the rot blooms

[rottedhearts]

ROTTEDHEARTS  ;  the  skies  darkening  with  your  arrival  /  blood  spilling  from  your  mouth  as  you  smile  /  a  gentle  press  of  your  lips  against  your  child's  forehead  /  standing  tall,  eyes  bright,  despite  the  crowd  baring  their  teeth  /  screams  drowned  by  the  roaring  wind  /  digging  with  your  hands  until  you  can  cradle  the  rot  in  your  heart

ruling lord akira blackwood

ruling liege dexian corbray

princess hira targaryen

lady myria bracken

[firedreamt]

the   relief   which   blooms   within   this   private   chamber   resonates   near   palpable.   laughter   spreads   as   delicious   as   jam   and   margarine,   and   for   a   moment,   the   serious   consequences   reign   nowhere   near   them.   even   as   mordhred's   smile   fades   into   pensive   contentment,   and   akira   searches   their   features,   it   causes   their   pulse   to   skip   a   beat.        “        once   i   was   brave.   i   slaughtered   beasts   in   my   youth   none   in   the   seven   kingdoms   would   dare   to   breathe   against.        ”        a   perfunctory   sniff,   a   settling   in   the   chair.   it   is   as   though   akira   still   awaits   something   from   them,   and   they   picture   ren's   face,   and   those   similarities   once   more.   they   think   of   house   bracken,   of   how   someone   else   must   know   within   there,   the   hypocrisy   of   such   a   statement   when   betha   rivers   is   alive   and   well   and   knighted.   yes,   akira   had   lied.   but   who   wouldn't? “        i   sure   didn't   fucking   believe   it   then,   no,   but   i   believe   it   now.        ”        the   room   enters   an   almost   dream   -   like   quality.   they   peer   at   akira's   hand   untormented   by   keeping   his   face   propped   up,   and   then   they   are   hesitant,   and   reach   for   it.   the   hand   which   touches   the   favour,   mordhred   brings   down   from   his   chest.   he   realises   then   that   he   shakes,   shakes   with   the   softness   of   his   name   in   akira's   mouth.        “        the   gods   know   i've   failed   as   a   father   myself.   lied,   cheated,   swindled   for   my   boy.   yours   …   has   much   greater   consequence   than   mine.   but,   well.   if   the   brackens   reveal   it,   and   house   blackwood   falls   to   ruins   …   he   need   not   be   part   of   it,   and   neither   do   you.        ” was   this   even   possible?   would   my   father   offer   such   a   shield   of   protection?   am   i   being   ridiculous   and   being   carried   away   with   dreams   of   boyhood?        “        there's   three   options.   to   keep   lying,   to   let   your   house   be   felled,   or   to   give   ren   a   better,   firmer   name.   let   him   be   someone's   spouse   …   or   …   someone   else's   son.        ”        they   swallow.   it   feels   as   if   their   heart   might   take   flight. “        and   …   well,   y'know.        ”        a   gesture   with   his   chin.   a   shakier   laugh.        “        i'm   rather   fond   of   the   lad.        ”

[rottedhearts]

soft  warmth  blooms.  it  has  yet  to  stop.  it  ---  it  matters  that  mordhred  believes  it.  that  for  all  akira's  failings  in  his  youth,  and  all  the  failings  to  ren,  that  mordhred  believes  he  is  the  parent  he  couldn't  be  decades  ago.  and  if  he  dared  dwell  on  why  it  mattered  ---  well.  he's  dropped  enough  surprises  for  one  day.

and  yet  it  was  mordhred's  turn.  the  other  liege  reaches  for  akira,  and  the  ruling  blackwood  blinks  in  confusion.  but  he  relinquishes  both  his  hands,  despite  the  pang  in  his  chest  as  the  favor  slipped  through  his  fingers.  his  hands  held  in  mordhred's  shaking  ones,  and  akira  squeezes  in  comfort.  only  then  does  he  absorb  the  tully's  words.

akira's  breath  catches.  relief  hovers  like  a  kiss  of  cool  rain.  his  own  laugh  mixes  with  mordhred's,  though  wet  and  heavy.  and  he  cannot  look  at  mordhred,  he  cannot  ---  oh,  he  is  a  fool.  a  blind,  bloody  fool.

he  takes  their  clasped  hands  and  brings  them  to  his  forehead.  one  breath,  another.  fear  still  grips  tight,  its  claws  digging  deeper,  but  elation  sprints  through  his  whole  body;  the  next  laugh  falls  light  and  joyful.

"you're  a  bloody  sap  for  wanting  to  fix  this."  akira  finally  looks  back  to  mordhred,  teasing  smile  plucking  at  lips.  "but  if  ---  if  you  are  serious  ---  fuckin'  hells,  of  course  you  are."  akira  shakes  his  head.  "i  will  need  to  speak  with  ren.  to  the  entire  family.  i  cannot  accept  if  they  do  not  have  the  chance  to  voice  their  opinion."

akira  squeezes  their  hands  tighter,  and  affection  bleeds.  "but  know  this:  i  have  imagined  us.  dreamed  of  us.  i've  wanted  to  whisk  you  to  the  weirwoods  and  handfast  to  declare  you  are  mine  and  i  am  yours.  do  you  hear  me?  i  am  yours."

and  he  kisses  mordhred's  knuckle  as  if  he's  a  knight  sealing  his  oaths,  squeezing  one  final  time  before  finally  releasing  the  tully  liege.

END.

[fromashe]

the promise akira makes draws a dry laugh. he says this now to offer solace and comfort but the wheel turns, it goes and goes, chaos is around them. the dragons. the dragons circle the keep, the tower. it will crumble. it is crumbling. nothing will be as it was.

"you fought a dragon." the warning she had given him, what if she hadn't? he had an injury easily enough healed in the grand scheme of the world and time and what if she does not see, does not know? mizuki turns to hide her face in akira's shoulder. he is alive. he is here. shizuka is alive. ren is alive. but she blurts out. "the fire still burns. water stills gives and takes life."

"i've seen a fallen dragon." she takes akira's hand, holding tight. "she's dead. strangled by fate, by tragedy, by their own folly." the dreams are stronger than ever, but she feels so much further from the old gods. will they punish her? are they abandoning her when she searches blindly for that familiar gaze and presence? she lifts her head to look upon her older brother, more gentle and present a parent than their own who treated her as an entity than daughter.

"you could have died." it's taken days for the realization to settle when so much was focused on the dangerously injured, dead, and missing. "i keep seeing death." her breathing wavers, tears threaten to fall anew. "am i failing the gods? is that why they are so loud?"

[rottedhearts]

he  hums,  throwing  a  small  smirk.  "yes,  i  fought  a  dragon."  but  the  pride  fades,  the  memory  of  their  last  walk  together  seeping  through.  akira  rests  his  cheek  against  mizuki's  head,  slowly  sighing  through  his  nose.  "and  during  the  fight,  i  bore  right."

she  grips  his  hand  tight,  and  he  squeezes  back.  she  speaks  of  another  dragon,  and  he  furrows  his  brows  in  debate.  she  cannot  be  speaking  of  the  one  already  fallen;  she  may  not  mean  any  that  roam  the  skies  now.  but  pain  throbs  at  his  side,  and  he  cannot  keep  his  focus  on  deciphering  what  she  offers.  besides,  mizuki  then  stares  up  at  him,  and  he  cannot  help  but  think  of  her  as  a  girl  of  ten  and  four,  then  a  child  of  eight,  and  then  as  babe.  the  eyes  that  have  seen  more  than  the  rest  of  them;  the  eyes  of  one  who  carries  too  much  on  her  shoulders.

"you  are  not  failing  the  gods.  perhaps  they  are  clamoring  for  understanding."  a  pause,  and  he  pulls  her  close  again.  "i  could've  died,  yes.  and  i  could  die  tomorrow.  you  could  pass  away  in  your  sleep  tonight.  ren  and  shizuka  could  disappear  and  we  could  never  find.  our  lives  are  built  on  possibilities  ---  and  that  includes  death.  perhaps  .  .  .  perhaps  accepting  that  will  be  enough  for  the  gods."

