’s lips curved into a gentle smile, seeing the other lady's expression shift into something softer and brighter. “I would not ask you to abandon Seagard, Lady Ayca. You have your duties there, and I would not take from your house what it still needs of you. What I ask is that you accompany me to social events”. The Tully queen had no need of an attendant or someone to occupy herself with what she wore, or how her household was run. What she needed was an unassuming ally when all eyes, especially foreign ones, were on her. “As a queen I'm watched closely, and who I bring into my company reflects on who we are as a realm. I wish to have someone at my side who can offer support and advice. Someone I can trust to carry herself with grace and discretion”.

She lifted her cup again, pausing as if to let her offer settle before she took another sip of the soothing tea. “It is no small thing to bear your house name. Your brother has stood steadfastly by my side since I was crowned. He played a crucial role in ending the Lyseni conflict,” she went on, for that was a great service to her and to the Riverlands as a whole that the queen hadn't forgotten. It was only right that she found ways to honor House Mallister. “I see in you someone as loyal as your brother. I have taken notice of the quiet steadiness with which you carry yourself, my lady. And I see someone I have something in common with as well”.

Her gaze lingered on Ayca for a moment. It wasn't the cool assessment of a queen, but a far gentler curiosity of one woman who saw another as someone who had traversed similar obstacles. “And in truth, my hope is that we both benefit from each other's company. Women in our positions don't always have the luxury of reliable friends at our side”. Iona had Ronan, of course. She had Jalabhar. But men would never fully understand the past and present troubles that she experienced. She had Brianna, too. Her sisters. With them, Iona was the carer, the older sister protector figure. Perhaps Ayca Mallister could extend that different kind of friendship the queen not only wanted, but quietly needed.

[ofsacredseas]

the steam rising from her cup curled like sea mist, soft and fleeting, and ayca found her fingers tightening minutely against the porcelain. it was not fear that stirred beneath her ribs this time, but something quieter, harder to name - doubt, perhaps, an old and familiar companion. she had spent so many years mastering stillness, the art of being unshaken. yet here, faced with the queen’s sincerity, she felt a faint tremor of uncertainty at the thought of stepping once more into the eyes of courts and gatherings, into the places where every word and breath could be weighed.

still, beneath that hesitation, something steadier flickered to life. she had not forgotten what it was to move with purpose beyond mourning halls and quiet corridors. and queen iona, of all people, was one who might understand the peculiar loneliness of being both needed and misread, visible yet unseen. ayca lowered her gaze briefly, letting her breath catch on a quiet, private thought, that perhaps this would not be a burden, but a beginning.

when she looked up again, her expression was composed, but gentled. “i understand,” she said, voice low but sure. “and i would be honored to stand beside you in such moments, as my brother has." there was calm reverence to her voice, seeing this as an opportunity she had been waiting for, for some time now. "if my presence may offer even a measure of steadiness, then it will not be lightly given.” a faint pause, then a flicker of something almost wry touched her features. “discretion, at the very least, is something i can promise.”

her hands relaxed slightly around the cup, the warmth sinking in once more. “i can certainly agree with that,” she added, softer now, almost as though admitting a secret to the quiet air rather than to a queen. “women like us are not often afforded easy companionship. i may not know what it is to be a queen, but being an eldest sister certainly has it's own challenges." she gave a small sigh, though her gaze held iona’s, calm and steady, "but i believe we may yet find something of that between us, friendship."

her lips curved upward, just enough to signal recognition, not only of the queen, but of the woman behind the title. ayca had never been one to gather people around her without purpose. her circle had always been tight, deliberate. yet in this quiet, she felt something unfamiliar and unforced, an openness, not born of duty but of a shared understanding taking shape between them.

“so then, your grace,” she said, fingers lacing neatly in her lap, her tone calm but edged with a subtle warmth, “now that i am your lady, are there burdens upon your mind that you would have me counsel?”

[romanprester]

who: @ofsacredseas what: roman comes across someone he wouldn't call a friend but enjoys seeing when the realms unite where: somewhere overlooking the mander.

"Of course, I come to be alone and find you here overlooking the Mander. One begins to wonder if you're looking for me should we keep meeting like this."

Lord Roman Prester was a man of a prickly reputation, one either loved or loathed him and many people loathed him. He did not mind it for he rarely thought about the opinions of others as many people were beneath him his house. Those who looked like him thinking them the same or those who shared an archaic religion with those from his past they were not people he concerned himself with if he could help it. Though, this lady of the sea came from a house that was from those Old ways and yet he didn't mind seeing her and perhaps he oft looked for her when things were growing dull for him.

"I hope you're not planning on an escape in a rowboat." Roman hearkened back to one of their meetings by the water. Perhaps it was why he went to the waters because he hoped to see this lady who understood, this lady of Seagard. Beautiful, how could a woman be so beautiful and come from house so lost in the past? People lost in the traditions of their ancestors producing someone any man would glance upon as she passed?

When it came to the Old Way, House Preseter thought it best to keep a polite distance from their past. Some would argue Roman was the first to truly be religious and hold on to his faith but the new way and not the old. Even with Feastfires being a place of storied history, a place that still held on to his building traditions, their food, and much more they were, by all accounts, successfully conquered and assimilated to the way of andals. Roman himself didn't see a need to not speak with people of his heritage but it was difficult, there was always an air of judgement over the choices made by those that were not him. Not that he would make those changes now, there was little need to turn back when the path they were on meant success.

