but even a traitor may mend

lord ronan of house bracken, ruling lord of stone hedge. hand of queen iona of house tully, first of her name.

[ronanbrackens]

♛ → THE RIVERLANDS present(s) LORD RONAN OF HOUSE BRACKEN, the RULING LORD of STONE HEDGE and the HAND OF THE QUEEN upon the council of queen iona tully. when the dragons danced in the sky they thought the GREENS would still fly, but in the blink of an eye, they would all die. the THIRTY THREE year old MALE who was PATIENT & PRESERVING before they saw the first of the flames, is now VERBOSE & CYNICAL after seeing the last. through the ash, now they struggle to find the ancient code of a feud of blood, the thundering and dust kicked up by horses and the glint of the ancient crown of the red fork instead of the remnants of the war of succession. ( fc. max irons )

the name 'ronan' means the seal of something, and in this, im realising he is incredibly stubborn. not in that passionate way, but in that way where he will continue to repeat his first point until you tire of hearing it.

ronan is the eldest and only legitimate son of lord and lady bracken; they did have some miscarriages in attempting to provide another heir, and in the end they had brianna. this showed ronan the importance of securing lineage, early on in his life.

has an fascination with ancient laws of westeros; the laws of the first men, before the coming of the andals. he enjoys comparing them, and often looks to them for inspiration and adapting to fit the riverlands.

one of these laws was the right for men to settle blood feuds for themselves; watch out blackwood men, ronan genuinely believes it is his right as a bracken to be fated to violence. he is very much accepting that one day he will either kill ben, or be killed by ben.

he had a bastard brother, sean, from the daughter of a landed knight within battle valley, whom he never acknowledged whilst growing up. it was only when they fought together in the dance did they finally put past their differences. he ended up being killed by lord samwell blackwood in battle.

he does not forget the dance: not only in the form of struggling to comprehend what it was his house stood for, but the realistic side effects. the memories. you'll see it come up in ronan. furthermore, he knows all too well he was a green in a newly independent riverlands; the walls could collapse very quickly on them. which is why he wants to get his sister out of it.

you will not know when you have insulted ronan. he is patient. dangerously patient. will consider the long term - he understands the riverlands is a realm that requires houses supporting one another. they will always bicker, but the tullys are in power because they are beloved. so he will play the long game & isolate. the only exception is when he is demanding a duel, on your honour as a man. pretty obvious you've pissed him off there.

ronan is going through a bit of a religious difficulty - call it a crisis. this stems back from the time the rp was set in the north. he felt very at peace amongst the godswood, and understood that his people once worshipped these gods. it was with the coming of the andals that changed it all for house bracken.

inspo songs: the foggy dew by sinéad o'connor & the chieftains, the hanging tree from the hunger games trilogy, when im gone & mockingbird by eminem, welcome home son by radical face, the parting glass by hozier

connections:

brianna duh, i guess he thinks she is ok (everytime he looks at her he thinks their home almost burned down, and she could have been killed or hurt by daemon targaryen if she had not been busy pretending to be a kitchen maid. pain)

the clover folk: omer florent, the blackbar brothers, rhea tarly, any extensions of these families that are to come. amerie banefort is his cousin through her mother being a bracken. these people are his family, through and through. you got beef with one of them, you're beefing with ronan bracken. no exceptions.

the men of the greens; augustus lefford. nicholas lannister, garrick cargyll, theomore westerling - i will add as we go on and plot but these men are people he has built up trust with. you develop a bond with those you fight for your life with.

technically because of ginerva and fiona, ronan would have gotten to know percival templeton and jack grafton because if their sisters are coming to stay to visit brianna, they're gonna know the man whose roof they're sleeping under.

enemies:

ben blackwood.

lucius rivers.

[hugovance]

"Right bastard that one." Hugo was not known for holding his tongue about many things and that included men who should not be insulted. He was wise enough to know when and where to speak but bold enough that should a man like Arron Lannister look at a man like Hugo Vance he would know to try and kill him first. "Putting guards on shifts, doing what needs be done when the time comes. If the time comes." He hoped that a time wouldn't come where they would be meeting Westermen on the roads and drawing blades to see blood spilled. Skirmishes were bound to happen between boys wanting to prove themselves more than green, in a hurry to be men done with their boyish summers.

As Ronan spoke to him, he agreed with him more than he disagreed with him. It was important to, as Ronan said, have the hilts close to hands instead of walking around with blades drawn. Should a man draw his sword unneeded it could lead to one fight after the other until they were warring. Hugo did not think they would lose because they would not invade the west. And he supposed the King of Lions of too smart to invade the Riverlands with no Targaryen on the backs of dragons above their heads and burning their fields. The Rivermen would be impossible to defeat on their own lands and none would betray them this time.

Or he hoped. Hugo needed to trust the judgment of their queen. She had to see something in Ronan that Hugo forgot was there. His mother always told him that men who did not bend would break and one day he would break. Hugo Vance was not perfect, he did and has done many things that one day he would have to answer for should they ever be revealed but his loyalty to the Riverlands was true. Powerful. And even for his sins is loyalties would never be denied.

"We can only hope the queen sees it our way. And if she does not then we will do what it takes to makes sure she sees it our way." They were weak in a lot of ways. No King, no heirs, and their lands put them in a peculiar place, they could be overtaken by anyone. The Reach King could marry her and see their realms joined as one, it seemed unlikely with the rose and his connections to the lion. They needed more than a dragon king without a dragon.

Hugo looked at Ronan and tilted his head carefully. The queen could question why they would choose him to lead this. "No, your worries are ones we should take note of and prepare for push back. The queen knows, or I hope she knows, that I would not act without permission. She also knows that I will not allow law breakers to roam freely or return them home. And should any Westerman, petty knight or notable lord, come into our lands and on our roads I will see them in chains." It was why the queen had to tell him not to kill the missing bastard. Law and order was what separated them from the animals, something most men forgot.

"Ronan." Hugo used his name instead of his title because he wanted his words to be heard as more than business. "I do not trust you but I want to trust you. I want to share this mission with you and know that none will come be us or whisper in our ears." Your ears was what he wanted to say, but he felt it would confrontational and take away from his point. "Us put together, you and I, can accomplish when the RIverlands needs if we can work together." Without tension, without fear. He extended his hand to him. "I want to trust you." It wasn't friendship he was offering, it was a bridge. A shaky, rickety bridge held up by vines and hope.

[ronanbrackens]

ᕯ

a bridge was a bridge, regardless of how it seemed to ready to crumble at any moment, or how it not be able to undertake any form of strain. "yeah? you'd know, wouldn't you. talk to them lot." he uttered, his voice low and unassuming, as though he were merely noting hugo's ability to probably know more of aaron lannister than other riverlands, with the exception of their spy master. he had befriended multiple of the westerland lords that ronan had once betrayed him to fight alongside, and in the end, it had all been for nothing. but still, he remembered of a time where hugo would once speak of how those men were dishonourable, and you could not trust them with anything. how the situations had swapped.

there was a sullen, quietness that came over ronan as the other began to speak, the upfront denial of trust was something he knew and yet had little to no words for when hearing it out loud - it was the first time he had openly heard the words from hugo vance so clearly and openly, and so as much as he knew it, it still felt as though his heart seemed to ache once deeply in his chest, alongside the drop of his stomach. he wished to yell about how it had never meant to turn out this way, how promises of a maester had ended up spiralling out of control and all of a sudden he found himself unable to watch what came from his mouth for the promise of better care.

"would you want to speak to her of it, or do you want me to?" considering ronan was asking hugo to oversee the logistics, he could understand why he may be the better option.

that, and he would happily put hugo vance and isolde tully in more situations with one another, considering he believed hugo to be the perfect candiate of being king of the rivers. he knew better than to ever suggest such a thing though, considering histories and hearts alike were as murky as muddy water. his own heart was stained black, the one of a traitor - or at least, that was what crowds had once yelled at him. he kept telling himself there was a reason. "she should know what you can do." in the end it had all been for nothing, a mere manipulation tactic to drive a wedge in the lords of the rivers akin to the way the rivers forked in different directions - but he wished to yell and insist, as though they were mere green boys again, arguing at the top of their voices over eachother.

but he did not, and he could not. because they were not green boys, and had not been for many a year; whilst ronan had signed his innocence away to act as nothing more than a puppet, hugo had been forced to watch his swirl in the flames of ashes and black smoke. they had all made their own choices, and each needed to pay the consequences of that - and so ronan was still here, paying the consequences. still, he felt a slight crack of hope in hearing of how hugo wished to trust him again, at least when it came to matters of the realm and the kingdom. whilst he intended to prove himself to all the riverlands that he was not the same person that had turned his back on them, he wished to prove it to hugo most - more than any other person, and something about that unsettled and scared him equally.

"the law be the law." ronan grimly agreed, knowing if they found themselves in some nightmare scenario where they needed to witthold a westerman, it would start something neither would want. but they would let it start, because rivermen were no cowards.

when hugo spoke of others whispering in their ears, his face fell slightly; it was obvious what hugo truly wanted to say, and it was not as though he could blame him. it was ronan who had allowed himself to become tempted, and this was what they got for it. "that won't be happenin." ronan spoke, his voice slightly gruff - not defensive, but trying to sound assertive. he knew it would not happen again, the question was would others? he felt no sense of being proud, wanting to rant and rave about what his title owed him. he had to prove it to hugo, there was nothing else he could do. and he hated it. "there's no reason."

[hugovance]

This was something Hugo agreed on, they needed to move in closer to their boarders and specifically in on the West. They were not the largest of the realms nor were they the smallest, even with the damage from the Dance they could field an army of hard men who fight until there was nothing left as it was the way of the Riverman. They were strength, they were a force and it was time for them to carry themselves as such a force and yet, he was weary for a moment when Ronan said he wanted Hugo to lead it.

Of course Hugo had no issues with seeing why, his position saw him protect the lands and roads over seeing those who answered to him before he relayed to the Queen or lords who would tell the Queen. Hugo Vance surprised many when he joined in the fighting, his victories would never be as storied as men like Ben Blackwood but they would be stories that his house would pass down to future sons.

"I'm sure the queen will approve, it's not been a secret that the Prince of the West has been feeling out where he can cause issues." Rumors and whispers were not his business but war and the possibilities of attacks and raids were. And from one end of the Riverlands to the other they were a region rich in promise and people thought them weak because they had a queen and that line of thinking made men weak. Yes, he once believed the south heart of a woman would weaken and destroy but then came the Dance and the fight to sit a queen and he saw something more. Before the madness that took all dragons he learned of something about women. And he supposed their queen would be better than any other.

Hugo nodded his head as he finished his drink and then sat back in the chair, he could see the Riverlands in his mind's eye but they would possibly need a map. He put his hand out as if he was pointing at a map. "Golden Tooth, Hornvale, Deep Den, and perhaps Sarsfield. Those are the houses that are closest to my ends." He put his hand back down and once again looked rather thoughtful before nodding his head again.