[bethemouth]

your gaze lingers on them, searching the hard lines of their face for the ghost of the bookish boy who used to hide in the eyrie's quiet corners. they are the same stubborn, maddening creature they have always been, only grown tall and shadowed by the weight of the world. you have half a mind to snap at them, to remind them that a liege who spends their days weeping over empty bellies won't have a liegeship left to defend. ruling is a bloody balance of cruelty and mercy; you cannot have one without the other. yet, as always, they have driven their blade straight into the weak spot of your armor. "very well," you say, the word dropping between you without a trace of spite. your hand comes to rest on the arm of your chair. "you are right. i have spent this entire conversation looking at what the vale might become years from now, while your people cannot afford to look past tomorrow morning. well, house bracken remains bound to amahle through both deep affection and old loyalties. if lady roslin is willing, we can establish a regular caravan between stone hedge and heart's home until your harvests recover. grain, cattle, seed enough to begin again. i will cover your end of the coin until heart's home stands on its own feet after the first year, or perhaps the second. and then you'll have the aqueducts."

you lean in, your gaze turning serious, demanding their full attention. "furthermore, i shall aim to procure an alliance within the Reach to give you further aid, alongside the dragon faction i am currently backing. something is moving behind the scenes, but i refuse to speak of it until the ink is dry. but you must understand this: even if i pull this off, they will demand i vouch for your loyalty and support to the cause. an assurance i do not know if i truly have. people do not hand out salvation out of the goodness of their hearts, as much as that might be your ideal. everyone wants something in return." a dry breath escapes you, all devoid of humor, as you glance toward the window. "send your page to my room with a list of your necessities, and we will begin the work. i doubt i will ever see the realm through your eyes. if i did, the sheer weight of every freezing shepherd and starving child would keep me awake until dawn. but a ruler who surrounds themselves only with echoes is a fool." you let out a sigh, then roll your shoulders in a shrug. "there are very few people left in this world whose intellect i respect enough to fight with. if i didn't care what you thought, i wouldn't waste my breath trying to persuade you. there are days i think the gods fashioned you solely to contradict me." your head tilts. "it drives me absolutely mad. but i would be entirely lost without it. especially if i intend to sit as hand of the queen one day."

[rottedhearts]

again,  you  listen.  her  response  winds  past  different  doors,  passing  quickly  by  the  hints  she  drops.  the  realm  never  looks  kindly  on  a  good  heart,  and  both  of  you  understand  this.  gaze  flicks  to  your  leg,  at  the  pant  sleeve  tied  at  the  end  of  the  nub.  yes,  you  understand  more  than  most.

pursing  your  lips,  the  silence  stretches.  then,  finally,  you  nod.  "i  can  join  you  in  presenting  the  idea  to  lady  roslin.  and  i  can  draw  up  the  contract  if  she  agrees.  for  heart's  home  itself,  i  would  hope  that  staves  the  worst  of  starvation  for  the  next  year.  if  our  harvest  thrives  in  the  second  year,  then  the  coffers  should  replenish  quickly."

with  a  swallowed  sigh,  you  finally  stand,  hoisting  yourself  to  your  foot  with  your  cane.  "if  the  gods  molded  me  to  irritate  you,  amaya,  then  what  did  they  mold  you  for  me?"  a  genuine  question,  for  you  are  no  longer  certain.  a  ruling  lady  and  vassal  liege;  a  demand  of  loyalty  that  you  bristle  against.

but  for  all  she  has  done,  for  all  she  imposes  ---  she  listened.  and  that  is  worth  more  than  gold.

"i  will  claim  loyalty  to  you,  amaya."  clear  in  insinuation;  it  is  only  the  arryns  you  speak  of.  "if  others  demand  that  of  me,  then  they  can  argue  their  position  to  me.  even  if  you  are  to  be  hand."

a  quirk  of  your  lips,  and  in  the  next  beat,  you  bow  your  head.  "you  will  receive  a  list  of  necessities  within  the  next  few  days.  feel  free  to  use  the  same  page  to  fetch  supplies  as  you  need  them."

finally,  you  depart,  withholding  another  sigh.  adrenaline  you  never  realized  coursed  through  you  during  the  conversation  suddenly  departs,  and  exhaustion  clings.  but  you  still  pause  at  the  door,  looking  over  your  shoulder  to  your  childhood  companion.

"thank  you.  we'll  speak  again  soon."

END.

[firedreamt]

this touch, this natural pull from within, chases them back to his arms. errant thoughts crossed their mind in the past, wondering if they should seek comfort in another, if they will ever be a source of one for him, and then within moments, those rebellious and nauseating impulses find themselves squashed. they allow him to guide them, and not only be seated, but drape there, melting into the tension which exhales against their neck. their breath catches. everything within them clenches. "what you think. what you think about," emphatic. "your mark on the council, your mark on the world. where i stand within it. i need an answer ... a true. answer. if it is no farce, and i believe it isn't, then where am i?"

hesitation, almost cruel and unusual and self-punishing. he brought them against him; he must desire their touch, their presence, and yet the doubts crawl in. "i'm here. but ... am i?" no tension. no bitterness. no stiffness against his hand, and the one he clutches, they place the palm to their jugular, where his breath caressed, and then move it to their chest, a place known only to him in their entire life. seen by him, felt in its torrid rush, and their heartbeat no different. "where am i in your desire?"

[rottedhearts]

there  is  nothing  he  can  show  them.  the  part  of  him  long  lost  to  the  mountains  he  fell,  and  the  soil  he  screamed  into  consumes  more  than  he  can  dare  admit.  to  confess  that  would  crack  the  foundation  the  two  of  them  built  in  the  aftermath,  as  painfully  slow  it  was.  as  shaky  as  it  still  stands.

but  gwyneth's  heartbeat  dances  under  his  fingers.  their  pulse  thrumming  as  they  willingly  press  his  hand  to  their  throat.  he  tries  to  breathe,  but  when  they  push  his  hand  to  their  chest,  he  nearly  chokes.  each  breath  staggered;  each  second  leaning  closer  until  he  mouths  at  their  collarbone.  their  heartbeat  dances  faster,  and  his  own  thunders  after.

feather-light  touch  transforms  to  bruising  grip  at  their  waist.  they  mold  to  one  another's  shape.  his  hot  breaths  trail  up  their  neck,  finding  the  point  of  jugular  where  he  tastes  sweat  and  feels  heartbeat  on  his  tongue.  a  kiss,  a  bite,  an  answer.

"are  you  able  to  tell  what  i'm  thinking?"  he  exhales  onto  their  throat.  another  set  of  kisses  travel  to  their  jaw,  and  then  their  cheek.  "do  you  see  where  you  are?"

he  does  not  wait  for  their  answer.  when  his  lips  meet  theirs,  when  their  mouths  part  for  one  another,  the  only  sound  left  are  their  gasps  filling  the  space.

END.

[firedreamt]

in fire and blood: so passes the rule of PRINCESS DELFINA TARGARYEN OF DRAGONSTONE, two weeks after recovery from the black water, in the autumn of 103ac. @rottedhearts

PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION. thread has been tagged as thoroughly as to the writers' discretions.

DISCLAIMER: the writs, missives, documents, etc. are not intended as god-modding nor acting in place of plot drops. they are intended as only narrative arc + character arc plot devices, and can be used or discarded by the folks i've plotted with as seen fit. for example: delfina has supported legitimisation, but the sealed document intended for falyn supporting her claim for highgarden/bastard legitimisation is not law, it is simply an indication of alliance and choice. the world outside will not know the truth of what transpired. it is up to hira as muse and r. as writer to reveal the true cause of death, or the mods at their own discretions. — — — — — indicates writer switch.