And still, whether they were gathering in Dorne or the North, he found himself speaking with the woman before him. Roman Prester did not use the word friends, he thought it a term of a children at play. There were people you trusted and people you didn't but he struggled with what to call those who were nestled somewhere inbetween, people like Ayca Mallister. Which led him to another question, how close could a man and woman be when they didn't share blood? Men took women to bed, men took women as wives but friends? He was not sure.

[ofsacredseas]

ayca shifted slightly on the stone ledge, the breeze off the mander tugging at the hem of her dark dress. she regarded roman with a faint, dry amusement, though she made no move to rise. “one begins to wonder, does one,” she replied, her voice even, careful, but carrying that quiet edge he knew well. “since i arrived first, it must surely be you seeking me out, not the other way around.” she allowed a faint shrug, as if the statement were casual, though she felt a little stir of old familiarity at the sight of him. “though if you insist, i suppose you could take it as proof i have a talent for appearing where i am least expected.”

her gaze drifted to the water, the sunlight catching on the ripples in a way that reminded her of rowboats from her youth. “and i very well might to avoid this little reunion,” she quipped lightly, “but if i recall from my last attempt a simple rowboat seems a bit… undignified for a lady of seagard. one might think i was running from conversation instead of simply enjoying the view.” she turned back to him, her dark eyes sharp and calculating, though softened by the faint curve of her lips. “you are fortunate the river keeps your presence tolerable. i can think of worse interruptions.”

she felt a small, unacknowledged pull at the memory of what had once been the mere idea of a betrothal, so easily discarded when the currents of politics shifted, and the lingering ember of familiarity between them. it was neither friendship nor enmity, yet it was something delicate and persistent, a quiet undercurrent of recognition that made even these brief encounters feel too charged for her liking.

ayca’s hand brushed briefly against the stone ledge, steadying herself against the wind as her thoughts wandered. she could not deny the ease with which their conversations unfolded, the strange familiarity that had always threaded itself through their interactions, even when so much had changed. it was a quiet acknowledgment of shared histories, even if his house no longer acknowledged it, and unspoken possibilities that were discarded as quickly as they appeared.

finally, she shifted her gaze fully to him, voice level but edged with her usual measured sharpness. "well then, why is it you wished to be alone? certainly there's more interesting matters than screeching gulls."

[garrick-cargyll]

Her quick-witted response managed to elicit a smirk from Garrick. He even let out a subtle huff of amusement, though not quite a laugh. “And you're so sure you know me that well already, Lady Mallister?” he asked with a pointed look, though this time his words lacked the mordant challenge of previous conversations. The knight nodded after a moment, his slight smile edged with something self-aware. “But well, I won’t argue with you on that. We all use what the gods saw fit to give us, after all. Some get swords. Some get sharp words. I got both and only discipline for one of them, whether I mean to or not”. His gaze stayed on her as he spoke, perhaps to convey he was sincere in what he was saying.

Ayca Mallister managed to keep him wondering if she would agree to his offer or not. A simple request, and yet she managed to add suspense before her response. When her arm finally came to rest in the crook of his arm, the knight offered a subtle nod. For the woman who had annoyed him beyond words during the storm in the Reach, he might have called her acceptance now a form of surrender, and he would have gotten great satisfaction in a challenge won. But at least for now, this was no game. Not when she had begun to show him, perhaps without fully meaning to, that there were other sides to her he wanted to see, to uncover if she was willing.

When she spoke of the sept and what she found there, her voice was laced with a kind of certainty he couldn’t quite name. It was the kind of quiet conviction he’d long since lost. Garrick glanced at her again as they walked, his expression thoughtful, curiosity growing inside of him. “I don’t hear anything,” he admitted. Perhaps a foolish admission to make next to someone who believed so fully. “Not in there. Not anywhere, if I’m honest”. His tone was light despite what he said. His admission didn't hint at a chasm or a void in him, after all, just a simple lack he'd grown used to. It was what war did for many, really. It either enhanced belief or it robbed men of their faith. Garrick was the latter.

“What do you hear? If you don't mind me asking,” Garrick posed his question, even if he knew he was possibly being too forward, too meddlesome. “I'm simply curious about what others find in places like a sept. Or if they find it anywhere else”. He wasn't sure what answer he expected, really. He was intrigued, perhaps hoping to understand through others what he'd long stopped understanding.

When she asked about his purpose in the Riverlands, his posture loosened slightly. It would be easy to assume his purpose was less tied to business than it was to something else. “I'm visiting good friends,” he said. “The Brackens. I make a point to pay a visit to Lord Ronan and Lady Brianna from time to time. They're both dear to me”. He paused, then added with a dry note, “Though I’m expected back before I grow too fond of the river air. The realm’s business does not wait, even for pleasant detours”.

[ofsacredseas]

ayca shot him a brief look at the jest, but let it pass without remark. she was heading toward the sept, after all, and wouldn’t allow garrick cargyll the satisfaction of unsettling her. she had pride enough to make that a private vow. if holding her peace meant building a wall between them for now, so be it, better that than unraveling her calm in the face of his familiar provocations.

still, there was something in his admission that softened her. it wasn’t the first time she’d heard a man speak of losing faith, but it was rarely said so plainly. most wrapped it in excuses, too busy for prayers, too long from the sept, not as devout as they used to be. but to say he heard nothing at all, that lingered with her. she glanced toward him, trying to gauge what he meant to reveal by it. perhaps nothing. but it made her feel something on his behalf, all the same.