"Wendish Town could hold some men and it should be seen as adding to the highway guard along he riverroad and the fork. Sherrer and Mummer's Ford as well, there are septs along that hill that can keep eyes on Hornvale and Deep Den." And House Vance sat as the first line of defense should attacks from the west be sent through the lands of Sarsfield and Golden Tooth. And still, he looked at the other, the man who was once his brother and wondered if there was something unspoken. But he could not continue to mistrust him. Not trusting him meant that he did not trust the queen and Hugo felt that was quite the slippery slope.

He would have to trust him again. Learn to trust the man he once whispered secrets to as boys, the man he once thought of as his brother. Hugo mourned every lost moment, every choice made that at war's end left men burdened with living with their choices. Mistrust the man when their princess was married to the one that burned them? Did he cling on to the acts of war? Judge men for choices they made at threat of death?

Or did the idea that a friend would betray them all mean more than forgiving sins of war? Hugo felt he judged too harshly and then he felt he didn't judge harshly enough. That he should have drawn his sword and forced the other to fight him, to die for what he believed but for what? For the heartbreak of a brother's betrayal? The pain would still linger. It was for the realm. Everything was for the realm.

[ronanbrackens]

ᕯ

ronan listened without interrupting, the way he had learned to do when the stakes were high and the room was full of echoes that did not belong to the present. he sat still as hugo spoke of borders and roads and names that carried weight, letting the cadence of it wash over him, letting hugo build the riverlands in the air between them with nothing more than memory and instinct. there was something sobering in it, watching him work, and ronan could not quite stop the thought that crept in uninvited: that many would say this should have been hugo’s burden to carry from the start.

clean hands, clean loyalties, a man who had chosen the blacks and never wavered. a man who looked, uncomfortably, like what ronan might have been had he not listened to honeyed promises and called it duty. he did not say any of that. he kept his mouth closed and his gaze steady, following the invisible map hugo traced, golden tooth to hornvale, deep den to sarsfield, each name tightening something low in his chest. he knew the west once, knew it well enough to bleed beside it, but whatever familiarity had existed then had long since rotted away. it was hugo who still had threads there, thin and dangerous as they were, and ronan knew better than to suggest he tug on them too hard. alliances, even the quiet sort, were brittle things.

when hugo mentioned wendish town and the pretence of highway guards, ronan’s fingers curled faintly against the arm of his chair. subtle, he thought. that was the only word that mattered. subtle enough that the lions would not scent blood and decide to test the fences. subtle enough that it looked like caution, not fear. “that reads as sense,” he said at last, his voice low and even, folding into the rhythm of the hall as though it belonged there. “highway guards raise no brows, and septs have eyes everywhere whether we ask them to or not.” he leaned forward then, just enough to signal the shift, his attention narrowing. “the prince of the west testing his reach doesn’t surprise me,” he added, quieter now.

“men like him mistake silence for weakness. i won’t give him a banner to charge at.” his jaw tightened briefly, the memory of old banners and worse decisions flickering behind his eyes. “what you’re proposing keeps our hands close to the hilt without ever really showing the blade - not yet, at least. not until we have to.”

there was a pause, measured, deliberate, before he allowed himself to voice the question that mattered. “and now the next question is,” ronan said, eyes lifting to hugo’s face at last. “whether the queen will see it as caution or provocation.” he exhaled through his nose, something like wryness touching the edge of his expression. “i can argue necessity. i can argue protection of trade and roads and smallfolk. but she’s not blind, and she won’t want the realm thinking we’re bracing for a war we claim we don’t expect.”

what he was asking in this regard was for hugo to also speak with iona; to persuade her that their stance is comfortable enough. he reached for his goblet then, more to occupy his hands than from any desire for the wine.

“if she asks why you,” he continued, tone carefully neutral; he knew all too well that iona would not ask why hughie. only because there was not a stain against hughie, there was not a stigma or a curse against hugo vance's name - not in the same way his dad, especially among some regions of the riverlands. “i’ll tell her the truth. that you know the ground, that men trust you, and that you won’t mistake preparation for permission to act.” there was something unspoken there, heavy and deliberate, and he did not dress it up. ronan straightened, the strategist settling over the man like familiar armour. “until she answers, we plan quietly,” he said.

[hugovance]

And there it was. The end of the polite conversation and straight to business, Hugo could handle this business, he could handle going back to working on business because it was better than sitting together pretending to not feel it all, to not know that they weight upon his broad shoulders could one day break him. But, there was always a but, Hugo Vance knew a truth about life, about his own life. Nothing would break him down. His shoulders were meant to carry great weight, his body was meant to walk through the flames and fires of war and return a man. And now, now he would be a man swallow whatever thoughts choked him.

"I don't think one needs to have a Westermen tell them their face they don't bow to women to know it." The words came out direct and bluntly, Hugo didn't see this as a betrayal because his realm always came first and he supposed between the two of them Hugo knew his realm came first. And maybe Ronan was learning. Maybe.

"None have come to me to make attempts at gauging my reactions or have spoken poorly of our queen in my hearing. All know that I will draw my blade and dance with whomever thinks I am the sort to take disrespect of my queen and country lightly."

Hugo grabbed a pitcher and topped off their goblets and sat it backdown. He thought Ronan changed, believed the war did something to him and that the other still worry the singed clothing under his finery, they he could still hear the music in his years; the music of screams and armor cracking to melt. Even Hugo could hear the music some times, he would wake in a cold sweat. But in the light of the day, in the eyes of the Gods he would not insult their gift of life by living in Hell.

"From the roads, however, husbands talk of it as if were a sight to behold, men without cocks. Men make their jest, they tell their jokes and then they carry on. Landed knights talk of how they up leave theirs if they were of the River but none would issue challenge without their King's say and I imagine the King has no intention of starting a war." There wasn't the quiet tensions of war on the horizon. The thickness in the air. There was something else here. Something he could feel and smell and taste but nothing he could name.

"What do you want me to do?"

[ronanbrackens]

ᕯ

ronan shifted slightly in his chair, the weight of the moment pressing him into the oak, as though the wood might absorb some of the unease he felt coiling through his chest. he kept his dark hazel eyes level on hugo, though his hands fidgeted, tapping the edge of his goblet in a rhythm he did not hear himself keep. he almost detested how uncomfortable this conversation made him; there was no shaking away the grip of guilt around his throat, nor the way it pressed down upon his shoulders - but they needed to keep pretending. ignoring.

“i never said you wouldn’t,” he uttered, the words low and deliberate, almost defensive, as if the need to clarify his stance could ward off any perceived slight. it was not an apology, not yet, and perhaps never one that could satisfy the ghosts between them, but it was a small concession to civility. he let his gaze drift to the shadows cast by the flickering candlelight, listening to the clink of silverware and the low murmur of the dining hall, all the while aware that hugo’s presence was a constant challenge to his composure.

he noticed hugo reaching for the pitcher, the movement casual yet heavy with unspoken intent. ronan remained still, seated, hands unmoving. what did he want? what could he do? he thought of the ambition he knew lingered behind hugo’s calm, the ambition carefully folded and hidden beneath the layers of gold and silver he wore so well. if hugo had the mind, he would have claimed the crown for himself, married iona and the title with the cold, clean logic that ronan knew lay beneath the surface. yet he doubted he would ever act in that way. not with what ronan had done, what was so many years ago now.

ronan cleared his throat lightly, leaning forward just enough to catch hugo’s eye. “what i want,” he said, voice flat yet edged with a precision meant to cut through the casual ease of the hall, “is to move extra reinforcements to our western border. not all in one place—spread, subtle. but with the capacity to centralise if need to. quickly.” he let the words linger, feeling the gravity of the plan settle into the silence between them - it needed to appear subtle, lest the west use it as an opportunity to attack. he truly believed they would take any bone thrown to them. “and if the queen approves of it, i want you to lead it.” the statement was plain, a directive wrapped in a suggestion, and yet it carried with it a quiet insistence, the weight of trust—and risk—he could not voice aloud. hugo had military capability, but he also knew a large number of the men of the west as of late; perhaps they would trust him, even if it were only to a small extent.

any advantage was an advantage.

it was a small thing, a mere military arrangement, yet it carried echoes of all the things they had fought over, all the betrayals and reconciliations and tenuous understandings that had built and eroded their bond over years of fire and blood. he studied hugo for a reaction, though he braced himself for none. it was difficult, this watching, knowing the man beside him could bear every weight and not falter, while ronan himself felt the strain of half a lifetime pressing in his shoulders. he thought again of the dance, of the choices made, of the knife-edge that had separated loyalty from self-preservation. it was not that he mistrusted hugo—he could not, not when hugo had done nothing wrong—but that he mistrusted the ease with which hugo had survived, the comfort he seemed to find in the world even when the riverlands had burned and bones littered the ground.

ronan let his eyes flick down to his goblet again, considering the warmth of the wine that had long since gone cold since it was poured into his goblet, the smallness of the vessel against the enormity of the conversation. “but we really cannot—no, must not—invite notice or question before we’re ready.” the question was measured, carefully guarded, and yet it contained the unspoken weight of everything they had lost and everything still at stake. he straightened then, a slow, deliberate motion, returning fully to the role of lord and strategist. the past would not speak, not here, not now; only the present and the next move mattered.

and in that, he found a grim sort of clarity. the distant hallway around them faded into noise, irrelevant and distant, leaving only the two of them and the silent understanding that would have to do. the plan, the trust, the subtle manoeuvres of power—this was their work, and ronan bracken, for all his misgivings, would see it through.

[jalabharmooton]

The pieces started moving around in his head as Ronan spoke, as he mentioned Brianna and then Lord Peake and he understood what Ronan meant and the weight of choices where he would involve himself and lose either the friendships forged in his lands, the connections that ran as deep as rivers or a brotherhood. Secrets had a way of revealing themselves over time, a way of putting themselves on display leaving all souls laid bare. The master of whispers leaned back in his chair and looked at the man in front of him.

There were those that faulted Ronan Bracken for his choices during the war and Lord Mooton didn't think of those times often, they married one of their princesses to Jaehaerys Targaryen, one of the dragon princes that burned their lands. If that was not a sign for people to move on he did not know what it was even if he felt he would the Vaylrians for as long as he lived. That could have been reason enough to turn them away, to tell him to solve his own issues and rely on his friends to be kind.

Jalabhar Mooton did not work that way, he didn't move that way. Could emotions cause him to stir and do things out of character? Yes. And those emotions could rise from the connection he held to Tion Peake. Alas did it serve Tion more to have another dead uncle? Mayhaps Peale uncles were cursed. Unwin Peake was not of the Rivers and neither was his nephew. Jalabhar severed his ties to the lands of Summer for the greater good, wasn't this the same?

"And your sister," he didn't care about the other women, not yet, "she has a clear mind about what happened? Can recall details?" He would need to question her, not interrogate but search her mind for any weaknesses. This was a solvable problem though the mess would take time to clean up. There would need to be searching and payments, blame would need to be pointed away from her, from the Riverlands. "We will need to know about the other ladies as well. Are they closer to one another or does one hold more loyalty to your sister." Should tables turn, someone would be left in the dark. "I don't think the Egens or Tolands hold any great power."