SUMMARY FOR THOSE WHO DO NOT WISH TO READ DUE TO THE TRIGGERS: after warning words from the maester and moving back to the targaryen rooms to "calm her mind" after several fits of madness, delfina has a moment of clarity and reckoning. with the information at hand and the mortal wounding of her body at the claws of the dragons she could never bond with, a fork in the road is reached. not wishing to repeat the behaviour against others that she experienced at the hands of her brother, she requests hira to give her thrice the amount of milk of the poppy — a mercy killing, and quiet passing of her own terms.

the hour crawls towards the eleventh. the twelfth. the thirteenth. something in delfina’s heart is pierced in its slumber. her gaze, it cannot be removed from the corner of this room.

she asked to be moved to her quarters. they were, in fact, never her quarters. they were aegor’s. a whisper traipses up her spine. everything in this keep … it will always be mine. the goose’s flesh bites her around the ears. she swallows. the pain within, it nauseates her. a sweat breaks out upon her brow. a warmth floods her. upon a slight glance, it is noted: the wounds bleed anew. and the bond crawls up her throat: shrykos, i know you circle, waiting for me. i know you wait for me. you wouldn’t have done this to me if we weren’t meant —

her eyes flutter shut. a stirring comes from across the hall. there are too many vials upon the side table beside aegor’s bed. kill them. just fucking burn them all.  “hira.”  she sounds so wretched. so fucking weak. she keeps her eyes closed. somehow her voice carries. it is too sharp.  “... hira, my beloved.”  slipping into the comfortable silk of valyrian.

“will you come here please?”

— — — — —

she does not sleep. how can she? delfina returned, and yet hira has watched her spouse run her fingers over harsh, infected scars. the world-shattering relief at the news delfina was found nearly brought hira to her knees; if she were alone in this very bedroom, she would have bowed her head to the stone floor and screamed in joy.

there is no joy in this moment.

she jolts at the sound of her name. carrying too many phials of medicine in her arms, she deposits most at the desk. valyrian seeps into the space; is it a better sign? does it indicate delfina will improve? hira bits the inside of her lip, swallowing all her doubts, and moves toward her favorite person in this wretched castle. 

“i am here, my love.” her valyrian remains stilted in comparison to the smoothness of delfina’s. but it is a language delfina taught her; it is one that hira will always have with her. 

she sits on the bed, tucking delfina’s hand between both of hers. “what is it you need?”

— — — — —

her gaze shifts. for a moment, it is simply she and hira, hira and delfina. they are women in shape and flush with adoration; moving into each other’s arms with shyness. their shadows winding together, and they wind together now and yet it is not the same. the light relief to delfina’s expression fades into taut worry. brow knitted, face wan. gaze drifting back to that corner. where the darkness shifts and takes shape, where a voice speaks to her low.

“are we alone? we’re alone, aren’t we?” her grip tightens upon hira’s hand beneath hers. a grip of valyrian steel, of a surge of strength. the shadow drips. there is a broken crown on his head — on her head. her breathing shortens. “there’s … there’s no one here, is there? the only way to know what truly lies in the darkness is to burn everything.”

that infusion of strength enters her voice. an impulse. her wounds are burgundy as shrykos’s scales. surely she burns something out there, she-dragon of the stone… surely the chains are broken. “burn everything.” whispered. her body aches with the leaving of it and then, it is hira’s presence that returns her.

she glances to her wife sharply. “there are envelopes in the desk drawer. can you fetch them and remind me of what their contents are?”

— — — — —

rarely does delfina frighten her. she has the capability of viciousness; a trait shared with aegor, though hira only spoke of this observation once. after all, delfina was as strikingly different from aegor, so much so that the similarities hid in the shadows. but here, with delfina’s gaze distant, wavering — fear claws at hira’s throat. 

“it is only you and me, darling.” she cups delfina’s cheek, urging the princess’s gaze to return. but it remains lost to the room and its darkest corners. burn everything. is it another dream breaking the surface? another warning to heed, a metaphor waiting to burst into reality? 

for a moment, clarity returns to delfina’s eyes. hira swallows a gasp of relief as her spouse’s gaze flicks back to her. slowly, she nods and releases delfina, stepping softly to the desk. 

the liquid in the phials glisten as she gently opens the drawers, withdrawing the l in etters within. each possess a name scrawled with delfina’s script: their daughters, her informants, falyn tyrell. each are not yet sealed with the dragonstone sigil. hira’s brows furrow as she opens the one addressed to herself.

then she opens another. the next. the paper wavers — when did her hands start to shake? her heartbeat thunders like an omen. 

“delfina,” she begins, her voice a treacherous tremble. “your letters speak of — of your love. of your promises and plans. and what is to be done after your death.” 

hira doesn’t remember returning to the bed, but she’s suddenly hovering above delfina, clutching the letters in her hands. she swallows again, forcing herself to slowly settle. it cannot be, it cannot be, and yet — and yet. 

“when did you write these?”

— — — — —

delfina watches with caution and relish. satisfaction floods her bones when hira pulls them out, an array and variety, all marked with the seal. will it even mean anything in the end? it does not matter. her chest rises and falls with a laboured sigh. hand fluttering to her brow as hira returns, and she meets her gaze, and it is the firmest and most lucid thing about her.

“falyn tyrell deserves legitimacy. maekara is to inherit dragonstone and be cautious of promises made with lannisters. seraphina hightower is to be given writ of passage if she need escape. amerei mallister, gifted compensation from the targaryen coffers.”  a mulling. hira sorts through the lettres with those trembling hands, and delfina’s fingertips are placed to her own lips, chapped and horrible. salt-dried and mummified nearly. when has she been reduced to a walking corpse? “do you understand what must be done?”

there are no tears yet. she closes her eyes and leans back into the pillows. rests. there is a silence. in the silence comes the whispering  —  “you will be told you have no power nor say. i give you the greatest power of all: knowledge. you will do what i cannot with it.”

a grimace. the dragon’s markings upon her sternum suddenly burn, and the heat of anger overwhelms them. “i wrote them before the dragons came … i told you. i told you.”

she reaches over and grabs her. her wife, her beloved. now she is shaking.

“there was no one out there in the water.”  a hiss.  “i tried to picture your face, to think of our daughters,  and there was no one … no one but him. and he’s here now.”

his ghost  —  frantic, she glances towards the door, and a pleading sound emerges. clawing at hira’s arms, clinging to her for some semblance of grounding. but there he is, with a crown shattered upon his head, piercing his skull, there he is, dripping in bile and  —

“he’s here.” emphatic. 

— — — — —

she should understand. a part of her already began laying the strategy for how she will deliver the letters and enact delfina’s wishes. this knowledge, this power — how could it arrive with devastating doom?

“all of this a preparation for the dragons . . . “ muttered in broken vowels. a horror trapped in her throat. delfina did not expect to live. the sharp gasp cuts through the room. the devastation a cruel weight nearly forcing her to curl into herself. delfina did not expect to survive at all.

but she’s here, and she’s — clawing at hira. wide eyes tinged red around the pupils. the sour scent of infected scars filling the air with her spouse’s every movement. he’s here now, he’s here, and said with such conviction fear strikes at hira’s heart. 

but when she glances over her shoulder, no spectre lingers; no haunt makes themself known. brows furrow and she begins shaking her head, assurances on her tongue.

                        (  the realm holds its breath whenever a targaryen is born. )

her breathing stops. no. aegor does not deserve to live as long as he did and delfina falters here. no, no, no. 

she doesn’t realize she’s speaking. the repetition of a whispered no echoing in a bedchamber that should be only theirs. her grip tightens to bruising strength, nails digging into the back of delfina’s hands, scratches of her own to combat shrykos’. 

“aegor is not here, delfina.” for who else would render her afraid if not for the monster of her youth? “he is ash, scattered to the wind, never to rise again. he cannot hurt you. he cannot claim you.”

urgently, she rips her hands from delfina’s, cupping her wife’s face to wrench her gaze back to her. “you are alive. you are safe. beloved, please — it’s you and me. me and you.” 