“i hear...” she hesitated for only a moment. “my own heartbeat. slow. steady.” she glanced down the path ahead. “it sounds strange, i know. but it's like a reminder, that i'm alive, that i still have breath to give. the gods never speak to me in words. not exactly. it’s more like... presence.” she tilted her head, then offered him a rare, wry look. “i could’ve lied and said i hear the mother singing to me. but i think she'd rather i didn’t make up stories in her house.”

she walked a few more steps before glancing his way again. “did you ever hear anything? before?” her tone wasn’t pressing, just... curious. as if she wanted to understand what had shifted in him, and if it could ever shift back.

his answer about the brackens drew a slight nod, she knew enough of them through some mutual connections, but she left it at that. instead, her brow arched at his final remark. “too fond of river air, hmm?” she echoed, amused. “your king does know if you found your bride here, she’d have to learn to breathe crownland air instead?” her voice held a subtle edge of teasing.

[seffora-merryweather]

Seffora’s smile deepened at Ayca’s remark about the rivers. “A fair point,” she said, the laughter in her eyes soft rather than mocking. Her gaze lingered briefly on the canvas, then on Ayca herself. There was something about the lady’s manner, so cool and precise, so unbothered by pretense, that Seffora found quietly admirable.

“I fear I may have already interrupted more than I intended,” Seffora added, her tone kind and mindful. She shifted her weight subtly, a half-step back along the path through the gardens, as if to offer Ayca the space to return to her art if she wished it. She was drowning in roses, as she put it, and the Merryweather lady did not wish to drown out her inspiration with interruptions. “I only meant to pass through, and then your painting caught my attention”. Her gaze lingered briefly on the canvas, then returned to the Mallister lady.

Still, she remained long enough to answer the lady’s question. “I'm Lady Seffora Merryweather,” she offered a smile as she introduced herself to the Riverlander, a subtle tilt of her head as she did so. “Highgarden is not my home, but I've come and gone enough for it to almost feel like one,” the lady explained, her voice carrying a quiet fondness. She inevitably reminisced of her days as daughter to a Master of Laws, as a ward to the trusted Rowans, and as a lady-in-waiting. In those years, her visits to Highgarden had belonged to other people. These days, she came for her own reasons, and for her duty to her people.

[ofsacredseas]

the lady of seagard stepped back to better consider the canvas she’d marked with slow, uncertain strokes, the dark blue silks of her dress brushing the dewy grass at her feet. flowers were fine things, of course, pleasant, orderly, soft around the edges. not her favorite subject, but worthy of study all the same. she supposed that was the point of being here: to see through a different lens, to let unfamiliar things leave their impression.

she gave a small shake of her head, the corners of her mouth lifting faintly as she turned to the other woman. “you are not interrupting, i assure you,” she said, her tone even, but not unkind. cool as her manner often was, ayca mallister was making an effort to let the gardens soften her. to let herself be a touch more open, more curious. “i’m glad it caught your attention. perhaps you’ve a suggestion, something else i ought to add?”

“merryweather,” she repeated, nodding once in recognition. the name rang faintly family, though the finer threads of politics weren’t ones she often bothered to untangle, and she did not connect it to the recent civil war of roses. “lady ayca mallister, of seagard.” her voice carried the subtle lilt of the old way, layered with riverlander cadence, not easily placed, and not often mirrored. “it’s a pleasure to meet you, lady seffora.” she glanced again at the canvas, then lifted a hand to gesture toward it with a dry note of humor. “so, what do you think? anything i may add to attempt to save it from total ruin?"

[favcelebrities]

[garrick-cargyll]

Garrick looked around casually, certainly taking notice that her guard was nowhere in sight. A subtle smirk crossed his lips, though he was quick to adopt a more neutral expression. It was fortuitous, perhaps, that his path seemed to keep crossing hers at precisely the right time. Or the wrong time, depending on how this conversation went. Ayca Mallister stood before him, her presence as resolute as ever, and he wondered whether she’d be sharp and callous like their first meeting, or unguarded and magnetic as when they’d met in Casterly Rock. There was always a shift between them, an unpredictability that made these encounters feel complicated, unexpected, thrilling.

“You would rather wait for him, or walk with me?” Garrick asked, his tone light but his eyes sharp. Her eyes darted to his sword, and the knight raised both hands in peaceful surrender. “Fret not, I've no intention of sharpening it today,” he added with subtle amusement, the memory of her irritation when they first met still lingering in his mind. As exasperated as she'd been then, perhaps she could also look back on it with more levity now.

The Commander stepped a little closer while still keeping an appropriate distance between them. His arm was still outstretched for her to take, a more earnest expression crossing his face. “I’m not here to provoke you, my lady. I’ve never been too good at keeping my tongue in check, but I'll try it today”. His gaze flickered to the old stone path that led to the sept, then back to her. Her voice softened when she spoke of her purpose there, and that was something he'd not dare joke about. “You're seeking your peace there, and I do not mean to disturb that”.