And the choice was made without saying the words. It was with the slight nod of his head as he started speaking to the other lord. The smell of the burning embers, his eyes drifting to the table of papers, whisky, and more papers. They would need food for it would be a long night so he rose and went to the door, using the time to think as he cracked the door and told his guards to send serving girls for a planning meal and to make sure his floor empty of all with ears to hear and tongues to wag.

"The Targaryen King will think it personal. He will see those who supported his cause being murdered during his coronation as a continuation of the strife that has marred his rule. We've security in his wife being a Tully but we've no way of knowing where she stands, if she loves her husband." The lord sat back down, "but you know someone who could talk to her. Someone who knows her. Lord Vance if you trust him. If not I could send in spies but it could be hard to sneak to ladies back with Niamh Tully, she'll know belongs to her and who doesn't."

[ronanbrackens]

ᕯ

ronan bracken leaned back, the familiar weight of leather and wood pressing against him, and let his gaze linger on jalabhar mooton, measuring him as one might a blade before a fight. it was not often that he admitted a need—no, he seldom admitted any weakness at all—but the words churned in his chest, ragged and heavy. gods, to ask this man, the master of spies, the keeper of whispers and secrets, for help felt like prying open a wound with a blunt dagger. yet the matter had crossed a line that separated duty from kin, work from home, and the thought of leaving it untended made his stomach turn sour. he kept his voice even, collected, careful, though the tension coiled in his chest like a steel spring.

“i’ll not skirt around it,” he said finally, low, deliberate. “the woman brianna defended from peake… she’s close to us, part of the circle, and i trust she’ll hold her tongue. but i need eyes, jalabhar. silent eyes. if it comes to it, the dornish girl would be the easiest to pin blame on, though she’s not the guilty one.” the dornish woman would be the easiest scapegoat, not because she deserved it, but because the world was cruelly predisposed to distrust the dornish, and men like peake relied on that prejudice to shield themselves. ronan’s jaw tightened as jalabhar spoke of the targaryen king taking things personally. ire simmered beneath his composure, a slow-burning fire - considering all he had done for jaehaerys, the fact he even needed to sit here and find a way around this rather than speak to the man directly said it all. said enough.

said more than ronan could ever say.

he had served jaehaerys loyally, pledged his sword and his house in earnest, and for it, his family had become pariahs, outcasts, whispered about in corridors where men ought to have remembered their honour. and in the end, they needed to dance around his worry of feeling slighted; “i know he’ll take it to heart, and gods, i do not blame him for his temper,” ronan said, voice taut, “but i’ve served him, trusted him, and i reckon if it came to it, i could speak with him.” the words came grudgingly, the faintest waver betraying how much he believed it, even as he measured each syllable. ronan bracken was not an antisocial man; he had made his connections across the realm as men in their positions were expected to do.

"its useful that the high commander of new valyria, garrick cargyll, is a close family friend too - if we were counting our luck." and then he thought briefly of the fact that the peakes had also fought green; with tion even knowing daeron if memory served him correct. he were not wrong. they truly were in the same boat then - as tion too could ask jaehaerys to see his perspective.

his thoughts flicked to niamh tully, riverlander like them, married to the dragon king, and the precarious web of alliances and loyalties that spun around her. it was a valid point. but the last he remembered of niamh tully, she was hardly the type to enjoy the position of being queen. he had not known her well, but he knew hugo vance had, and if circumstances were different, if time and position allowed, he might have asked hugo to probe quietly, to see if whispers had reached her ears. “you've a valid point if only things were simpler,” he muttered, almost to himself, “i’d have asked hugo, let him speak to niamh… but we cannot risk it. not with the amount of people who could become involved, and not with the girls’ reputations at stake.”

ronan’s hands rested flat on the table, the rough wood grounding him as he leaned forward slightly, voice low, steady, measured. “i do not want this going further than us,” he said, looking directly at jalabhar. “no one else. if i must find some reason to travel to king’s landing to help, then i will, but no other soul will be involved. it is too perilous, too… personal.” he paused, the tension in his shoulders tightening, and then added, “the egens, the tolands—they are of little concern. it is the girl with brianna, and brianna herself, that i must guard.” it were a harsh point of view that ronan would not have said, if not his own sister implicated. do what you need to do with them, paint whatever picture you must.

he spoke with the precision of a man both terrified and resolute, detailing the constraints: the loyalty of brianna’s companion, the minimal risk from the egens and tolans, the methods by which blame could be shifted if needed, all framed without naming more than necessary. yet beneath the careful surface lay the rawness of a man confronting the edge of his fear, a fear not for himself but for those entrusted to his care. "the necklace, we need back - as soon as possible. if anything comes out, we can deny it - not if they've got that necklace."

[jessmalia]

EDMUND PEVENSIE + being at Peter’s right hand

[ronanbrackens]

@hugovance

[fiadhvance]

a bright laugh slipped her lips. it was moments like this that she liked best with him, when there was a smile on his face and he spoke with a little more vibrancy than before. moments where it felt like the rest of the room did not exist, or if it did, it was of little consequence while they were wrapped in their own little bubble where she could see clearly into the way his mind worked, and he shared his thoughts with her. she liked how he thinks, too, and the way that he noticed the things that all too often went overlooked. "trouble is, even the cleverest men forget they could be outwitted by a fool. they never think it'll happen to them." her smile turned wry. "but wisdom and cleverness aren't really the same things, are they?" it was more of a rhetorical question than one she sincerely expected him to answer.

ronan might have been perceptive, but fiadh was, too. at least, she was in certain arenas. she did not miss the shuffle of his feet or the brief flicker of his expression, but neither did she comment on it, whatever internal thought that caught him in the moment not hers to pry into. instead, she didn't falter, keeping the bright playfulness in her tone as she continued to talk. "i think there's a story i that somewhere. the wise jester and the foolish king. maybe i'll pack in the frey trouble all together and make that my next masterpiece instead," her voice was deliberately light, bordering on playful.

she nodded her head. it would be a lie to say she was not disappointed, but she wasn't surprised, nor offended, by his refusal. still, though, she had not been able to help but offer. it had mattered to her that he knew that he was not unwelcome, not by her. "yeah," she repeated after him, trying to keep her tone airy. "one day." and on the matter, she would say no more.

it was a reminder of why things were the way that they were. that the entwined histories of their houses was complex, even by riverlands standards, and no matter what it was she thought she felt for him, it was likely that it would always remain just that, something she held close in her chest, never more than a hope and a dream.

"or just one really long, really unbiased book, with different chapters for bracken and blackwood," her smile had returned now, but she had stepped backwards. whatever spell had woven between them had been truly broken for the night. "cleverer people than me have tried to get to the bottom of it all and failed, anyway. i'd probably need a way to turn back time itself to learn the truth of it," she paused, lips pursing in thought. "or maybe it's one of those things best left to mystery. i imagine the real reason is rather anticlimactic now." that the two houses had been at war all these centuries over something as banal as a land dispute or dire misunderstanding crossed her mind, but she didn't voice it.

"oh, but that's an idea. i just need to convince them there's some coin to be made in it." it wouldn't be lying, exactly, but it wouldn't be truth, either. the money fiadh made was enough to give her a little bit of independence, but it would never fill the coffers of wayfairer's rest. pocket money, rather than a fortune. "either that or i'll ask keira to go through their records when nobody's looking." her expression was sweet enough to pass as innocence, if not for the spark of mischief in her eyes.

[ronanbrackens]

ᕯ

ronan bracken let her words linger between them a moment, the curl of her laugh and the easy cadence of her wit pulling him into a rhythm he had not known he missed until it was set before him again. it was too familiar, that warmth she drew from him without meaning to, like they had not drifted at all from the days their houses called themselves friends instead of foes. “aye, there’s the rub,” he said at last, a smile tugging faint at his mouth. “men will spend half their lives tryin’ to be clever, but it doesn’t make ‘em wise. a wise man knows the fool can trip him, knows when to keep his mouth shut, and when to listen even if the words sting.”

he tilted his head towards her, voice dipping into a softer note that gave the lie of how closely he had been listening - if she listened carefully, she'd have realised he was talking about himself. ronan bracken was not the wiseman he wished he was; the man he thought he was as a greenboy, too naive. “you’d make the tale sharper than any of the songs sung at court, that much i’d wager.”

he fell into step beside her as the air outside the hall pressed cool against the heat of torches, the murmur of the tourney crowd not so distant. the way she said “one day” had not been lost on him, though he did not press it, only letting his hands clasp loosely behind his back. one day indeed, was all he silently responded in his head: that they would all be beneath one roof, twinkling in the candlelight with the sounds of yuletide ringing through the halls. “one long book, with chapters for bracken and blackwood both?” he let the thought hang with a dry laugh.

“aye, and no bard would touch it when you were done for fear either side would shun them. better to leave some truths in shadow. if the truth of it’s as dull as i suspect, not a soul would waste a song on us. better the mystery and the blood feuds—it keeps the singers in work.” the half-smile that marked his mouth was steady, though his eyes softened on her all the same, the unspoken thought hovering there—that it kept her in work too. "for a long time, i wondered about the legal practicalities that blood feuds enforce upon a crown and a society - despite being firmly in one." he added, both his hands going up as though he were defending himself, his tone light and joyful.

"rooted in the laws of the first men, it is. i managed to persuade owen stark to let me look at his collections in winterfells library...man didn't know they were there." he chuckled to himself, fondly remembering his uncanny and unusual choice of friend to the north. the northmen were progressive, lenient and tolerant men when they felt as though none were judging them.

he noticed how her lips pursed when she spoke of time, the faint spark when mischief touched her eyes as she spoke of keira ideally rifling records if push came to shove. it was the smallest things he held onto, though he would never say as much. instead he shook his head, playing the part of the lord wary of schemes. “gods, what she even doing in the twins.” he let out a breath of laughter, enough to soften the weight of his next words - whilst he did not know the lass too well, he'd happily make her feel welcome within at his hearth; the twins was a choice to work at. to him, it were almost as though she were completely detatched from her roots at brightwater - where they had all spread from. “i solemnly swear that you’ve finished it, i’ll be one of the first to read it—even if you’ve painted my whole house as wicked villains or, even worse, dimwitted fools.”

the hum of the tiltyard carried on the night breeze as they neared, and ronan cast his gaze towards the lanterns lining the lists, the banners already hung in waiting. “you’ll see it all writ out here too, though without parchment. watch close and you’ll know who fights for glory, who for coin, and who means to cheat before they’ve even taken the tilt. that lad from house vypren there, he’ll push his horse hard, but he’ll not stay in the saddle long. fights for the purse, and he’s nothin’ without it. and that one—mallister’s cousin—aye, he’ll fight to make his name, though it’ll take more than splinters to earn it.” his tone was not mocking, only sure, the manner of a man who had lived long enough to read people like an open page.

such was the role of he who had been an outsider for so long; a pariah, a traitor who proved that traitors could mend.

he let his gaze slip back to her, lowering his voice slightly as if the thought were meant only for her. “it’s a cleaner sport than the games lords play behind walls, at least. and if my favour slips off in the midst of it, you’ll have to swear you’ll stitch me another. can’t have the others thinkin’ i’ve been cast aside before the first tilt.” the jest was spoken lightly, but the smile that flickered with it carried more warmth than he meant to reveal, a warmth that stayed in his chest as though it had never left. he saw his tent, the bracken flag fluttering within a crisp blue sky; not a cloud in the sky, and he looked back at her, gaze lowering as he took her in.