— — — — —

hira cannot decimate her hand as shrykos did to her chest.  a bond irrevocable,  a yearning to be alight,  to leave this place behind.  “the only valyrian that should have been said to them was dracarys.  they should all be ash for what they’ve done to us!”  it takes one moment,  two moments too long,  the feverish gleam to her gaze strengthening even as hira soothes her.  the thrashing stills,  and delfina’s chest ceases its heaving.  “listen to me.”

that is what strikes her.  she pauses.  her gaze does not lock upon hira’s as it should,  but it neither wanders back towards the spectre which lurks.  instead,  something breaks through the fog.  “... listen to me.”  bewildered.  “listen to who i sound like. he cannot hurt me but i will be the one to harm.  aegor is here. out there, in the bay … i tried so hard,  i tried to remember you,  i tried to remember … our daughters,  anyone who mattered,  and there was only him.”  the motions to cling are self-soothing. she looks to the bottles hira has set down.

“he spoke to me through alester westerling’s wretched mouth.  he reminded me of our rightful place.  in death he has never been kinder,  nor crueller.  his laugh is in those of the kingsguard,  and his righteous rule  …  is mine to continue.  i can never be free of him.”  the tears do not fall.  they recede,  entirely,  drying as the rivers do.  “he made sure of it.  and the bond i longed for  …  at last,  i have it.  and it is killing me.”

(  it was almost tangible,  the ache which spread at the news of aegor’s death.  when the note had been delivered to her,  she had been alone.  her daughters liberated from what chains would bind them,  her wife carefree in dragonstone’s gardens.  no relief spilled out of her veins when she read the missive,  nor saw the wax seal attached as hollow invitation.  it is all hollow.  his death was hollow.  this keep is hollow.  the dragon pit is … hollow.  )

“this is the end of me.”  it sounds satisfied. “but unlike my brother,  i will choose it.”

(  you are unworthy of the targaryen name!  your children are farces,  i want nothing to do with them.  cast yourself from my sight lest you prove yourself useful!  the sparring blurs into the grievous wounds.  the clawing at his neck,  the foaming at his mouth,  skin pale.  whether it had happened like this or not did not matter.  the water sinks her deeper into it.  she fainted out there once.  twice.  she told amerei to hold on.  she  …  died,  perhaps.  )

a deep breath.  a lingering one.  “i wanted things  …  to be so different for us.  and here i am  …  the same.  but i will not remain as such.  you must do what the realm dares not try. you must be the one to fell me.”

the resolve hurts her.  there is a human panic,  a repulsion against her own words.  she chokes on them,  but pushes through,  and then for a moment,  she does weep:  “i will not repeat my brother’s mistakes.  and i will die anyways.”  she blinks hard.  she takes both of hira’s hands,  and relishes in them:  their sensation,  their pressure.  “you know it is true.  you know i am alive and safe,  but i am not whole,  and no one will be safe from me.”

(  i cannot rule as a broken shell;  i cannot reign as a madwoman.  the glass candles are burning  …  there would be tens of thousands dead on my account.  )

— — — — —

delfina’s ferocity extinguishes all sound. for a long moment, silence encases hira as it did the long night when delfina fell into blackwater. she stares at the twist to delfina’s mouth, the fiery intensity of her gaze. she has witnessed delfina’s fury before: a careful burn wielded to her benefit. but this? with teeth bared as if she is a pure dragon, the outburst of a curse? 

the longer she watches, the more dread fills her heart.

a breath; she feels the motion of it rather than the sound. but hira shifts, and delfina’s words reach her ears. delfina holds onto her, and distantly, hira thinks of alester westerling. the bloated body hosting the claw marks of the survivors. it was the only time he was useful for the rightful ruler. but is hira useful now? another body to cling to, another face to add to delfina’s ruined visions? 

“delfina.” the name carries so much. all her love, poured into a single word. “you survived the bay and a dragon’s claws; you are capable of surviving this. you are.” but she speaks through gritted teeth; her words do not match the memory of grandmaester mace, and the quiet confession: i do not know how long the princess will last if she does not improve. 

and now delfina declares the end herself. 

hira pulls away. how cruel, how selfish. but she cannot remain still; every movement of her pacing, of her hands brushing down her robes, are the ripples to the stone falling into the terrible river of the inevitable. a sob crawls up her throat, and she swallows. again and again, she swallows down the shock over the ask, the denial of the madness uttered, the anger that she must bear witness for another she loves reaching for the stranger. 

tears brim, and hira furiously swipes at her eyes. when she looks back to her love, her hand is curled at her throat.  

“you promised me.” rarely have they combatted. any barbed words were traded at the start of their arranged union, but they had not learned each other. they had not yet loved each other. twenty-five years together, building a foundation, raising their children, nurturing their love. she promised. 

“not ever. that is what we declared. and you — you — ”

the sob finally rips through her. only with delfina has she shattered before; it is no different now. with trembling hands, she covers her face, bending in half from the weight of the moment. 

“you are my heart, delfina,” she wails into her hands. “why can’t we have more time?”

another sob echoes. the candlelight flickers with each hiccuping breath. composure is eternally lost, but hira manages to straighten, stumbling her return to delfina’s side. brushing along the princess’s forehead, hira cups delfina’s cheek once more. 

“do you see no other way?” each word a broken whisper. delfina told her once that they would stand together against the rising. but if that has changed — if there is no other path —

do not go where i cannot follow.

— — — — —

and she has not improved.  the words of others echoing:  should you not be with the maester — is there anything i can do — dorne may finish you  —  and momentarily,  all voided:  hira’s sob of despair,  at least she gets to hear it.  at least it is just us in the end.  delfina’s tears do spill seeing her grief.  experiencing the beginnings of it with her,  and her body tightening in rebellion,  speaking loudly:  do not kill me!  i may rise again!  but even this exhausts her.

the time dwindles.  she lets there be more than there should.  shaking her head.  in silence at first,  because she has spoken so much,  and what more can be said?  it will be a cold comfort in the end,  when her embrace stiffens.  when hira will guide her to the stranger.  (  is that who i see?  the stranger wearing my brother’s face?  the first and last time she has called him brother since childhood.  )  one day,  hira,  you will follow me.  “you are mine.  you are my spirit.  you are the better parts of me.”  speaking to her cupped hand,  both blessing and cursing the lines of her palm.

“but the milk will addle me.  and my brother will curse our line.  already i see it,  hira.  alysanne is lost to the hightowers,  and maekara and viserra … they despise each other.  reconciling in grief  …”  it is the only way.  “the stags will be impaled upon their own banners.  the dragons will reign the skies.  the trawlers will scrape the sands of dorne and an asp will slither about the paws of lions who change their minds.  traitors!”  hissed.  from a dream,  a hazed vision,  to a lived nightmare,  to the madness of her own truth,  regardless of its reality.  the swallow hurts furthermore.  “i want not the stranger to have aegor’s face.  it must have yours.”

she strokes hira’s hand.  the smile faint.  “then  …  he will not be a stranger at all.”

minutes pass.  an hour,  together.  she remarks nothing more even in the feverish rage that permeates her entire being.  the final true blood of valyria faltering in the lantern’s light,  and in the end,  will spill red all the same.

“do we not hate me for this,  please.  for when i see you again,  i wish to be as happy as when we first wed.”  the corners of her vision darken with the ache to sleep regardless.  a deep sleep,  within the touched-womb of the unliving,  shrykos’s spirit curled around her.  a warm egg,  against an infant’s palm,  and burgundy eyes to match her blood.  “you will see me upon sunwing and her wings will not be tattered.  call to me then,  and i will come.  i will always come when you call.”

with resolve,  she leans back.  a hot knife of pain slashes through her,  and she loses colour in her features.  she winces,  driven back into the pillows.  “do what must be done.”  gaze watery with the agony,  with the dripping of draconic poison into her wounds.  it must be…

— — — — —

she witnesses the slow shake of delfina’s head, and wishes she could not see at all. the answer she never wanted. the only answer there could be. the claw marks on delfina’s chest weep with rot, and her spouse struggles even now to keep her breathing even. for every word spoken, it is another snip to the thread of delfina’s life. there will be no thread left before morning.

hira brushes her thumb beneath delfina’s eye, catching the tears. delfina’s touch sends shivers up her arm, a trail leading right to her heart. a wild part of her wonders if there was enough time to leave, to fetch each of their daughters so they could say their goodbyes. but then there would be no goodbye; there would only be the fiery fight to keep delfina breathing. they would wield all they’ve learned from them both for just one more day.

and hira desires to be selfish. for them and for herself. deny delfina’s dreams, cling onto her tighter, draw every rune to demand the impossible. and yet — and yet. 

hira doesn’t stop her sob. bowing her head, she sucks shaky breath after shaky breath. the scream burns in her chest, but she does not allow it further reach. instead, she presses a kiss to delfina’s forehead and withdraws once more. 

it’s only a short path to the desk. it’s only a small movement to collect three phials of milk of poppy. but the moments stretch to an eternity, an endless unraveling. her eyes ache from the strain of exhaustion and tears. but when she returns, there is only the heartbreaking sheen of clarity to her gaze. 