What he'd heard about the devotion of those who followed the Old Way felt true in her case. This was more than routine or tradition. It was something real. Ayca's devotion might be clear to anyone who looked, and Garrick had been paying close attention to her, beginning to see something deeper than just ritual in her faith. He did not fully understand that spiritual clarity some seemed to have, and a part of him both admired and envied people like her. “This is important to you,” he stated more than asked. “I'd be honored to escort you there, Lady Mallister”.

[ofsacredseas]

ayca hesitated only briefly, her eyes narrowing not out of distrust, but scrutiny. she searched his face for any trace of mockery, some hint of performance, but what she found instead was sincerity, and something quieter beneath it. not softness, exactly, but restraint. effort.

“you say that like you weren’t halfway through sharpening your tongue already,” she replied, echoing her earlier words, but her voice lacked any real bite now. the edge was dulled, the jab tempered by the faint curve of her lips, something hovering near amusement. her gaze flicked to his still-offered arm, then back to his face. “still. you haven’t drawn blood yet.”

she stepped forward then, the breeze tugging lightly at the edges of her cloak as she closed the distance. her hand slid into the crook of his arm, not entirely trusting, but not cold either. it was a gesture of agreement, not submission. and in its quietness, a sort of trust all its own. “you’re not disturbing anything,” she said at last. “i came for stillness, not solitude.”

they began walking then, the stones beneath their feet worn smooth by years of footsteps, some pilgrim, some penitent, some just looking for silence. her gaze lingered ahead on the path that wound toward the sept, dappled in soft light through thinning trees. it had always drawn her: not for spectacle, not even for comfort, but for clarity. the kind she could not always find within castle walls.

“yes, it is important to me,” she said, after a moment. her voice was quiet but certain. “not for just the gods themselves, i think. but for what i can hear when the world is quiet.” a pause, then a glance up at him. her tone lightened as she added, “though you’ll have to manage your part in that quiet.”

she merely offered a flicker of a smile, one that could be missed in the blink of an eye, but there was something that lingered in her gaze, something soft. acknowledgment, perhaps, of the strange rhythm they kept falling into. from barbed words to shared silences. from wary distance to something else, unnamed.

"so, what brings you to the riverlands? i imagine your business must be swift, with your duties in the crownlands."

[iona-tully]

Closed starter for @ofsacredseas Setting: Riverrun, the Riverlands. Set before the departure to the Reach for the Verdant Concord.

The light through Riverrun’s arched windows was soft in the late afternoon, a golden light catching on the river’s slow ripple beyond. Queen Iona stood by the carved stone balustrade, her hands lightly clasped before her. She wore a gown of deep slate blue, modest in cut but threaded with elegant, subtle patterns. When Lady Ayca Mallister was shown in, Iona turned to greet her with a gentle smile. Not the practiced, diplomatic gesture of a monarch but something gentler, more personal.

“Lady Mallister,” she said, a light bow of her head accompanying her words. “Thank you for coming. I hope the journey from Seagard was not too tiresome”. She gestured toward a nearby table set near the hearth, where tea had already been poured, the air touched with the scent of clove and river mint. “I’ve asked for quiet today. No formality. for I only a wish to speak with you as one daughter of the Riverlands to another”. There was no sharpness to the words, no command cloaked in courtesy, only the calm steadiness of a woman reaching out, not downward.

As she took her seat, Iona studied Ayca not as a queen would assess a vassal, but as one eldest daughter regarding another. Iona herself had not been born the eldest, but Emilee's absence had made the title her inheritance nonetheless. “We both know what it means to carry a house's good name on our shoulders,” she said, her voice low, but clear. “And what it means to lose someone, and yet not be allowed to fall apart”. There was clear admiration and respect in Iona's voice, and her whole demeanor showed that she saw the women before her as someone deserving more regard than she was often given. “I’ve long admired the grace with which you’ve kept Seagard steady while your brother's duties take him from place to place”. A Master of Ship's duties brought him to Riverrun often, and many other times took him to other places too. “It is for that reason I wished to ask you something,” the queen added, offering a small, sincere smile. “Would you consider taking a place among my household as one of my ladies?”.

[ofsacredseas]

the sweet scent of river mint lingered, steeping gently in the space between them. ayca sat quietly, her palms resting against the delicate porcelain of her teacup, the warmth grounding. her gaze flicked once to the windows, sunlight stretching long across the water, soft and golden, the sort of light that made the whole world feel like it was holding its breath.

she hadn’t known what to make of the summons. polite enough, cordial, but not familiar. she and queen iona were not strangers, nor were they close. and yet, there was something about the quiet of this room, the absence of courtiers, the simple table laid with tea instead of scrolls, that told her this was not a political courtesy. it was personal. rare. and ayca valued rare things.

iona’s words struck her not as flattery, but recognition, something far more difficult to give. ayca held them, turning them over like stones in her palm.

her answer came calmly, with little hesitation. “i would, your grace.”

but as the words left her, she felt it, something subtle but sure, stirring in the space behind her ribs. change. the shape of it had always unnerved her a little. she’d lived so long within the familiar rhythm of seagard since the passing of her husband, sea air in the morning, the old steps to the sept, the quiet order of things.

but beneath the comfort, there had always been a quiet yearning. something unnamed. not dissatisfaction, but restlessness. and here, now, she could feel the faint outline of what might come next. the possibility of doing more. a new opportunity, a fresh start of sorts.

she recalled her conversation with lucrezia, the desire to focus on her art, and while she knew this would pull her from purely diving into such things, it would offer her, perhaps, more opportunity to connect with others with such interests, too.