"and i won't be takin' none others. how's that for a deal?"

[fiadhvance]

there was a faint blush to her cheeks, but no shame in the way she nodded her head, only earnestness. he wasn't wrong when he said she spoke of books as kin, but it had not been her own kin that had stirred her interests. her father had been stern, her mother protective, and though it felt like she had been born with stories in her bones, it was not passed through the bloodline. and yet, the words she collected told the tale of the heart's blood of the riverlands, a page-to-page link through the years connecting them all to their ancestors, and fiadh gave them life once more in verse and stanza.

"there's a lot to be learned from fools. your nan was right about that." she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. she could almost imagine herself in that role, the fool chosen to carry whispers forward, to make sure that people listened. "half the bards in the realm get their news from the jesters. they see everything."

he tucked her favour away as though it were not a piece of cloth, crooked stitches sewn with her own clumsy hand, but something to be treasured and protected. she took a moment to commit the sight to memory, the faint roses on his cheeks that matched her own, the creases that appeared when he smiled and the look in his eyes that warmed her more than any hearth could. for that brief moment, fiadh thought that life was better than any story she'd told or been told.

"i think that it does. magic, i mean. or at least the wonderful kind like in the songs," she clarified. "or i hope it does, at least. i think it's too easy to get stuck on the things we can see or touch, and it's often the bad, isn't it? it's nice to think about there being more than we can understand. something good." she grinned, both playful and self-deprecating. "but if there's magic in my favour, its not because of my wonky stitches. its because you hold it." from her hand to settle at his wrist, as though he carried a piece of her with him now, more visibly than the pieces he already did.

she laughed with him, hands coming up to cup her own face, one covering each cheek like he had not already seen how red they were. "hopelessly," she admitted, with more than a little embarrassment. "love and romance is the plainest form of magic we can see, isn't it?" it was the only explanation she offered to it. "a lad might not spend much time agonising over ribbons, but you still give it meaning, even without thinking about it. kingdoms have risen and fallen because a man accepted a favour at a tourney from a woman." it was human nature, she thought, to give things meaning where previously there was none to be found, to see mythic in the everyday.

"but maybe it's better not to think too much about it," she mused, expression thoughtful as she guided herself back down to earth. "that way it can just be ours, with whatever meaning we choose to give it." she didn't dwell on how easy it was to use such words with him - ours. we.

she nodded her head, not pressing the matter, an uncharacteristic seriousness descending on her. he was closer to her now, and though mere moments ago she would have been acutely aware of that, her mind had drifted elsewhere. there was a time in her youth where ronan and hugo had been inseperable, and then they had not. she had her suspicions, but she had never quite got to the bottom of it all. it was a bittersweet feeling, looking back upon it, and she found herself wishing she could freeze the time before whatever had caused the chasm between them, puzzle it out, and head it off before it ever happened. for hugo's sake, and for ronan's, and, selfishly, for her own, because where did this all leave her?

"he's away from home more these days," she did not specify who she was talking about. she did not need to. her voice was gentle, with a deliberate attempt to keep things lighter. it was for naught. if there was one thing fiadh could not do, it was stop whatever she was feeling from showing itself on her face. "my mother and i could receive you, if you wanted to visit. you remember my mother." she wasn't sure that was a tempting offer - the lady vance was an overbearing figure.

"you'll need to, anyway, when i've added the bracken histories to it," this time, her attempt to lighten the conversation was more successful, thanks to her genuine delight at his offer, curiosity already alight at the prospect of reading through them. "i'd love that, ronan. thank you." there was no better gift he could offer her, something that dwarfed her own offering of the ribbon. "i've been badgering all the castellans i can find the name of," she joked. "most are happy to send along what they've got - means they don't have to look after them - but others are more difficult. still trying to get a response from harrenhal, and twins have basically told me to take a running jump."

[ronanbrackens]

ᕯ

ronan bracken found himself smiling in spite of the weight that pressed at his shoulders, for there was something in the way fiadh spoke of fools and jesters that mirrored a thought he had often carried himself.

“aye, that’s the truth of it,” he said, a spark of animation slipping into his tone, almost too quick to hide. “folk laugh at them, but them jesters see more than most lords ever will. and i’d wager half those bloody pamphlets flyin’ about owe their bite to a fool’s whisper and a fool's eye. i’ve seen men in armour take wounds and keep their footing, but give those same men a scrap of parchment with their name writ wrong, or some rumour that cuts close, and it’ll undo ‘em faster than steel.” he thought of those long nights in the trenches, of mud and blood and paper crumpled in the fists of men too proud to weep. a brief dread flickered through him—too sharp, too sudden—and he shifted from one foot to the other, as though the motion might cast it away before she noticed.

ronan let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “and yet we still keep puttin’ fools in motley and actin’ as though they’re not the wisest in the room. daft, really. sometimes i think it’s the gods’ way of remindin’ us that sense doesn’t wear a crown.” her invitation to wayfarer’s rest caught him off guard, warming him for a moment in a way he had not expected. he could almost see it—the river running past the walls, the shelves she would show him, the light that would catch in her eyes as she spoke of histories like they were breathing things. for a heartbeat, he wanted to say yes. but no, he reminded himself, it would not be the same, not now. he folded his arms across his chest, not unkind, but firm in the gesture that grounded him.

“i’ll not impose on your mother, fiadh,” he said gently, careful that his refusal carried no sharpness. “you’re kind to offer, but… it’s best left to memory, i think. doesn’t mean i wouldn’t be glad to see the place again one day, yeah?"

when she brightened again, speaking of bracken histories, he couldn’t help the low chuckle that slipped free. “gods, you’ll have your work cut out for you with that. best write two books, one for the brackens and one for the blackwoods, else neither side will leave you in peace. our libraries say one thing, theirs another, and both swear blind it’s the only truth. you’ll end up spendin’ more ink on our squabbles than on the rest of the riverlands combined.” his grin lingered as he shook his head, though fondness softened the edge of it.

“that sounds about right,” ronan said, leaning back with a tired exhale, though he kept his tone even. “the twins are a fortress that watches the road and the river both, but its eyes are fixed more on coin than on parchment. i’d wager they’ve convinced themselves that stewarding the realm’s purse outweighs any duty to preserve its histories - and that be their rightful priority.” he paused, tone professional as his arms still folded together as he looked at her for a moment longer than he probably had meant to, as though smoothing out his thoughts before they turned sharp. perhaps because he was not too entirely enticed on the idea of fiadh being in contact with either of those freys, but it were not his right to speak on such a thing. still, he could not help but lighten the mood ever so slightly with a slight glint in his warm, dark gaze.

“you know, perhaps if there were gold to be mined from the old chronicles, they’d have sent a chest of them by now.”

[jalabharmooton]

"I will look at the men in the West and try to figure out where I can place someone. I had a few conversations with the queen and I have some who looks close enough to their own to hopefully try to listen in on what they're saying." Jalabhar didn't expect too much from it but he hoped for just enough. He would try his best to not let those people die and he hoped they were smart enough to not walk into death over and over again. So far his spies always returned but this, something about this made him uneasy but he would never back away, the uneasiness also presented a challenge and the Lord of Maidenpool loved good challenge, he enjoyed it. And perhaps it people others lives at risk.

The lord nodded as the hand spoke about the Prince and while he believed that Ronan believed what he said, Ja doubted the existence of the Prince's spine. It was more than one having a spine and having character, it was about the pride of a man. A man that some would whisper in his ear that he should be a king, a man that would hear the mock from men who wanted to take a jab at the brother who knelt. That was a name Ja's spies heard from some of the small folk; prince of loaves and fishes? no, no the brother who knelt, and Ja contemplated on stopping the nickname but quieting people caused more to talk. The brave sort.

"The Queen should be close to the mountain Queen herself. They are women who have taken seats because their brothers could not or would not take the crown. This is an alliance or at least a realm we should model. The Reachmen have the ground and salted sea but we have the rivers, the water. The fish." Ja knew he was starting to ramble and shook his head. "As you can see I have a plan and it has not come to full thought, ramblings of ideas."

When it came to friendships the Spy Master was not one to befriend lightly. His closest friend was Amir, his best friend and his brother, and in some ways another brother was Nasir. But, somewhere along the way Ronan Bracken became a man he looked forward to speaking with, shaking his hand, and talking after meetings ended. And it was a pleasant surprise.

When Ronan mentioned something serious, Ja turned off the business and put his focus on him, leaning forward as he watched the other man. There was something serious and it was more than serious and it was simply because of the way Ronan spoke that Ja could read it. He could read almost anyone, know what they wanted to say and what they meant. Ja could tell by the way someone swallowed if they were tense with a dry throat of nauseous with fear. But this was something different. As he watched and waited for him to finish. The spy felt his brow rise and fall, his eyes scanned the empty room as if he were briefly concerned that someone stood in a corner and he missed their presence but there was no one there.

"Do you know what the Summer rebels call me? Brathadair. Traitor to their own." He didn't speak about this anyone, how the people turned on him because of their own confusion. "See, they thought they own House Mooton and Maidenpool. Thought they were owed something when I clover and summer. when my roots are by the rivers shaded by willows and fed by salmon."

"We always come first."

[ronanbrackens]

ᕯ

ronan leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking faintly under his weight, though he barely noticed it. his gaze lingered on jalabhar a moment longer than was usual, as though weighing whether to open the door at all. gods, it was bitter in his throat—asking for help. it was not in his nature, had never been in his nature. but the words “we always come first” settled in his chest like an anchor, heavier than the drink he nursed, heavier than the memories he tried not to pick at. aye, the riverlands came first, and family too, but both had a habit of tearing strips out of him all the same.

it were not few and far between that his pillows were drenched with sweat, waking up feeling as though the flames of jaehaerys and aemond targaryen licked up the walls of his bedchamber - and yet when he woke, he were in riverrun. there was the sound of the river, and there were no dragons; and yet, the smell of smoke remained all the same. “aye, ja. we do,” he said after a moment, his voice low, quiet enough to sound as though it belonged to the shadows curling in the corners of the chamber. “but i’ll not lie to ya, this isn’t about roads, or taxes, or even the bloody prince’s empy head. this one’s about me own, which is why if you ain't wantin' in, you got every right.” he tapped his fingers against the rim of his cup, slow, steady, until at last he set it aside entirely. the words wouldn’t come easy if he kept hiding behind the whiskey.

he drew in a breath, steadying himself, though his jaw worked as if it meant to lock closed. “brianna’s gotten herself tangled in somethin’. not court games, not some foolish quarrel over a dance—worse. and i’ve never asked another to stand beside me when it came to family matters. but… i can’t walk this one out alone.” the admission nearly scalded him, and his hand rubbed briefly at the back of his neck as though to hide it. they lived in a world where men were expected to be men from too young, and being a man meant dealing with it all yourself; to ask for help was weakness. even this, felt like weakness - one he knew he should not take out on any, but he resisted the urge to curse nonetheless. his eyes lifted then, fixing on jalabhar with that hard, unwavering stare of his, though the words beneath it were softer, more frayed.