“i do not and will not hate you, delfina.” hira climbs onto the bed, careful in navigation. gentle hands raise delfina’s body so she can slip beneath; a cocoon of warmth surrounding delfina. slowly, she tucks delfina’s face into the crook of her neck — a spot long since molded for the princess. they have fallen asleep like this time and time again. 

she uncorks the first phial. wraps her hand around delfina’s jaw and tips her face up, kissing her long and slow. pours every part of her love first, before replacing her lips with that of the phial. 

“you saved me from a lifetime of stillness,” she whispers. “of sitting by the bedside of my family, trapped in the well of grief.” the first phial finishes, and she reaches for the second. her hand trembles, and a splash of poppy falls. but hira forces herself steady. “i never dreamed of a life shared. and then you came to me and changed everything for the better.” 

the last phial she grips hard, closing her eyes. tears mark their trail down her cheeks, and she presses her face into delfina’s hair. deep breath after deep breath, searing scent to memory. finally, she guides the last to her beloved’s mouth. 

“i will never cease loving you, delfina. i will call you every night in hopes you will visit my dreams. and when i breathe my last, i will reach for you. we will finally ride a dragon together.” 

she eases back against the headboard. she hugs delfina close, pressing another kiss to her hair. softly, in the same tune delfina taught her, she begins singing the same valyrian lullaby delfina sang to each of their dragon babes. the valyrian still rough, still too foreign on her tongue, but it is theirs. 

and as her spouse rests, hira gently draws three runes, over and over, right at delfina’s heart.

life.  love.  together. 

— — — — —

mother, will you let me take care of you? and so she did. and so she does. willingly does she drink of the terrible draught, and the milk is translucent and burning. saddened with the relief almost instant, then the fog, then the daze. how haloed is hira’s hair, how delicate her voice; delfina thinks, with remarkable clarity, of the time they gathered around maekara’s bed upon her fever breaking. she and hira, alysanne and viserra, holding fast at dragonstone, taking turns to sing the same lullaby to draw her back home.

“wouldn’t that be so lovely? i always said sunwing would take to you. the years have been so long … i must accept they were enough.” the limbo: how strange for this to be what she wants and what she doesn’t. her body trembles in that last rebellion, the milk that slow and gentle caress and the last of the burning in her sternum fading away. wait, her soul seems to cry, wait, not yet, it can’t be time. it is almost too easy to let that rest.

the stranger does come. in a hooded cloak, lean and blurring, and delfina grips hira’s arm. to her it still holds her familiar strength, but in truth, barely does she squeeze. hira’s singing blends with that of her daughters, a haunting chime that beckons her from beneath that hood. she wants to tell hira she was right; not just about the stranger, but about how she should have been more careful. ask for forgiveness for everything she did wrong, and say how much she loves her for everything that was done right. 

but perhaps it has all been said. “delfina targaryen … killed by the dragon she loved.”

when the stranger lifts their cloak, delfina’s head softens into hira’s embrace. she looks upon her, and with a dripping slowness, sinks deeper. i’m so tired. i didn’t realise how tired i was. perhaps if i get some sleep, i’ll wake up feeling better.

“at last,”  she whispers.  “a dreamless sleep.”

with the last inkling of strength, she lets herself be comfortable. the numbness spreads in a pleasant tingling throughout her limbs. for a moment, her face crumples, and her ear presses to the place above hira’s heart, as hira has done all the times before. she breathes deeply. a prolonged sigh, her eyes closing of her own accord. the lavender and yarrow seep their lovely scent from the bedside table, just now beginning to wilt.

when the hour passes, the room falls silent.

— — — — — 

delfina’s breath brushes her chest, and hira can barely keep her voice stable. when delfina barely squeezes her arm, hira grips her tighter, keeping her close as if she can prevent the stranger from taking her. but delfina’s soul could never be hers to hold.

the lullaby rises and falls in time with delfina’s chest. it is the last call to home; it is the final reminder of what she leaves behind. and when delfina’s heartbeat slows, and so too does hira’s singing. 

her final note breaks as delfina sighs her last.

hira clutches her spouse, finally closing her eyes.

exhaustion pulls at her, but she denies its power. she counts her own breaths against the tears falling down her cheeks and into delfina’s hair. the candlelight flickers again, wax dripping a slow descent. minutes, hours — it bleeds into one.

only when the beginnings of dawn touches the bed does hira finally stir.

a cocoon breaking down, she finally withdraws. gently places delfina against the pillows, cupping her face one final time. for too many days, delfina has been marked by pain; for too many years, her life had been stalked by strife. finally, her expression is one of peace. 

hira forces herself to move. she collects the empty phials, hiding them within the lining of dresses or under the loose stones the two of them found their first night. swallows the bile, and the tears, and everything her heart screams for. she saves her last heartbreak when the room fills with soft sunlight. a piece of delfina’s hair, cut with gentle care, and taken for all the years they shared.

when she finally emerges into the common area, two servants are already preparing the family’s table. they both look up, and hira lifts her chin as their smiles morph to shock. 

“discreetly fetch grandmaester mace,” she says. her gaze drifts to each of her daughter’s rooms. “inform him that the rightful queen has passed away in her sleep.” 

one of the doors open. hira holds breath.

[firedreamt]

mordhred   lifts   the   teacup   and   then   drops   it   right   back   down.   it   near   shatters   in   the   saucer,   and   as   the   shock   spreads   across   their   features   and   the   porcelain   rings   like   a   terrible   bell,   they   ensnare   it   with   their   grasp   to   silence   it.   the   profile   of   akira's   face,   now   embedded   in   the   younger   blackwood   who   so   passionately   took   on   his   life,   the   similar   seriousness,   that   particular   slant   of   their   brow.   a   younger   akira   —   in   more   ways   than   one.   their   jaw   goes   slack.   eyes   wide.   taken   by   the   sudden   lack   of   cowering.   how   flush   is   there   a   sudden   surge,   of   love,   of   something   like   it.   of   an   ice-cold   fear.        “        …   wh   …   what?        ”        bare   breath.   then   before   they   can   filter:        “        aren't   we   a   fucking   pair,   i   wed   a   bastard,   you   whelped   one.        ”        the   jitters   fill   them,   an   adrenaline   rush   to   follow.   akira   stands   before   mordhred   with   the   smoking   pipe   and   the   tully   looks   up   at   him   in   still-pure   shock,   the   dots   connecting   like   falling   stars.

“        give   me   that.        ”        they   snatch   the   pipe   away.   mouth   to   the   same   stem   akira's   was,   puffing   harshly.   it   has   been   a   long   time   since   they've   felt   the   need.   the   smoke   unfurls   and   now   they   smell   like   him.        “        the   gods   be   damned,   akira,   how   did   you   keep   it   a   secret   for   so   long?        ”        you   keep   surprising   me   in   ways   that   make   me   into   a   stammering   boy    —    not   even   they   could   have   seen   this.

another   puff.   they   thud   the   pipe   down   on   the   table,   hand   still   curled   around   it.   their   mind   races.        “        that's   why   she   was   fishing   about.   she   wanted   to   see   what   i   knew.        ”        quieter.   confirming.        “        and   i   did   not   know,   and   it   saved   your   fuckin'   hide.        ”        they   then   jab   the   stem   of   the   pipe   at   him.