“it means a great deal,” she added, her gaze steady on iona’s. “to be asked. thank you." there was a faint smile pulling upon the corners of her mouth now, not entirely rare for ayca mallister, but not common, either. "i am curious, what your expectations would be of me as one of your ladies?"

[garrick-cargyll]

Closed starter for @ofsacredseas Setting: Garrick met with his friends of House Bracken at Riverrun. A day prior to his departure to New Valyria, he runs into Lady Ayca Mallister.

Garrick spotted the unmistakable figure of Lady Ayca Mallister as she stood near the courtyard’s edge, poised with the quiet elegance expected of her station. It was the resolve in her gaze that drew his attention, even before she had the chance to notice him. He could guess where she was going, for he'd seen people beginning to head for the sept earlier. If what he'd heard about those of the Old Way was true, the Mallister lady would be nothing if not dutiful in matters of her faith.

“A lady venturing outside the gates of Riverrun without an escort?” Garrick mused as he stepped closer to make his presence known to her. His voice was laced with something just shy of amusement, his expression unreadable as he welcomed fate for making him cross paths with Lady Ayca. “Surely that’s not proper. Let alone safe”. He let the words settle between them before tilting his head slightly, his blue eyes curious as he met her beautiful, dark gaze. “A devout woman such as yourself wouldn’t wish to be absent, I imagine”.

Perhaps she was waiting for someone who had yet to arrive to accompany her. Or perhaps not. Either way, he pressed on, his tone shifting just enough to sound sincere. “Do you not have someone to escort you, Lady Mallister?” There was a pause, just long enough to let the question linger before he eased back into a lighter tone. “I’ve not attended a service in some time. Perhaps we could both benefit from my escorting you,” he added. The Commander lifted his arm in silent invitation, a flicker of challenge beneath his courtesy. Perhaps he ought not to be, but the knight was certain she would say yes to his proposal. Whether she accepted out of practicality or for some other, more personal reason, he would not know. But he welcomed the chance to steal a little more of her time, and perhaps revisit that last conversation that had lingered in his mind since their last encounter.

[ofsacredseas]

the courtyard outside riverrun bustled with the quiet hum of a stronghold in spring, the trills of morning birdsong filtered through the high towers like a hymn. lady ayca mallister stood apart from the noise, near the edge where the worn stone path curved out toward the east road. she wore a simpler traveling cloak, sea-grey, the kind she might have once worn at seagard’s harbor. a small satchel hung at her side, its shape betraying the clink of coin within.

she glanced toward the gate again, half-expecting her guard to round the corner. instead, a shadow fell across the cobbles behind her.

ayca didn’t startle when he spoke, of course he was here. fate had a habit of handing her the people she least wanted to see whenever she was trying to be her best self. she inhaled slowly, the chill of early spring clinging to her scarf as she turned toward him. “perhaps not proper,” she replied, “but i’ve never much cared for proper when it kept me waiting.”

the sight of him pulled something taut in her chest. not unpleasant. not quite welcome, either. he looked rested, which annoyed her. the lady's hand adjusted the strap at her shoulder. “i was meant to have a guard. he’s late.” her eyes flicked to garrick’s. “you, unfortunately, are not.”

a gust of wind stirred the hem of her cloak, and she tilted her chin slightly toward the road that sloped down toward the treeline. far ahead, just beyond sight, lay the little sept carved into a hillside, weathered with age and half-covered in ivy. she’d gone there since she was small. the first time, she’d walked the whole way barefoot, because her mother told her it would teach humility. it had.

“i go to this sept every year at this time,” she said, softer now. “to pray. to give. to remember.” her gaze returned to his, sharper again. “not to spar.” she looked down at his sword, then his arm, before deciding to accept it. “if you’re sincere, you’ll walk and keep your thoughts to yourself. i’m not headed to the sept to be provoked.”

[emiravmallister]

.

emira narrowed her eyes playfully at ayca, her grip tightening slightly where their arms were linked. occupied? oh, that was interesting. emira always thought her sister never just spoke to someone without good reason—especially not some brooding northman. and yet, here she was, being unusually vague about it.

“oh, a northman, is it?” emira echoed, her voice dripping with intrigue. “mysterious, silent, brooding? how terribly dramatic, ayca. you know you must give me more than that. what is his name?”

she leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “did he scowl at you across the room before finally mustering up a few gruff words? did he tell you how different you are from all the other southern ladies? or—” her grin widened, “—did he simply fall in love with you on the spot, as so many tend to do?”

emira laughed, though her gaze flickered over her sister’s expression, studying her carefully. there was something about the way ayca brushed it off, the way her gaze dipped for just a second, that made emira wonder if it had meant more than she was letting on. she would have to pry later, when ayca wasn’t as sharp. maybe another glass or two still, if ayca wanted to deflect, emira would allow it—for now.

at her sister’s pointed remark about her lack of a dance partner, emira sighed dramatically. “believe me, i’d love to be swept off my feet, but tragically, none of these men seem up to the task. it’s almost insulting, really. a room full of knights and lords, and not a single one with the courage to try.” at least no one worthy “perhaps i intimidate them. i never was good at the demure quiet type…should i try that? i dont know how good i’d be”

[ofsacredseas]

ayca took another slow sip of her wine before speaking, the glass cool against her fingers. Her gaze drifted somewhere just beyond emira for a moment, thoughtful, before returning with a faint, unreadable smile.