“when we were last in kings landing, she stumbled across somethin’ foul. a lass she cares for, basically kin to her heart, was bein’ put to the wall. she tried to stop it rather than scream for help, and in the struggle… she battered a rock into the bastard’s skull.” he paused, letting the weight of it settle.

“that bastard was lord unwin peake. the missin' man that friend of yours has been lookin' for.” and that should have only been another minor detail in the story, except it was far from it - because the ruling lord of starpike was a close companion of the lord of maidenpool. he had seen them all sat together during functions, the sound of laughter floating across the hall. in helping ronan bracken, jalabhar mooton would be betraying tion peake - there was no looking at it in any other way. not as though the man deserved to get away with what he were doing, but rather the fact it were all being dealt with behind closed doors. swept away under a rug. the name sat between them like a corpse on the table. ronan’s mouth pulled tight, though he forced himself onward.

“she panicked. the others there—lady mariela egen, lady devani toland—they panicked too. sounds like the lot of 'em froze. ended up hauling the body into the sewers of king’s landin’, knowing the wild dogs would finish him off with whatever else was down there. it doesn’t end there. she’s confessed she dropped a necklace somewhere along the way—gold, simple, with her initial carved on it. hers, and no mistakin’ it; it wouldn't take much to put two and two together.” he pushed his chair forward then, elbows braced on the table, the air between them taut as a bowstring.

“ye see why i’ve come to you, aye? your eyes and ears stretch further than mine ever could. you’ve the ways to find it—quiet, without stirrin’ a hornet’s nest. i can’t have the blackwoods hearin’ it, and that peake is on the reach council; the peakes were close with the dragon king's blood, daeron once. it's fucked.” his tone dipped even lower, his brogue thickening with the strain of it, “—i know what i’m askin’. the peakes are no stranger to you. to your friends. it’s a bitter knot i’m layin in your hands."

he paused, his thumb tracing the edge of the wood as he steadied his breathing. but she’s all he has. from the day their father fell, from the day their mother lost herself, it’s been him raising her, guiding her. she was sixteen when it all landed in his lap, and somewhere between the horse and the sword, he stumbled. she panics when the world turns sharp, and this is what’s come of it. he would die before letting her be dragged through the mire over this. he would burn himself hollow if he had to. but if there’s a chance to pull her out without raising alarms… his thoughts frayed there, though he caught himself quickly, shoulders squaring again.

he'd sort this first. he needed to.

[fiadhvance]

she had always been able to take the most complex of emotions and give them words, turn them to song, but there was none for the way she looked at ronan, and found herself staring a little too long, nor the twist in her stomach as he stood before her, shifting his weight and rubbing at the back of his neck. it was something in the way he held himself, bruised and beaten up as he had been, and still managing to laugh at himself, that was making her chest ache in a way that defied expression.

it was not just the lack of words that kept her from fully voicing what it was that she felt when she looked at him. she did not fully know what the breaking point had been, but the fact of the matter remained that once upon a time, ronan and hugo had been thick of thieves, and then they weren't in a way neither had really spoken about. it complicated things, and when she thought about it too hard, it brought a spark of guilt to chase the rush of affection.

and still, when ronan looked at her like that, she felt herself inching forward anyway, her hand lingering for a fraction too long against his when the favour was passed between them. whatever had passed between bracken and vance, it did not stop the longing she felt for ronan creeping through the cracks, nor changed the way her gaze always sought him in crowded places. later that night, when she was on her own again, she would examine this conversation and convince herself anything he had said to her was out of kindness, that he was just being polite, but in that moment, fiadh let herself believe that it was the same for ronan, too.

still, her head shook, the laugh that followed his words quiet and brief. "i couldn't call you daft. not when i think the same." how could she not, when she had built so much of who she was around stories, both the fantastical and those passed from generation to generation until they had been warped by time, the superstitions grandmothers whispered to their daughters, reminding them to leave bread out for the dead, or salute lone magpies, or tie red threads to their doors to keep away the shadows. and when fiadh had heard them, she carefully copied them down, before looking for traces of them in the all the old history books she could get her hands on until she found the truth in the telling. "i think it's not really about the literal of it all, but the soul of it. like when you just know something in your bones that your mind tells you doesn't make sense."

there was a spark in her eyes now, her hands moving as she spoke with the sort of enthusiasm that came when she spoke about things that excited her. "we're building a library of all that sort of thing, back at wayfarer's rest. well, mostly of the histories, and all the things people forgot to write down. but all the old stories - they're part of it, aren't they? they're us." she hadn't quite come to the realisation she was talking a little too fast now in her eagerness to get her words out. "and it's all worth preserving, i think. i've been copying down every half-rotten old scroll i can get my hands on and trying to figure out the truth in it, but sometimes i just can't."

fiadh paused, as though she had suddenly realised she had rambled on too much about somthing he hadn't asked to hear about, and lowered her hands, tucking them away behind her back. "i'll show it to you," she offered. "the library, i mean. if you'd like to see it."

you've gone and ruined me now. fiadh fell silent at that, her smile slipping from her face, not because it displeased her, but because it was replaced by something far softer than that. her gaze didn't leave his face, her heart suddenly too big for her chest. "then next time, you'll wait," she said, words that would be bold if she hadn't spoken them so gently. "because i won't give mine to anybody else. that one," she pointed at the favour she had just given, still clutched in his hand. "isn't for the lists. it's meant to last a little longer than that."

she realised she'd been standing still for too long, her hands still clasped behind her back in a way that was suddenly uncomfortable. she let them drop to her side, head shaking a little. "oh, no, i've always thought it was romantic," she didn't really stop to think about the implications of her words, to preoccupied with thinking of the act of giving a favour at all. "it's a little piece of yourself given over to keep someone else safe, isn't it? something small and soft." maybe it didn't mean much to some, and maybe ronan bracken was one of them, but when she had handed hers to him, fiadh had meant every stitch.

[ronanbrackens]

ᕯ

the sound of her voice, weaving stories with such earnestness, caught him completely. ronan bracken had always known lady fiadh vance to be clever in that strange, almost dreamlike way, but there was something in the way she spoke of history and forgotten lore that made even the most hardened memories soften. it made him think of his own chambers in stone hedge—of the shelves lined with cracked leather spines and vellum scrolls folded neat and browning with age. the candlelight there never quite reached the corners, but it was a comfort all the same, the scent of old parchment and damp stone like a balm.

it had been a place of solitude, once. now, he found himself wondering if it might feel hollow, somehow, without someone like her walking its length. "y’ve a real fondness for it, don’t you?" he said with a low chuckle, the edge of his grin faint but genuine, still faintly flushed from earlier.

"the way you talk about it all—it’s like you’re speakin’ of kin, not books." he shook his head slowly, fondness caught somewhere behind his ribs. "i think you’re right, though. the old stories, the superstitions… they make up the marrow of who we are, whether we like it or not. my nan used to say the gods whispered their truths into the ears of fools first, just to see if any wise man was listenin’.” his gaze flicked to her, lingering, before it dropped back to the favour still tucked at his wrist. he pressed it gently into his doublet now, careful with it, as though the cloth might unravel if touched too harshly.

"and this—" his voice dropped slightly, tone steady, quieter now. "well. that’s no small gesture. you’ve a way of speakin’ that makes it sound like magic still belongs in the world, fiadh." her name came softer now, without title, almost like a breath. "i don’t know if i ever quite believed it, not truly. but there’s somethin’ in how you talk about the soul of a thing that makes me think… maybe i’ve just been lookin’ in the wrong places all this time."

he allowed himself a short laugh at her explanation of the favour, though his thumb still brushed its edge as though grounding himself. "aye, always the romantic, aren’t you?" he teased gently, but not unkindly, his expression creasing with fond amusement. "i’ve no shame in admittin’ you’ve the better of me there. they tried their best to make sure boys like me kept their heads full of land and steel, not ribbons and poetry. bit hard to think on the soul of a thing when they’re watchin’ how you look at another lad, aye? gods forbid you have an interest in anything other than wrestlin' and bloodshed."

his brow furrowed slightly, then softened as he stepped just a little closer, careful with the space between them. "i won’t lie and say i think i’ll be seein’ the library at wayfarer’s rest any time soon. not proper, anyway. not as… well, not as family." he glanced away then, voice still light but edged faintly with something more fragile. "but i’d like to see it, all the same, one day. i’d be glad of it, truly. and if you’ll have them, i’ll send along your way what we’ve got tucked away at stone hedge—there’s a few histories of house bracken no one’s touched in years, and a dozen more full of names and squabbles no one remembers. you’d like ‘em. and you ought to be askin’ the other riverlords too—half of ‘em have scrolls mouldin’ in their cellars they don’t even know they’ve got."

he let the thought linger a moment, before catching her eyes again. "i mean it. it’s good work, what you’re doin’. preservin’ the soul of it all. makes me think there might be a bit o’ hope left, yet." he didn’t say what for. didn’t have to. it hung there, soft and unsaid between them, like a ribbon on the wind. "what've you worked on as your latest victim?"

[jalabharmooton]

Lord Jalabhar Mooton tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as Ronan’s fiery words filled the air. The Bracken’s indignation was as familiar as it was unyielding, a testament to the Riverlands’ stubborn heart. Setting his goblet down with care, Jalabhar met Ronan’s gaze, his tone even, but edged with intrigue. “A toll on trade routes?” Jalabhar mused, his words slow, measured. “Bold, Ronan. I’ll grant ye that. It’s a move that’ll rattle their coffers, aye, but it’ll rattle others too—Tyroshi merchants, Braavosi lenders, even Gulltown’s dockmasters. Ye want the lions to pay, but mark me, there’s risk in squeezing the wrong purse.” He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes gleaming in the firelight. “Still, I like it. Just remember—when ye rattle a cage, ye best be ready for the beast to strike back.”

Straightening, Jalabhar crossed his arms, the flickering fire casting shifting shadows across his face. “As for trust—aye, ye’re right, it’s no coin to spend. But don’t dismiss it too easily. A chain, as ye put it, is forged with care. Every link, every bond, strengthens our hold. Tyland Lannister may dismiss our queen, but he can’t dismiss his own people. Trade tolls will hurt, but whispers—whispers of unrest in Lannisport, of discontent in their ports—those can break him from within. We’ll forge trust where it matters, with those who can’t afford his pride.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing, his voice soft but deliberate. “Aidan’s return… aye, he’s her heir, gods help us all. He shouldn't be allowed to go anywhere. He wanders too far, gets some lord's daughter pregnant, we've a matter on our hands.” And there was the matter of him raising an army, while he didn't seem the type, Aegon the Unworthy also didn't want the throne until it was in front of him.