“        he   knows   your   his   father,   doesn't   he?   did   you   at   least   give   him   that,   the   poor   lad?   this   lie    …    i   have   known   you   my   whole   life.        ”        the   seriousness   fades   into   something    …    playful.   the   scowl   turns   into   a   sudden   jolt   of   glee,   of   understanding.   the   previous   worries,   the   longing    —    a   wheezing   laugh   starts   up.   it   puffs   out   more   smoke   alongside.        “        truth   be   told    …    didn't   know   you   had   it   in   you.        ”

[rottedhearts]

the  ringing  porcelain  reverberates  in  his  head,  and  he  clenches  his  jaw.  but  he  keeps  still;  he  forces  himself  to  watch  every  twitch  of  movement  across  mordhred's  face.  the  ripples  of  shock,  evident  and  coursing  through  their  whole  body.  akira  waits  with  the  anticipation  of  the  hunted.  so  tense,  he  can't  even  bark  out  a  laugh  at  mordhred's  first  words,  nor  when  they  snatch  his  pipe  and  heave  puff  after  puff.

it  is  the  wrong  time  to  linger  on  those  lips.

akira  swallows.  "did  anyone  truly  believe  i  could  be  a  father  back  then?"  said  with  the  hint  of  sorrow.  he  had  not  been  ready  when  ren  was  born;  how  lucky  the  gods  blessed  his  parents  with  shizuka  only  two  years  prior.  how  simple  it  was  to  fold  ren  into  the  main  family.

jaw  clenches  again  at  the  mention  of  myria.  the  confirmation  unneeded,  but  settles  hollow  all  the  same.  the  brackens  aim  to  wield  the  knowledge  to  their  benefit;  it  is  only  a  matter  of  time.

and  mordhred  sits  there  in  the  aftermath,  jittery  and  laughing,  glee  in  their  gaze.  despite  himself,  akira  finally  melts  back  into  his  seat,  sighing  in  exasperation.  "of  course  ren  knows.  i  am  not  that  much  of  a  wretched  father."  he  leans  his  cheek  against  fist,  watching  the  other's  shoulders  shake  in  another  bout  of  laughter.

"mordhred."  the  name  falls  soft,  precious.  "i  .  .  .  i  am  telling  you  ren  is  the  best  part  of  me.  he  may  be  the  only  good  thing  i  will  ever  give  to  this  world."  akira  blinks  fast,  clearing  his  throat.  "i  trust  you.  maybe  more  than  wise,  but  you  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  "

he  grabs  onto  mordhred's  favor  again,  rubbing  finger  and  thumb  over  the  braided  knot.  a  wry  smile  breaks.

"you  make  me  brave."

[graveruins]

his   father's   hand   is   a   grounding   force   where   it   lands.   the   touch   alone   a   reminder   to   breathe   through   the   sudden   swell   of   emotion   in   his   chest.   the   mass   of   raw   anger that brewed   ,       if   only   to   drown   out   the   fear   that   lingered   just   beneath.   he   had   been   so   close   to   losing   him   ,       to   losing   so   much   more.   but   this   was   hardly   the   time   nor   place   ,       and   it   was   not   his   father   that   deserved   the   brunt   of   his   grievances.     ❝     i   should   have   been   with   you.   fighting   at   your   side.     ❞       and   even   as   he   heard   the   truth   in   his   father's   words   ,       a   part   of   him   could   not   help   but   argue.   let   it   have   been   some   other   liege   to   guide   the   chaos   of   the   crowds   ,       to   stand   not   facing   a   dragon   ,       but   the   mindless   number   of   people   who   ran   amuck   in   their   fear.   the   memory   of   a   child   returned   to   the   arms   of   a   wailing   mother   ,       of   a   limping   man   pulled   out   of   the   path   of   those   same   trampling   feet   his   father   spoke   of.   he   knew   he   had   helped   ,       but   it   simply wasn't   enough.   it   never   could be.     ❝     shizuka   was   injured   ,     you   were   injured.   i   feel   as   if   i've   failed   our   family   ⸻   as   if   i've   failed   you.     ❞

[rottedhearts]

is  the  weight  ren  carries  his  fault?  the  long  trail  of  consequences  for  hiding  the  truth  of  ren's  nature  to  the  realm  leads  to  this  moment:  his  son  with  head  bowed,  declaring  himself  a  failure.  and  akira  far  too  greatly  understands  whatever  he  says  now  will  only  settle  briefly  with  ren.  he  cannot  steal  away  what's  deep-rooted.

"listen  to  me."  akira  urges  ren  to  look  at  him.  "you  cannot  control  who  is  harmed.  even  if  you  fought  with  me,  shizuka  and  i  could  still  have  suffered  injuries,  and  then  what?  you  blame  yourself  then  as  well  for  not  doing  enough?  that  is  no  way  to  fight,  ren.  that  is  no  way  to  live."

all  he  wants  is  to  hug  his  son,  brackens  be  damned.  and  yet,  he  doesn't  pull  ren  close;  he  can  only  pour  all  his  love  into  another  squeeze  of  ren's  shoulder.  "there  is  nothing  you  could  do  to  fail  this  family  or  me.  even  if  you  don't  believe  it,  that  is  the  truth."

[steelworn]

"sweet-talker?"  there  is  affection  in  his  words,  such  that  has  not  gone  away  over  the  years.  perhaps  it  has  molded  into  something  different,  not  the  overwhelming  love  he  had  felt  when  they  were  teenagers,  but  a  fondness  he  would  always  carry  for  the  first  woman  he  had  ever  loved.  without  thinking,  he  looks  in  the  direction  of  one  of  his  brother's.  nods  to  the  man  before  he  offers  his  arm  to  the  lady  bracken.  a  memory  floods  back,  time  spent  in  the  riverlands  together,  helping  her  down  from  her  horse  with  the  same  arm.  "so,  is  this  you  telling  me  you  do  not  think  me  boring?  flattery  coming  from  you,  my  lady,  is  the  best  i  could  ever  receive."  a  smile,  gentle  and  sweet,  voice  even  more  so.  "when  i  heard  of  your  arrival,  part  of  me  could  not  believe  i  would  get  to  see  you  again  after  so  many  years.  too  long  must  i  say.  have  you  been  well?"

[rottedhearts]

she  cannot  quite  fight  the  curl  of  her  lips  when  devrim  offers  an  arm.  part  of  her  thought  he  would  deny  her  ---  as  was  his  right  and  duty.  but  pride  blooms  as  she  tucks  her  hand  into  the  crook  of  his  elbow.  "it  should  be.  i  do  not  gift  my  flattery  so  easily."  two  decades  ago  they  strode  together  like  this,  with  dreams  much  different  than  how  their  lives  unraveled.  and  yet,  they  still  easily  fall  in  step.

"it  has  been  too  long.  i  am  not  granted  the  opportunities  to  visit  king's  landing."  for  she  is  not  her  mother  nor  cleos.  "but  i  have  been  as  well  as  one  can  be  when  rearing  horse  after  horse.  we've  replenished  our  herd  and  more  since  the  ---  blackwoods  decimation."  myria  peers  at  devrim  then,  giving  a  gentle  squeeze.  "how  does  the  kingsguard  treat  you?"

she  dare  not  ask  if  he  is  well.  who  would  be  when  their  family  was  taken  away  so  violently?