"brief," she said simply, a single word carrying more than it showed. “strange.” she left it there, not cold but careful, like someone who’d touched the edge of something sharp and didn’t care to bleed twice.

her expression flickered—humor? amusement? disappointment? it passed too quickly to pin down. “he’s not the sort of man who gets lost in anything, least of all me,” she added, voice smooth and quiet, like smoke curling through dusk. “which is probably for the best.”

she turned to emira with a flicker of her usual spark, eyes sharpening again. “but you,” she said, the edge of a grin tugging at her lips, “trying to convince yourself you ought to be quiet and demure?” she nudged her sister lightly with an elbow. “are you feverish? has the wine gone to your head?”

ayca shook her head with mock solemnity, raising her cup. “you’ve never been quiet a day in your life unless it was to make someone squirm.” her smile widened, fond and exasperated. “and demure? you’re about as demure as a cat in a pigeon coop.”

she sipped again, eyes scanning the room. “besides, the moment you try to behave, someone will say something stupid and you’ll be halfway through eviscerating them before you remember you were playing pretend.”

a pause. “though i suppose if you want to practice your meek maiden routine, i could start introducing you to elderly widowers and third sons with bad knees. for the realism.”

[younescorbray]

younes obeyed her command, no longer smirking at her. no- instead he was laughing in her face, brushing a petal from his chest as though it were the funniest thing he had seen all night. "you wound me, ayca," he said, with a click of his tongue, entirely unbothered as she flicked another petal his way. "do you really think i'd be so predictable? i just wanted to see if you would take it before i started properly irritating you." his grin widened, wolfishly, and he gestured to the flower, now looking forlorn in the absence of half its petals. "which, clearly, you have."

her attack continued, and he let her have her little victory, though his gaze flicked to her hands. she was too focused, too intent on the small act of plucking each petal, and did not want to meet his eyes. it was rattling her more than she cared to admit, his teasing about her dalliance with karstark.

"nothing worth repeating," his brow furrowed, feigning contemplation. "funny, that. usually, when something is insignificant, you don't feel the need to insist on it's insignificance quite so much." his grin turned sharper, and her made a show of dodging the next petal as though it were a grave attack. "but far be it for me to pry." a lie. younes loved to pry. he thrived upon prying.

still, he let her deflection slide, if only because she returned his attention to something interesting. "qoherys and bracken?" he laughed again. "it's an old game, isn't it? it's obvious why she'd want her foot in the door in the riverlands, for that big old castle. question is if he finds her pretty enough to let it happen." he looked to her expectantly then. as a riverlander, she would have more insight than he on the matter.

"what else have i heard?" he echoed, a beat of silence before his smile turned sly, and he waved a lazy hand. "why don't you ask karstark? since you're on such good terms now." his teasing was back in full force. he reached out, pulling the final petal from the flower, and letting it drift to the ground between them. "trying to make me jealous, ayca?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

[ofsacredseas]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[seffora-merryweather]

Seffora's conversation with the Redwyne lady led her to wander about in the gardens, seriously considering what Lucrezia had suggested. The ruling Lady of Longtable paused at the edge of the garden path as her attention was summoned by the words of Ayca Mallister. A woman she did not know well, but a lady she knew of. The faintest trace of a smile curved her lips as she took a few steps closer. “Good day, Lady Mallister,” she greeted with a polite bow of her head. “I assure you, critique was the furthest thing from my mind,” the Merryweather lady said with a gentle tone, her voice warm and unintrusive.

“You find yourself in the Reach, my lady. Were you expecting no flowers?” Seffora asked with a soft chuckle. Roses were the iconography that the whole continent associated with this realm, after all. Blooming and growth were what most thought of when thinking about the land of the Tyrells. “I hope you do not find them bothersome, for you shall find as many blooms here as I were to find rivers if I visited your realm”.

Her gaze moved toward the canvas then, her blue eyes alight with genuine curiosity. Sometimes, she found, it was just as interesting to witness a creative process as it was to see the finished piece. She took notice of the bold and hesitant strokes across the canvas, and wondered if that spoke of a mind wrestling with something deeper than what Lady Mallister's poised surface might suggest.

“You paint beautifully, Lady Mallister,” she remarked, gesturing subtly toward the canvas. “Even unfinished, your strokes are bold and full of emotion. I envy such artistry in others. My creative endeavors rarely leave the boundaries of a needle and thread, or the occasional melody sung in private”. Her voice softened as she added, “Perhaps you should seek Lord Harlon Tarly during your stay. He is a grand painter, I'm certain he will have more insight than I have in the many ways Highgarden can be an artist’s dream”.