Jalabhar poured himself another measure of wine, his movements deliberate, his gaze fixed on Ronan. “Ye’ve the fire, Ronan, and I respect it. We’ll push Gulltown where it hurts, find the cracks in Tyland’s armor, and if need be, turn rivers into chains and roads into barriers.” He lifted his goblet, a faint smile playing on his lips. “To stubborn bastards, aye. But also to patience. It’s a weapon sharper than steel if wielded wisely.”

[ronanbrackens]

ᕯ

ronan’s jaw clenched as he listened, though his eyes stayed fixed on the amber liquid swirling in his glass. jalabhar was right, and it grated him something awful. there was a fine line between bold and reckless, and he knew he was forever pacing along it, daring himself to fall over. but he'd been a soldier too long to ignore risk—he knew the smell of it, could sense the way it coiled at the edges of good plans, whispering warnings. aye, tolls would rattle more than just the lions. they’d rattle half the realm if he weren’t careful. still, letting the west walk unchallenged—that'd fester worse. he chuckled, though it lacked humour.

“i hear ye, ja. truly. but i’ve had my fill of westermen treatin the trident like a bloody passage for their gold, while the rest of us are meant to curtsy and nod. i’m not squeezin the wrong purse, not if i can help it. but if some of their coin gets pinched on the way to lannisport, i won’t be cryin into me cup over it either.”

he turned his back to the hearth, shoulders squared, arms crossing once again. “as for the prince,” he began, his voice dropping lower, losing that sharp edge. “it’s not him i worry over. he’s green in some ways, but he’s got a spine to him. he won’t bend easy, and that’s both the gift and the curse of any prince. but i think he'd see the webs bein spun around him, and look da the other way.” ronan's gaze flicked to the window, where the glass glimmered with the last licks of sunset. “ye know as well as i do what kind of folk thrive in the silence between siblings. all it takes is a whisper in the wrong ear, a soft suggestion to nudge one against the other.” he paused, fingers tapping idly on the rim of his cup.

“they’ll use him, ja. the lions, the vale, the crownlands—it doesn’t matter. some’ll want to lift him up not because they believe in him, but because it makes her look weak. and once that starts, it’s like blood in water.” he turned back, his gaze meeting jalabhar’s fully now, the weight of his thoughts finally bearing down on him. he hesitated, and gods, did that sting. asking for help didn’t come easy. never had. “look, there’s somethin else i need to talk to ya about,” he said, voice thickening around the words - each word he uttered sounded as though it were building in his throat, the struggle of asking for help was something deeply installed in him.

“somethin serious. and i can’t have the blackwoods findin out about it.” his lips pressed into a thin line before he took a long sip of the whiskey, letting the burn settle him. “i need your help, ja,” he said finally, quieter now. “and i hate sayin it, but i can’t keep this covered on me own.” he didn’t explain—not yet—but there was no jest in his tone, no bluster. only the kind of solemn certainty that came when a man realised he was holding a blade by the wrong end. only a man who had, by putting these words into existence, risked ruining himself and his position to ensure his little sister remained safe as she walked through the halls of whatever keep they traveled to. he was meant to be drinking with the rest of them. meant to be laughing.

or at least listening, civil and careful as he’d been all evening. and he had been—he knew how to hold his tongue, knew how to nod when he ought, how to make himself part of the furniture rather than a thorn in anyone’s side. especially hers. especially his. and yet, despite all that effort, here he was, exiled by his own restless mind - and so he found himself with the master of whispers, plotting. scheming. "but i'll also be frank in tellin' you that it'll ask you to put your own relationship wit someone to the side. if you don't reckon that'll be possible, we'll leave it here and i'll find a way." his mind went to garrick cargyll, who he knew he already needed to speak with.

[ronanbrackens]

what: open starter where: during the verdant concord of the reach, ronan bracken ends up outside in the gardens at dusk, after the debates have ended. this is set after knowing who is who in regards to involvement in the six. who: 0/2

the only son of stone hedge had always liked the dusk, when the world softened just enough for a man to let his shoulders drop and pretend, for a moment, that everything wasn’t sharp and loud and bloody. the gardens of highgarden had changed since he last saw them—for some reason he thought there was more marble, more gold, the kind of ostentation that made his skin itch—but the air still smelled of lavender and warm earth, and that was something.

it reminded him of stone hedge in the summer, when the wind caught the heather in the hills and made it ripple like a tide - not that there was much of that left in some areas. not after the war; and the return to the fertile rolling fields of the reach only served as more of a reminder that there was still more work to be done.

as though the turrets of stone hedge itself had not remained blackened with ash, a vivid reminder against an endless blue sky.

he lit the half-burnt roll of sweetleaf he'd recieved from a servant and leaned back against the stone railing, letting the smoke curl lazy from his lips. his body ached in the way it always did after long hours of one's mind constant being at work. a man could sit in those council halls, listen to all the talk of unity and mercy, and still feel the urge to break someone's jaw or want to simply say none of this really mattered- and have to completely ignore it, for hours.

unity, they said. justice. as if they'd only just discovered the words, like children playing at court. he took another drag, exhaled slow. maybe it was better they played. easier to stomach than the truth; there remained the all too heavy reminded of what his allies had done to the lands of the rivers, and yet, a part of him could not help but sneer in remembering that rhaenyra too had ignored the blackwood's call for help. that daemon targaryen had decided to wage his war from harrehal. they had been a playing field for all the men sat around the table, now discussing justice and peace.

there would be no justice, nor peace, for the children who suffocated in the fumes in their collapsing huts - not even given the mercy of being incinerated. he heard someone approach, steps soft on gravel, and didn’t bother looking. if it was someone important, they’d make themselves known. if it was someone foolish, he’d deal with it. "heard a man say the gods be watching these talks closely," he muttered, eyes still on the horizon, where the sky was bleeding into violet. "if that’s true, they must be fuckin’ bored."

[briannabrackens]

♣️

brianna’s breath caught in her throat as she watched him turn away, the stiff lines of his back more punishing than any words could be. she knew that stance—knew it from when they were children, when he’d stood like that after da’s rages, when the only way ronan could keep the world from caving in was to turn his face from it. but this time, it was her fault, her secret that was about to twist that rigidity into something irreversible. she pressed her palms hard against her knees, grounding herself, and began to speak, voice low and shaky. she needed to grow up, didn't she? this is what grown ups did; they admitted their mistakes.

"look, it’s not about some lad, alright? if that’s where your mind’s goin’, just stop already!" her voice raised in what sounded like petulent irritation and anger, and yet it felt as though her pride had been jabbed at with a hot iron poker. "i’m not about to lift out my skirts and pop out yer niece or nephew, and i’m not runnin’ off with no sellsword, i promise ye that, so don’t go gettin’ your smallclothes in a twist." her words came quick, sharper than she meant, but she needed to say that first—needed him to know this wasn’t some reckless love affair or foolishness with her heart. she would never do such a thing, not her; she had been raised better than to allow her parents and her kin to ever worry about such a thing. but somewhere, a small voice whispered to her that this was different. deeper. darker.

it would have been easier to admit she were with child then to admit she had done something a blackwood knew about. she swallowed again, the memory suddenly thick in her mouth, like the taste of copper and rot.

“it was a few months ago, in king’s landin’ during one of the balls. it were late. willow blackwood had gone out without tellin’ no one, and i—i don’t even know what drew me out there wit this dornish lady, but when we found her there was already so much chaos, you know? dark corner of the garden, some drunken bastard was all over her, hands where they shouldn’t be, barkin’ nonsense, smellin’ like ale and piss. i didn’t think, i just ran at him, tried to pull him off her, shout for help—but it all went to shit. he swung at multiple of us, and at her, i don’t even know. there was a struggle, and then someone—i don’t know who exactly, ronan—someone hit him from behind.” she quietly rested her hands on the nape of her neck, almost watching the quiet realisation sweep over his body as he remained facing the wall.

"i ain't ever seen somethin' like that, seen men behave that way. he was really hurtin' her, and i just...even if it was her, i couldn't just watch it." her hands trembled now. she wrapped her arms tight around herself, curling inward as if to keep the memory contained. “he fell onto the floor and he didn’t get back up. not even groanin’. just… dead. like that. and i wanted to go for help, swear it on the mother’s name, i did. i said i were gonna call you, said my brother's hand and he'll know what to do, but they told me not to 'cause it'll make the issue bigger. we were all tryin' not to yell, and we were all so panicked. i was terrified they’d think i did it, or she did, or we both did. we were in the targaryen’s bloody city, ronan. if the wrong person found out, it would’ve been a whole thing; it looked like some ambush. yeah he attacked one woman, but who the fuck would believe he attacked six? i started thinkin, gods, i stepped out with a dornish woman...when have i ever spoken to a dornish woman? that'd look suspicious, and-" her voice grew dry, her throat horse, and she momentarily coughed into the back of her sleeve.

"i already knew you were tryin’ to smooth things with jaehaerys 'cause of what i said last time when i called him queer, and i didn’t want to add more to your plate.”

her voice cracked at that, the guilt pressing harder against her ribs. “so i helped. i helped move him. we dragged his body onto a cart and down to the sewers, near the back where it stinks the worst. the idea was—i dunno, maybe the rats’d take him, or the water. i didn’t look back. i couldn’t. but now there’s talk. word’s going round that a peake lord’s missin’. and i know it’s him, ronan. i know it.” brianna’s shoulders sank as the weight of it finally broke over her like a wave. she dared a glance at him, though his back was still to her. she hated herself for what she was about to say next.

“on the way back, i ran into garrick. he saw me in the hallway and basically asked what the fuck i was doin’ out so late, not literally but basically that, anyway i panicked. said i’d gone galavanting wit the dornish woman and we got robbed. i tried to suggest we should cover it up and say i was wit him and well, he agreed—he don’t know what happened, but he’s suspicious. didn't believe a word out me mouth, kept givin' me that look. then i went to fiona’s rooms, told her the same story, didn't drop garrick's name but it’d match anyway. and i thought maybe, just maybe, that’d be the end of it."

her lips trembled, but she forced the words out. “only… i lost my necklace, ronan. the big one. the one with the B. it’s gone. it were round my neck when it all happened, i know that. and it weren’t there when i got back. and people saw me wearin’ it earlier that night. they’ll know. if they find it with the body, they’ll know it was me. nobody else lost anything, just me." the room was silent but for the crackle of the fire, and brianna suddenly felt like a child again, like the first time she’d broken a vase and tried to hide it behind the curtain, only this was no vase. this was murder. this was politics. this was blackmail, waiting to be shaped. it was in that moment brianna realised she was not as mature, or as sophisticated as she thought herself to be; for the panic seemed to edge into her, like the walls closing in, and suddenly she felt her voice crack and her bottom lip begin to wobble.

she did not know when she started to cry. all she knew was that she was angry for herself for crying; no matter how much her sleeve rubbed at her cheeks trying to mop them all up, they kept coming as she continued to talk, hiccuping.