[steelworn]

"they  shall  see  what  being  a  bracken  is  should  they  ever."  but,  betha  was  not  a  bracken.  not  by  name  anyway,  not  by  title,  and  that  made  a  hell  of  a  difference  between  her  and  myria.  it  has  made  her  wonder  if  her  family's  love  was  truly  unconditional  or  not.  if  they  had  the  option,  would  they  get  rid  of  her?  send  her  away?  "i  do  not  believe  they  would  agree,  i  am  sure  donnell  has  had  enough  of  me."  she  shrugs,  still  a  little  girl  sticking  to  his  side  like  glue,  to  her  aunt's  side  too.  her  attention  goes  back  to  the  hides,  hammer  hitting  them  in  a  rhythm  that  came  back  to  her  easily  even  if  it  had  been  many  long  years  since  she  had  done  this.  "she  will  throw  fits  over  every  little  thing,  it  is  the  least  of  her  worries  if  you  decided  to  sleep  in  the  stables."  she  thinks  of  the  dragons  flying  overhead,  the  chaos  they  had  rained  down  upon  king's  landing.  some  sick  omen  for  what  was  to  come.  "if  you  do,  i  would  join  you  and  we  can  take  the  blame  together."  betha  nods,  a  quick  snap  of  her  head.  "do  you  wish  we  could  just  go  back  home?  i  think  i  would  take  a  chance  upon  a  dragon  to  be  rid  of  all  this."

[rottedhearts]

"and  donnell  should  bite  his  tongue  off  before  he  dismisses  your  care."  for  their  cousin  should  be  grateful  betha  desires  to  be  at  his  side,  loyal  to  the  knight  she  loves  so.  their  cousin  does  not  truly  comprehend  what  life  is  like  without  betha  becoming  their  shadow.  myria's  used  to  the  absence  by  now,  but  those  first  years  when  betha  left  .  .  .  how  that  absence  wailed.

betha  pulls  her  out  of  memory  then,  and  myria  snorts,  nudging  the  younger's  elbow.  "do  not  say  such  a  thing  before  you  linger  in  these  stables  for  longer  than  an  hour.  whatever  they  mix  the  horse's  feed  with  here  is  wretched."

and  there  should  be  more  levity.  but  the  question  ---  and  betha's  own  answer  ---  hangs  between  them.  myria  slows,  brushing  hand  over  hide  for  one  stroke,  then  another.  "some  nights,"  she  agrees.  another  long  moment  of  pause.  "most  nights,  though,  i  wish  to  linger."

her  confession's  nearly  drowned  by  the  crackling  fire.  the  spare  bracken  sighs  through  her  nose.  "as  much  as  i  detest  blackwoods,  there  is  relief  in  not  being  amidst  the  battles.  i  didn't  realize  how  much  tension  i  gathered  in  my  shoulders  until  the  first  night  i  slept  here."

[faatedones]

lord  myles  feels  relief  in  the  laughter  that  leaves  him.  despite  the  chaos  and  ruin  that  surround  them,  it  is  important  to  find  moments  such  as  these  and  cherish  them  as  much  as  one  is  able  to.  he  imagines  things  will  become  even  harder  in  the  coming  days,  truly  testing  them,  their  patience  and  their  strength.

“aren't  we  all  a  little  restless?”  he  counters  with  the  slightest  hint  of  a  smirk  on  his  features.  he  looks  to  another  stall,  approaching  it  with  myria  at  his  side.  he  picks  up  one  of  the  trinkets  on  the  table,  turning  it  over  in  his  hand.  “no,  no…  i  would  much  rather  be  home  than  here,  i  cannot  imagine  making  this  my  permanent  residence.  i  am  very  much  comfortable  with  my  seat  of  castamere…  and  what  of  your  family,  my  lady?”

[rottedhearts]

"some  more  so  than  others,"  she  acquiesces.  she  has  yet  to  decide  if  she's  restless  staying  ---  or  restless  at  the  thought  of  returning.  all  she  has  known  is  the  routine  of  bracken  land  and  horses,  never  given  the  freedom  to  travel  for  any  reason  beyond  that.  even  now,  it  was  for  her  family  that  she's  here.

"my  family  seeks  what  they  always  do."  and  she  says  no  more.  let  the  never-ending  feud  fill  the  gaps.  still,  she  eyes  a  necklace,  lifting  it  up  for  inspection  before  showing  it  to  myles,  a  glint  of  tease  in  gaze.  "though  what  does  your  new  betrothed  think  of  castamere,  hmm?"

[antagonistzz]

unpracticed  in  soothing  a  stranger,  saera  offers  a  small,  stiff  smile.  they  recap  the  skin,  knotting  it  back  to  their  belt  once  more.

the  thick  of  their  braid  swings  along  the  line  of  their  back  as  saera  shakes  their  head.  "not  of  my  blood,  no,  but  the  covenant  of  water  makes  the  cut  bleed  the  same."  though,  even  as  she  says  this,  had  it  been  their  son  at  sea,  cradled  by  salt  rather  than  the  warmth  of  his  father's  arms  ...  she  knew  it  would  not  be.  as  much  love  as  she  bore  their  crew  ...  saera  could  have  accepted  their  fate.

in  truth,  they  would  not  have  searched  this  long,  had  they  been  on  the  island.  if  they  had  not  managed  the  swim  home  yet,  nearing  half  a  week  of  searching,  they  had  made  their  journey  to  the  drowned  god  for  certain.

dark  eyes  move  out  towards  the  water  again,  easier  to  train  their  eye  on  the  horizon  than  to  meet  the  numb  of  the  targaryen's  gaze.  "it  is  not  impossible  to  survive  in  the  water,"  they  offer,  quietly.  "so  long  as  they  have  found  themselves  a  raft."  if  there  was  anyone  to  be  found,  the  stillness  would  reveal  them  soon  as  they  pushed  further  along  the  blackwater's  bay  gentle  lull.  with  the  rain  having  paused,  this  was  the  best  chance  to  find  life.  “it  takes  much  energy  to  stay  afloat  for  days.”

[rottedhearts]

makes  the  cut  bleed  the  same.  hira  nearly  laughs,  but  all  that  escapes  remains  a  small  huff.  no,  hira  cannot  imagine  the  searing  pain  in  her  chest  to  ever  bleed  for  a  person  she  has  traveled  long  with.  perhaps  they  are  like  family  to  saera,  but  delfina  ---  delfina  is  her  beating  heart.  the  heart  of  their  daughters.  the  heart  of  this  realm  if  they  opened  their  fucking  eyes.

she  runs  tongue  over  teeth,  blinking  fast.  the  sea-salt  air  stings,  even  in  its  calm.  "and  if  they  have  not  found  a  raft?"  a  question  posed  for  the  sea  as  much  as  it  was  to  them.  "your  god  is  not  kind  when  in  their  domain,  are  they?"

[bethemouth]

you listen to your mother in a quiet, stunned sort of submission, but when the mention of the lions leaves their lips, your breath hitches in your chest. "mara?" you whisper, the name tasting like ash and old summer days on your tongue. "you think mara would stray from us? mara?" you stare at the floor, your mind spinning backward to the days of your youth, desperately trying to reconcile the possibility of a duplicitous character in the new lady lannister with the girl you grew up beside; the girl with whom you shared your very first kiss, the girl you shared meals and long, golden afternoons with while you were squiring at casterly rock under her father. it is a quiet, devastating realization that hurts more than any blow you ever took in the melee; the thought of being betrayed by mara is a knife you do not know if you have the strength to pull out. but if your mum is saying this aloud, if they are putting the warning into words, then there must be something there you do not yet see.

you swallow the lump of grief and betrayal, listening as she speaks of the hightowers being the greatest threat to your family's future. you nod, your jaw tightening, though you do not entirely discard house celtigar and the redwynes from the board; they have their own rotten ambitions, but it is lord hightower who has already wormed his way into the hand's seat. "yes," the answer comes without hesitation. "i understand why ma allowed those rumors to breathe. i understand why she tolerated them. our house needed time." your fingers curl tightly into the fabric over your knees. "but i will not allow alysanne to marry our enemy. not if i have breath left in me." you lift your eyes. "i will not let lord perceon leverage my sister against us." but then mum's voice cuts through your resolve, telling you that lady seraphina must be kept on your side. the words make you go entirely still, the breath dying in your throat. seraphina? you think, your mind stuttering. what of seraphina?

and then your mother speaks of the informants, of amerei and of seraphina, and it feels as though the world has cracked completely open like an egg, the yolk spilling at your feet. your irises become restless, darting across the patterns of the rug as your mind races back through every interaction you've had with her; the whispered words in the godswood, the way she had slipped into your tent to offer her quiet congratulations after your victory in the melee, the steady, strange warmth of her words as she offered you a friendship you had been too proud and too terrified to accept. it all clicks into place with a devastating, beautiful clarity. "seraphina was working for us?" you breathe, looking up at hira with wide, wet eyes. you reach up with a trembling hand, wiping the lingering tears from your cheeks as you force your breathing to steady. "…then lady amerei's... presumed death leaves us with one less pair of eyes. perhaps… perhaps we ought to seek another." you think on it a moment, considering your options, and then: "lord alester's bastards. they have very little left now. no lord father. no certainty. no true protection. they may be persuaded." you sigh. "…what do you think?"