[ofsacredseas]

ayca exhaled a short breath, somewhere between amusement and resignation, as she dipped her brush back into the paint. "i suppose i should have expected the flowers," she admitted, casting a brief glance around them. the gardens stretched endlessly, a cascade of color and fragrance, overwhelming in their perfection. "still, it feels excessive. even the rivers in my home know when to thin out and yield to the land."

her brush pressed against the canvas once more, sweeping a dark stroke across an unfinished bloom, muting its brightness. She had meant no insult to highgarden—lucrezia had been right to encourage her to travel here. but the sheer abundance of beauty made it feel almost performative, as though the land itself demanded admiration. it made her restless.

at seffora’s praise, ayca’s grip on her brush faltered for half a second before she steadied it. compliments were often as easy to deflect as critiques, but the sincerity in the merryweather lady’s voice made avoidance seem needlessly difficult. she turned slightly, studying seffora now, rather than the canvas. “thank you. i only know how to paint as i see things,” she said after a moment, voice quieter.

her gaze flickered toward seffora’s hands, it was a strange gift of hers, to be able to see ones hands and see the craft that they might master. “needlework requires patience. i imagine it has its own artistry.” her lips pressed together, thoughtful. “and i’m sure a melody, sung in private, carries more honesty than any performance meant for an audience."

she hesitated at the mention of lord tarly, not yet sure she was ready for another voice in her process. “maybe,” she allowed, noncommittal but not outright dismissive. “for now, i think i’ll just figure out how to paint something here without drowning in roses.”

ayca tilted her head slightly, studying seffora with renewed curiosity. there was a certain ease in the way she carried herself—polished, warm, and effortlessly composed. it was the kind of presence ayca had learned to recognize in those who moved comfortably within courtly circles, those who knew how to navigate conversation with grace rather than caution.

“you speak as though highgarden is familiar to you,” ayca noted, her brush idly tracing the edge of a petal she had yet to define. “are you a courtier here, then?”

[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?”

[younescorbray]

a chuckle, low and rich, escaped him when she glanced the wrong way, likely giving away his presence before she clapped eyes upon him. "made you look," he taunted, the glimmer of mischief in his eyes keen in the moonlight. there was a flicker of annoyance under ayca's smile, but it didn't bother younes in the slightest. he was far too used to getting on her nerves, and being forgiven before long, knowing she preferred his company to most others.

"oh, it doesn't fit at all," he said, dropping his voice until he sounded mock-conspiratorial, despite the fact they were alone in the garden. "maybe she's just after a go at harrenhal - used to be theirs, didn't it?" he knew the answer. there were few women in the continent that younes did not know the affairs of when it came to forgotten claims and dowries. "got to be better than mooching off your brother's wife. you'd think our dear hand would have better sense. but i suppose he wouldn't be the first man to fall for the charms of the dragonspawn, would he?" his smirk turned sly, gaze flitting to ayca's. "no offence to her. sure she's a delight and all that." his tone was dismissive, as though he very much doubted it.

she urged him to follow, and younes did, though she did not look back to check, knowing instinctively that he would not refuse her. he'd grown adept at spotting the fondness in between her polished exterior, even when her words did not make it so plain. "what can i say? i must have a trustworthy face," he snorted, falling into step beside her with ease. "and i might have heard a thing or two. what's it worth to you? i accept all forms of currency."

he paused for a second, waiting for her to make her offer, but younes corbray was never a man to resist the allure of gossip. it did not last long before he began his explanation of what he had observed tonight. "not much going on here tonight, actually. that ambassador the reach sent to you - blackbar, i think? - spilled almost his entire goblet of wine on his lap. tried to play it off, but everyone could see the big red stain on his crotch. that was pretty funny." he tapped his lips, as though he was pretending to think, but his eyes had narrowed on her.

"and then there's you, getting cosy with the big northman. karstark, was it?" there was a faux attempt at innocence in his voice, before he was laughing again, not alongside her, as a joke between the two, but at her. "odd choice there, ayca, but okay. we all have our indulgences."

despite the fact he was winding her up, he paused briefly as they passed a patch of primrose flowers, stopping to pluck a bloom, the petals softer yellow, with a buttery centre, and hand it to her, a pre-emptive peace offering for his teasing. "you're right. air's better out here. the view is much improved, too." he was flattering her now, though the playfulness had not gone from his eyes.

[ofsacredseas]

ayca rolled her eyes as she took the primrose from his hand, twirling it between her fingers. “a peace offering already?” she mused, voice rich with amusement. “that’s unlike you. usually, you let me stew in my annoyance a little longer.”

she then plucked a petal from the primrose and flicked it at younes without missing a step. the breeze caught it, sending it fluttering before it landed uselessly against his shoulder. she clicked her tongue, unimpressed with the result, and plucked another, this time aiming for his face.

"pitiful, really," she echoed mockingly, watching as the petal drifted down to his chest. "you, not the flower. the flower is just collateral."

another petal. another flick. she did not look at him, but she knew his smirk had not faded. worse, she knew he could see the way her hand moved just a little too fast, the way she kept her focus too intently on the act of plucking, as if it were the most important thing in the world. anything to avoid holding his gaze for too long.

"and stop smirking," she muttered, another petal sailing toward him. "there's nothing to smirk about. karstark was—" she stopped, scowled, then flicked two petals at once in irritation. "—a moment. nothing worth repeating, and certainly nothing to be dragged through your insufferable amusement."

but the warmth on her face betrayed her, even in the moonlight, and she knew it. her fingers hesitated on the last petal before she let it go, sighing through her nose. "the matter with lady qoherys and lord bracken is what you should be entertaining yourself with. that, at least, has some use." she deflected.

"and then there’s lord blackbar," ayca laughed. "the poor lad. he’s managed to turn himself into a jest with one spilled goblet. i almost feel sorry for him—almost." she smirked, shaking her head. "but you, you see everything. so tell me—what do you make of all of it? what else have you heard?"