“and willow knows, ronan. she knows everythin’. she said she wouldn’t say naught, and she looked just as shaken as me, but she’s a blackwood. i helped her, i did, but we’re still brackens to her. and if ever there came a day they needed somethin’ to bring you down, well… what better way than sayin’ you protected your murderin’ sister and let a peake rot in a sewer? the queen's gonna want an alliance wit the reach, right? how we gonna get that if this comes out?” her voice softened then, almost a whisper. “i didn’t mean for it to go this far. i thought i was helpin’. i didn’t think—i just… i didn’t want you to lose all of it, ronan. not for me.” she took in a shaking breath and closed her eyes. “so what do i do? do i stay at home? can you get into trouble for this, even if it was me?”

[ronanbrackens]

ᕯ

ronan bracken had never felt so utterly winded in his life, not by steel or storm or speech—but by the pitiful truth his sister had just spilled before him. at first, he’d stood stock still, a statue forged in disbelief, jaw clenched so tight it was a miracle his teeth didn’t shatter. then came the pacing. one step, then two, then back again, hands twitching at his sides like they longed for something to grip—her shoulders, perhaps, to shake some sense into her. or maybe his own hair, to tug out the frustration brimming beneath his skin. the air in the chamber grew thick, thick with heat from the hearth and the sheer pressure building behind his brow.

"you did all this, because willow blackwood ran her mouth and got boxed in the mouth?" the laughter which slipped from his mouth, etched in hues of disbelief, were admittedly cruel; as though he could not believe what he was hearing. he laughed at her. they were raised better they knew better than to ever risk their own back for the sake of them. "seven hells, brianna. seven FUCKING hells woman. what the fuck? this? FOR A BLACKWOOD?"

“you mean to tell me,” he began, voice tight, low, like a rope fraying thread by thread, “that out of all of ‘em—all the names you just dropped, all the gods-forsaken idiots who should’ve known better—you’re the one who lost the fucking necklace?” he didn’t look at her. he couldn’t. instead, he dragged a hand down his face, the pads of his fingers scraping against days-old stubble as if that would help ground him. “and not just any necklace. no. it had to be yours. the one with the b on it. the only thing that could ever tie a name to what happened. to you.” his steps quickened. wood creaked beneath his boots, but he didn’t stop moving. forward. back. forward again. a lion trapped in a cage far too small, the bars closing in on all sides. it was evidence. it was identification.

his chest rose and fell with short, sharp breaths, like his lungs refused to keep up with his spiralling thoughts. to say he were fuming, would be nothing short of a gross understatement; it had been years since the pair had resorted to bellowing at one another, even more years since they had pushed and shoved like children, but in this moment, it felt as though time had blurred. frustration, and stress, and sheer disbelief seemed to engulf him and no matter how much he attempted to come back up to the surface to take a breath, he submerged once again.

“i am—” he stopped, turned, pointed a hand toward her though his gaze still didn’t meet hers, “—i am holding this family together with both bleeding hands. do you understand that, brianna? i am in riverrun playing the good little hand, keeping peace with snakes in silk, trying to convince the court we’re not all traitors who ought to be thrown to the wolves. and all i’ve ever asked of you—all—is that you use YOUR FUCKING HEAD.” there was no softness in his voice. no older brother warmth. no kindness to temper the fury laced beneath every word. just sharp, precise disappointment—disappointment that stung like a slap across the face.

“oi, forget it. fiona knew something's happened. don’t even try denyin’ it. she'd know something was up with you. and garrick—he’s many things, but a blind fool he ain’t. you don’t think he noticed? of course he did, he knows the two of us like the back of his hand. you did this on his turf. and what of willow? she’s the one holdin’ the cards now, ain’t she? she’s the one with the truth in her hands, and no matter what the blackwoods say or how they try to dress it up, they’ll always have somethin’ to fall back on—because of you. if she goes down, so will you - so will we.” ronan finally stopped. he turned to her, eyes narrowed like slits of flint.

“you think they won’t use it? you think they won’t wait for the perfect moment, whoever in seven hells you decided to take a fucking mud bath with? when we’re exposed—when i’m at my weakest—and bring it forward? they’d see us disgraced, cast out, fuckin’ dancing to their tune. and all it takes is one bit of evidence. just the one. your necklace.”

his voice dropped, but it was no reprieve. the quiet was worse. heavier. cutting. “i don’t care what excuses you have. i don’t want to hear about feelings or how it just happened or who made you feel seen or whatever poetic bullshit you’ve got rattlin’ in your head. you are not twelve years old anymore, brianna. how long—how long—do i have to worry about you not usin’ common sense?” and in that harsh moment of anger, he regretted stalling talks of her marriage; regretted the fact it had ended up with him as her guardian, rather than some man needing to deal with her softness. her stupidity. if he had ever known this was the way their fates would end up, he would have married her off so long ago. the thought came and went, and the fire crackled behind him, casting long shadows on the stone as the guilt sunk deep within him for even thinking such a thing.

his own made him look older, harder, like the boy she used to follow around the halls of stone hedge had vanished entirely. “you think i want to speak to you like this?” he spat, tone sharp. “i don’t. gods, brianna, i don’t like talking to you like this. but i’ve got blackwoods lookin to be whispering in the queen’s ear, or the stark king's ear to the north, i’ve got tion fuckin’ peake sniffin’ around lookin’ for the uncle you decided to help kill, and now this. this—you—could be the thing that breaks our back.” he began to pace again, as though standing still would mean drowning in the enormity of it all. at her question whether she should just return home, he let out an audible angry, fustrated groan, taking a moment to put his hand to his temple.

“you stay home more than usual and you’ll look suspicious. no. no, you’ll act as you always have. go as long as you usually go, and stay as long as you usually stay. smile. laugh. gossip. be a menace. make them think nothin’s changed." in his mind, all he thought about what how none of that group could ever know that brianna had disclosed what happened to ronan. they needed to be entirely ripped from their lives, from the root; any further association would end up being a vine which would wrap around their necks. he dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply through his nose. “we need to get that necklace back. before it ends up in someone’s palm it ought not be in. someone with a grudge and a long memory.”

he looked at her then, properly, his gaze hard as stone. “i won’t comfort you. not tonight. you don’t deserve it. what you do deserve is the truth: you’ve put us all in danger. and gods help you, brianna, if you don’t fix this - i'll get you married to the ugliest, fattest cockroach of a man. on the gods i will.” he crossed the room, opening his door abruptly with a volume that was enough to startle the guards and the servants on the other side. "call for jalabhar mooton." he yelled down the apartments toward his page boy, who was looking ready to finally be digging into his dinner. "now, boy - tell him lord bracken needs his urgent presence."

[narniachronicles]

J U S T

definition - based on or behaving according to what is morally right and fair.

origin - late Middle English: via Old French from Latin justus, from jus ‘law, right’.

[hugovance]

If Hugo Vance were asked to be frank he would speak over the crowd with contempt and weariness. War had turned the tide in the young man who left a green boy eager to prove something and for what? They all lost their way and found it in others. He would never follow, fight, or let his own die for false hopes and promises. Still with such resolve he could not find peace. Being in this grand hall unarmed made him feel naked. But was of the Rivers and Rivermen fought with more than their swords.

The fitted, silver doublet clung sharp to his frame, structured but not as stiff as his spin as he sat straight in his seat. Pale gold embroidery climbed the seams in delicate curling patterns—stylized river reeds stitched in narrow lines. It was formal enough for a Concord, elegant without being flamboyant. Handsome. Purposeful. Just like the man wearing it. If only there was a shade to convey boredom and distrust.

No matter how he tried he would not be able to ignore the presence of Ronan Bracken, the impossibility strengthened by the other Lord speaking to him as if they were strangers. And perhaps they were. The memories which flooded his mind felt as though they belonged to a stranger. To boys he knew and then who insister they were the same.

Hugo looked him and he searched for the mask, for the smile that would hide any feelings he didn't want to bring it to the surface. Instead he took a long drink from his cup and nodded his head. "That's true. Better than most regions who let chaos control the seats. Makes a better dinner if you recall the lion Prince pulling out the pirates eye." Hugo took another drink. He was the head of a house. A lord. And lords set the example for their house and men.

Still. When looked at Ronan something in his flickered, it was a barely there look of guardedness. There was no smile or song on his lips. Hugo brushed his blond hair away nodded his head at the question. "Lord Brax, we have managed to maintain a connection. Odd I know but I know what and who the man is, there are no surprises there." It was a slight masked by nothing more than the polite tone he used for Ronan.

"And what of you, Ronnie, have stayed close to your odd friends?"

[ronanbrackens]

ᕯ

ronan hated the way hugo could just sit there, hands still, spine straight, as though none of it touched him. like he’d peeled off the skin of the past and stepped out clean, as though no ash clung to his hair, no soot pressed behind his eyes. he wore silver and pale gold like he was born to it, like lordship had settled onto his shoulders as easily as breath. something in that—no, everything in that—sent a slow sinking through ronan’s gut, as if the weight of what they’d lost was only now beginning to register in full. he leaned back in his chair a little, fingers curling around the stem of his goblet though he still hadn’t drunk.

"better dinner, aye," he said lowly, voice steady despite the tightness behind his ribs. "depends on who’s doin’ the eatin’, though, doesn’t it?"

he cast a glance down the long table—banter, laughter, polite flirtations between half-familiar faces. riverlanders, some of whom had buried sons and others who had only just begun to count the cost. ronan’s gaze drifted back to hugo, and for a moment, he allowed the silence to stretch between them. not unkind, just tired. "i was wonderin'," he said at last, fingers tightening slightly, with each syllable that passed. he had heard it spoken aloud in the sept that guilt found a way to bubble to the surface, even if it were not from the tongue; and here he was, feeling as though he could hardly control his own body due to the growing feeling of numbness.

"if you’d heard anything on the westerland front. there's been talk, here and there, about some reluctance among their lords. lions don’t lie down easily, and fewer still’ll serve a queen who bleeds. do they seem settled in it to you?" he tilted his head slightly, as though the question were a casual thing. it wasn’t. of course it wasn’t. he studied hugo’s face then—still sharp as ever, still unreadable. why did you have to look like nothin’ touched you? why can’t i tell if you’re angry? ronan didn’t let it show. he couldn’t. not here.

"i imagine you’d know," he added. the words felt like gravel on his tongue, each one sharp. because now, suddenly, he knew who hugo meant. and gods, how his stomach twisted at the realisation—how stupid he’d been not to see it sooner.

the greens. of course. the same ones who had cracked them down the middle. ronan looked down at his cup again, jaw tight. he thinks i’m still with him, the dragon king. and he’s right. but it wasn’t worth this. it had never been worth this. he said nothing of that though. he just talked. just held his voice flat and civil, and prayed his eyes didn’t betray him. it were something he were entrusted with, dealing with new valyria as the main contact in the riverlands from the valyrian court - but why?

they all knew why it had to be ronan who spoke with jaehaerys targaryen.

[ronanbrackens]

who: @hugovance when and where: the verdant concord, within the glittering grand hall of highgarden, the riverlanders remain together across a long table where multiple people shifted seats throughout the night. context: "but even if a traitor may mend...i knew one who did."

ronan had never quite understood how a hall could feel too large and too close all at once until now. highgarden’s grand hall glittered with candlelight and gold, the vaulted ceilings echoing with laughter and clinking goblets, but across the long table where the riverlanders had gathered—fragments of a once tighter braid—he could not help but feel the press of silence where once there had been ease. when he’d slid into the open seat, it had not been calculation but impulse. he should have stayed put. he should have known better. he always had where hughie was concerned.

lord hugo vance. it still didn’t sit right in his mouth; it left a bitter aftermath of betrayal, of treachery, and of a sense of shame he would never truly be able to swallow down.

the wine was good—of course it was; nothing else would do in highgarden—but ronan hadn’t tasted it. his cup remained half-full, untouched as the low murmur of riverlander voices filled the space between old loyalties and newer alliances. a few seats down, lady genna blanetree was saying something about stormlander steel, and lord charlton laughed too loudly at his own jest. but ronan’s eyes had drifted again—always, it seemed—towards the man opposite him, whose hands were far too still for someone meant to be relaxed.

they were all pretending, weren’t they? the riverlanders, still clumped together though their banners had flown at odds not long past. talking of harvests and bridges as though some of them hadn’t spent the better part of two years trying to tear each other to pieces. but such was the game now. smiles passed down the long table like sweetmeats: dry, courteous, palatable. ronan knew how to play his part. he’d learned it at his father’s knee, and again, more bitterly, in the firelight of campaigns he didn’t care to recall. "hugo," he said evenly, tilting his head just slightly, as though the name didn’t thrum in his ears like a bell rung wrong. "i was told you spent the spring along the blue fork. still flooding every year, is it?"

he hadn’t meant it to come out so stiff. the rhythm of easy talk wasn’t there anymore. there had been a time when they’d made each other laugh so hard they couldn’t breathe, faces red, doubled over in mud or smoke or the dark halls of their fathers’ keeps. but those days had been shovelled over, buried under choices neither of them could unmake. ronan gave a smile—not too warm, not too false—and set his goblet down with care. hughie hadn’t changed, not where it counted. still had that way of watching people like he was weighing them, like he could see straight through courtesy to the thing beneath. and ronan… well. he wasn’t sure he liked what hughie might see in him now.

"they've sat us all like good little cousins, ain't they?" ronan added lightly, a slight chuckle slipping from him that was fuelled more by nerves than by anything genuine. there was hardly a way he could bring himself to laugh around hughie, not for a number of years now - the guilt would forever remain etched upon every part of him. it would hurt less to be flogged, and actually bleed for it - his knuckles were pale where they rested on the table. his words came with the curve of a grin, but he watched hughie carefully. not hoping for a laugh—he wouldn’t insult him like that—but maybe a flicker. something. he wanted to say more. gods, how he wanted to. he wanted to reach across the space between them, say i was wrong, i was a coward, i miss you, and mean it until his voice cracked.

he wanted to tell hughie the truth of those days—what he had done, what it had cost. but he couldn’t. not yet. not while the table watched. not when civility was the only thing keeping the bridge from burning for good. they played along for the sake of their people, for the sake of comfort between their sisters, but here they were when the music died down. hugo vance and ronan bracken, at a table that they once would have made their own. "do you still have those westerland connections? who is it again....brax?"

[conallblackbar]

it was a relief to conall that ronan didn't want to push further on the matter of tyrells and tullys tonight. the conversation would need come before he returned to the reach, but it need not be now. though he were not a man of the riverlands, there was a part of him that felt as though coming here was something akin to a homecoming. it was here, after all, he had found himself after the fracturing of house blackbar.

he didn't respond to ronan right away, taking another swig of his drink with a look on his face that bore nothing in it but guilt, plain to see. he'd said worse things about abigail himself, but always when she had been alive. he'd often said them to ronan, even, bitter and slurred, because ronan had been there to see the whole thing unspool. he knew about the fights, both publicly and behind closed doors, was the first conall had told when he suspected her adultery and when he had committed it himself. he knew about it all, because he was one of the few people conall had never hidden it from. but abigail was no longer here to defend herself, and that made the whole discussion sit uncomfortably.

he wanted to say she hadn't always been like that, that the start had been good, but even that felt like a lie. abigail had always been a double edged sword, someone he had felt he had to walk on eggshells around. the real difference was, at the start he'd been happy to tread lightly. he couldn't pinpoint when that had worn off.

"well, whatever she was and however she got that way, her sister wants to see me held to rights for it." he shrugged, as though it was nothing, but it wasn't. not to conall. "spoke to her a bit in the westerlands. she made it plain she wants to see me face punishment for how it all went down." he didn't elaborate on it, though there was more he could have said. ronan did not need to know willow wylde wished to see conall dead.

the sombre tone of the conversation was dismissed with the sound of ronan's belch, and conall physically flinched as the stench of it hit him full in the face. he grimaced, wafting a hand in front of his nose to try and disperse it. "fucking stinks," he turned his head, leaning back to put distance between them. "like something crawled into your gut and died there."

there was more going unsaid than simply the matter of the riverlands crown, with the vances at the centre of it. conall didn't press on it, did not even know how to. perhaps he would have, if this conversation had been taking place on the deck of one of his ships with the stars hanging in the sky above them, or if they had not already agreed that certain topics were off the table tonight. however, he found himself unable to fully brush past it, either. it was hugo vance where his thoughts lingered, and the way the two of them had once been thick as thieves until they were suddenly not. though conall didn't speak, he looked at ronan for a long moment, blue eyes clearer than they had any right to be given the amount they were putting away between them.

then he smiled, in a gentle, tentative sort of way, and nodded his head. "yeah, i'm sure you will, mate." as though there was nothing else to it. maybe there wasn't, a simple parting of men who had been boys together, but found themselves outgrowing each other as they aged. such things happened, though rarely when both parties called themselves clover.

if there was one argument that did not need explaining, it was conall's with his brother. since their father had died, they had not managed to stand under the same roof without coming to blows, the rage ross provoked in conall utterly unique, something none other was able to recreate. "i don't know anything about how he's doing, to be honest with you." he did not intend for the sharpness in his voice to be there, the defensiveness that always reared his head when ross was the topic of conversation, but it was there regardless. "as fat and miserable as ever, i suppose. caitie is good, though. was out to see me in the shields before i came here."

he ran a hand over his jaw, the stubble that lingered there scraping under his palm. "the shield isles are beautiful. wind's cleaner there or something, and its nice being surrounded by the sea." since he was a boy, conall had loved the ocean, something that hadn't changed even as the rest of his world had. "feels like i should be there more than i am, though, but there's just always something pulling me away. you know how it is." he was new to being a ruling lord, still not having struck the balance that those who were born for that seemed to manage. it didn't help, he supposed, that the shields didn't feel like a home to him. he had his keep on oakenshield, starting to bear the tell-tale signs that conall blackbar lived there, but often, it felt like a lonely place, with none but he and those who worked there to fill it. it still felt like something he was borrowing from someone else, that he'd give it back sooner or later. not home, just where he'd ended up, though he did not know if there was a home out there for him anymore. "i'll be back on the seas sooner rather than later. once i've tied up the loose ends here. think i'm overdue a long voyage."

[ronanbrackens]

ᕯ

ronan’s face twitched the moment conall's tone shifted—sharp, swift, like steel drawn too fast. he pulled the sort of slight face that only those who knew him well could catch, a faint narrowing of the eyes, the corners of his mouth tightening ever so subtly. he didn’t say anything, but the message was clear enough: that defensive so soon? over ross? bloody hell. seemed the blackbar brothers were dead set on drinking themselves into an early grave of spite, and ronan wasn’t fool enough to try play peacemaker. it wasn’t his fight, nor his place, and conall knew that. still, there was a weight to it. a kind of sorrow he felt but wouldn’t voice, not tonight. brotherhood mattered. but so did knowing when to keep one’s gob shut.

he reached forward and began scooping roast potatoes onto his plate as the serving girl passed, the steam rising warm against his face. he slathered them in thick, melting butter and cracked sea salt over the lot, his mouth already watering. at least some things in this world are simple, he thought, popping one into his mouth and chewing with the kind of thoughtful slowness that suggested he was paying attention to more than just his meal. he listened as conall shifted the talk towards the sea. ronan gave a low hum of interest, resting his elbows on the edge of the table, one hand absently rotating his cup.

“i’ll say this much,” he murmured, licking salt from his fingers, “i’ve never understood the call to the sea. not properly. not like you do. me, i was born for the land. rivers, hills, proper stone and soil. the sort of wild that gets under your fingernails, aye?” his eyes glazed over a little as he thought about home.

“the brackens aren’t sea folk, you know that. never have been. we’re trees and earth and bog. we’re horses and blades and muddy fields that don’t let you go easy. but—” he paused, as though surprised by his own willingness to admit it, then shrugged, “i’d not mind trying it. just once. a voyage. something mad. take me out past the isles, past anything i’ve known. only with you though. you’re the only sailor i trust not to get us dashed on the rocks with your head up your arse.” for he knew connie was a serious sailor; for all the booze and liquor in the world never made it to his lips when he were at the mast.

he smirked, tapping the edge of his plate with a fork, then looked across at his friend, more serious now. “truth be told, if life’d turned out different, i might’ve been a maester. citadel and all that. always had a thirst for knowing. maps, old books, accounts of long-dead voyages. i could lose hours in that sort of thing. i like knowing why things are the way they are. why the sea churns like it does, why one coast thrives and another starves.” he lifted his goblet again, took a measured sip. “but i was the only son. you know how it goes. duty and all that. akin to being fucked up the arse.”

his fingers drummed softly on the wood. “tell me about your voyages, then. the real ones, not just the bloody logistics. what’s it like when you’re far enough out you can’t see land? does the air taste different? do your thoughts go quiet?” he sounded genuinely curious, the way he always did when he encountered something unfamiliar but worthy. this was the reason the man had a very pronounced, specific interest; ancient laws from across all the realms, surveying the similarities and differences. what changed, what continuity remained; even in the most subtle of ways. only a few knew of his specific interest, as most would look upon the man and assume he would not know such things - that he were not academic.

“i think i’d like that kind of silence, if i’m honest. something about being that far removed—it’s not fear i’d feel. not even awe. just... peace, maybe. and if it’s not peaceful, then at least it’s honest.” he leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out and gesturing for another helping of the potatoes. “i know it’s mad, but if i ever get married, i want the stag on a boat. not one of them luxury ones with the silk sheets and gold knobs, no. proper boat. salty deck, sea air, maybe a storm to spice things up. figure if the wedding don’t happen, i’ll have had the better part of it anyway.”