[lucreziasredwyne]

∞

lucrezia redwyne watched ayca with a gentle, understanding gaze, her heart swelling with the kind of affection reserved for those rare, enduring friendships. the sun filtered through the lush canopy above, casting dappled shadows across their serene corner of the arbor. the fragrance of lavender and orange blossom, mingled with the faint tang of the sea, wrapped around them like a comforting embrace. it would and always would be home; regardless of how much she had found herself accepting and returning love elsewhere in the world, no place was akin to her island.

“of course, habibti,” lucrezia said softly, her voice a soothing balm against ayca’s uncertain musings. “you know there is no clock here, no expectations you need to meet. we are late to everything, are we not? there is only the rhythm of the sea and the sway of the vines. you are free to find yourself at your own pace.” lucrezia's own hand wafted through the air as she spoke, a slight smile crossing over her features as her golden bangles jingled in the humid air; almost mimicking the action of coming and going as one pleased. her eyes followed the same path as ayca’s, settling on the fountain’s endless cascade. “i understand the weight of it,” she continued, her voice steady but imbued with quiet empathy.

“it’s like carrying a piece of the past everywhere you go. but maybe, instead of trying to leave those pieces behind, we should learn to carry them more lightly. let them remind us of who we were and who we’ve yet to become.” lucrezia reached out, her hand resting lightly on ayca’s before she returned to the pomegranate she had begun to undo with her bare hands; using the method of tapping the seeds out into a bowl of water, rather than staining her hands red. “you’re not racing against time, ayca. the person you’re meant to be is already within you. it’s about peeling back the layers, finding joy in the simple moments, the quiet pleasures.”

she smiled as ayca mentioned her painting, the vulnerability in her voice both heartbreaking and hopeful. still, it was nice to see such vulnerability from her; for too long she had heard whispers of her friend often engaging in back and forths with some useless men who were far below her station. she needed to find something else to channel her focus into. “you’ve always had a gift, a way of seeing the world that others miss. your art is a reflection of that. it doesn’t matter if the brush feels different now—what matters is that you still hold it. that you still create.” her fingers gently traced the edge of her goblet, the clinking of her jewellery soft and rhythmic.

“and yes, i would and will help you,” she affirmed, her tone resolute. “gael hightower would be honoured to see your work, and the king himself would appreciate the beauty you bring into the world. you are more worthy than you believe.” a smile curved her lips as she met ayca’s gaze, her eyes shining with encouragement. “stay as long as you need,” she said, her voice light with warmth. “the arbor has a way of revealing muses when you least expect it. perhaps it’s in the whisper of the wind or the shimmer of the sea. you’ll find it." she then found herself wandering over to a canopy, slipping her feet from her shoes and laying upon it, looking over at her friend who was still just beside her.

"but no funny business with the king if you're staying with me, lady mallister." she pulled a slight face as she called over to her friend, dropping some pomegranate seeds into her mouth as she tilted her head back, dark chocolate curls beginning to become undone from the loose updo. "thank you very much." her fingers brushed over the cool ceramic of a dish, dipping into the fragrant oil before smoothing it over her arms with slow, deliberate movements. the olive oil’s subtle, earthy scent mixed with the floral air, grounding her in the present moment. “and sometimes, it’s the smallest acts of care—like this—that help us reconnect with ourselves,” she teased softly, her hands gliding over her skin with a practiced ease.

[ofsacredseas]

ayca let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her shoulders easing as lu’s words settled over her. no clock, no expectations. she had spent so long feeling like she was running out of time—like she had to be something, prove something, before it slipped through her fingers. but here, in the arbor, with the sea in the distance and the sun spilling golden across the gardens, it didn’t feel so urgent. she could breathe. she could be.

"i needed to hear that," she admitted, her voice quieter now, stripped of its usual sharpness. "in seagard, there’s always a sense of… urgency. the tide waits for no one, the ravens come with news before you’re ready to read it. but here?" she let her gaze drift to the fountain, watching the water trickle in its endless, unhurried cascade. "maybe i can take my time."

but then, lu's teasing brought her back, and ayca scoffed, shaking her head as she picked up a pomegranate seed and flicked it in lu’s direction—not to hit her, just in protest. "you think i would make a fool of myself again?" she huffed, though a wry smile tugged at her lips. "no, no. i learned my lesson after that northman."

she leaned back onto her hands, stretching her legs out, letting the sun warm her skin as she rolled her eyes at herself. "gods, i don’t know what came over me. it was nothing, truly, but i felt—flustered. like a girl in her first summer, not a woman who should know better." she gave a self-deprecating chuckle, shaking her head. "never again. i have turned a new leaf. no more foolishness, no more indulgences."

ayca picked up her goblet, lifting it slightly in the air. "to my art, to my peace, and to keeping my dignity intact," she declared, smirking as she nudged lu’s ankle with her foot. "and if you catch me slipping, you have my full permission to knock some sense into me."

ayca paused mid-toast, her goblet hovering near her lips as she glanced over at lu. her brow furrowed slightly, not out of frustration, but curiosity. "what about you, lulu?" she asked bluntly, but with a warmth in her tone that softened the question. "you've been so focused on me, on my nonsense. what about you?"

she leaned back against her own canopy, folding her free arm as if to keep herself grounded, though her gaze remained soft. there was a moment's hesitation before she spoke again, the vulnerability in her voice barely noticeable but still there. "we've both carried too much for too long. we should stop letting everything from the past weigh us down. so, what is it that you want, lu?"