[rottedhearts]

"mara  desires  the  same  as  everyone  else  gathered  here:  power.  she  .  .  .  misinterpreted  your  mother's  gift  of  a  seat  on  the  council."  you  drag  a  finger  across  the  desk;  there  has  not  yet  been  enough  time  for  much  dust  to  settle,  but  you  still  sense  the  grime,  the  undisturbed  nature  of  it  because  you  could  not  sit  where  delfina  resided  each  night.  your  grief  is  your  own,  terrible  thing  to  nurture.  mara  had  whisked  you  to  the  lannister  rooms  to  aide  what  she  did  not  understand.  there  is  too  much  the  young  lioness  doesn't  understand.

"i  have  clarified  the  matter  to  her.  that  delfina  wished  for  her  to  inherit  her  father's  seat.  but  she  seeks  higher  ---  and  that  i  cannot  tolerate.  not  when  your  inexperience  will  be  wielded  against  you.  the  last  thing  we  need  is  another  young  cub  as  your  right-hand."  perhaps  you  are  too  harsh;  then  again,  the  closeness  the  two  bore  with  one  another  necessitated  coldness.  your  words  are  a  blade  slicing  the  sheen  of  their  shared  youth.  "mara  may  not  turn  her  gaze  elsewhere,  but  prepare  for  it  nonetheless.  cedric  must  defy  any  command  that  pulls  him  away  from  you."

the  thumping  blooms  at  your  temple;  it  refuses  to  fade  as  you  rub  there.  "neither  lord  perceon  or  lord  willas  have  approached  me  since  delfina's  disappearance.  which  means  either  may  approach  you.  come  to  me  if  willas  seems  no  more  than  a  dog  whimpering  at  his  master's  side.  we  will  determine  if  it  is  worth  using  him  instead."

there  should  be  more,  but  then  you  catch  maekara's  widening  eyes.  hesitation  grips  you,  and  you  watch  her  trembling  hands.  you  force  a  slow  exhale  through  your  nose,  the  cloak  of  advisor  slipping  ever  so  slightly.  when  you  step  away  from  the  desk,  you  approach  slow,  hands  open  to  maekara.  an  invitation  to  hold,  if  she  so  wishes.

"the  trio  each  possess  perspectives  we  do  not,"  you  murmur,  dwelling  on  the  idea.  "the  iron  islands  in  exile,  the  court  here  as  alester  frolicked  with  aegor.  all  three  would  be  useful.  but  we  only  need  one."  you  eye  your daughter  for  a  long  moment.  "do  not  simply  offer  what  can  be  attained  should  you  rise.  you  do  not  have  the  benefit  of  inheriting  all  the  power  your  mother  had  outside  of  dragonstone  ---  and  that  was  not  vast  to  begin  with.  think  carefully  of  what  will  be  worth  their  time  and  loyalty,  maekara."

[firedreamt]

flushing   with   embarrassment   is   for   the   youth   around   them.   not   for   them,   their   forged   band   of   wedding   to   nayara   of   the   stormlands,   which   often   now   finds   itself   left   in   its   box,   safe-kept   from   the   harm   of   the   world.   mordhred   has   long   since   halted   lingering   upon   her,   and   never   forgets   her   face   nor   presence,   nor   how   she   improved   them.   but   that   life   has   passed   them   by,   and   they   have   continued   on    —    and   to   this   place   where   akira   blackwood   grins   at   them,   wilder   than   the   rivers   could   ever   hope   to   be.        “        you   speak   to   me   of   blushing   as   a   boy   and   a   bracken's   accusations   in   the   same   breath.   you   astound   me   after   all   these   years   still.   always   something   of   a   surprise   to   my   senses,        ”        fading   into   a   murmur.   they   almost   wish   not   to   taint   the   air   with   mentions   of   the   feud   and   questions.   to   taint   nothing   between   them.

but   he   asked.        “        she   wished   to   know   my   stance.   on   alliances,   on   the   state   of   the   riverlands.   she   questioned   who   i   might   bid   for   with   the   throne.   she   mentioned   house   blackwood   and   its   strain.        ”        a   roll   of   their   eyes.        “        a   marriage   proposal   might   have   withered   me   on   the   spot.   nay,   it   was   a   lot   more   specific   than   that.   mentions   of   legitimacy   …   probably   due   to   betha.        ”        then   they   shrug.   the   words   are   fallow   ground   to   their   mouth,   offering   a   tainted   nature   despite   their   desires.   and   their   desires,   they   glance   to   akira's   drawn   face,   and   the   tension   resting   there. 

“        what   the   fuck   is   going   on   with   you   and   the   brackens?   really.        ”        sharp.        “        you're   no   lone   man   on   the   crags   of   harrenhall,   akira.   if   there's   something   afoot,   i   need   to   know.   all   this   talking   of   courage   and   …   bravery,   eh,   don't   cower   from   me.        ”        not   now.   not   after   everything.   the   dryness   of   their   honesty   awakens   a   thirst   that   cannot   be   quenched,   and   absentmindedly,   their   hand   closes   around   the   quill   with   which   they   fiddled,   and   stills   it,   and   lowers   it   to   the   table.

[rottedhearts]

they  know.

the  realization  slams  against  akira's  chest,  nearly  rendering  him  breathless.  only  weeks  before  he  was  struck  by  a  dragon's  tail,  but  the  hit  couldn't  compare  to  the  one  mordhred  unknowingly  delivered.

the  brackens  fucking  know.

a  part  of  him  already  acted  as  if  they  did.  even  with  the  battle  he  led  in  the  aftermath  of  mizuki's  warning  to  the  riverlands,  he  was  careful.  defend,  reclaim,  but  never  overtake.  not  only  because  their  family  only  had  so  much  manpower,  but  because  roslin  could  send  a  raven  to  the  king.  he  wouldn't  risk  temporary  victory  for  an  eternal  danger.  not  when  it  meant  eradication  for  his  family.  not  when  it  meant  ren  would  greatly  suffer.

akira  looks  aside.  hand  drifting  to  favor,  rubbing  the  feather  between  fingers.  stands  then,  turning  away  from  mordhred  and  taking  a  few  steps  toward  the  window.  a  ruling  lord  is  never  without  choices;  each  create  another  ring  of  ripples,  countless  in  their  intensity.  but  they  never  fade  into  a  current,  never  settle  into  stillness;  these  ripples  follow  his  every  step,  a  never-ending  cycle  of  consequences.  he  can  anticipate,  he  can  attempt  prevention,  but  it  all  ends  with  some  sort  of  loss.  one  night  of  dalliance  ripples  to  an  infant  in  his  arms;  a  loss  of  youth  ----  but  a  gain  of  purpose  and  love.

what  will  he  lose  if  he  stays  silent?  what  will  he  gain  if  mordhred  ----

akira  closes  his  eyes.  runs  a  hand  through  his  hair,  tugging  at  the  knots  tangling  in  his  fingers.  when  he  turns,  the  pipe  in  the  middle  of  the  table  no  longer  smokes.  he  does  not  itch  for  another  puff;  he  does  not  want  to  release  his  hold  on  the  favor.

each  slow  step  echoes  until  he  stands  before  mordhred.  he  hovers;  he  stands  his  ground.  another  swallows  and  his  lips  finally  part.

"ren  is  mine."

whispered  like  he  does  his  prayers  in  the  weirwood.  his  eyes  burn  to  close,  to  not  witness  mordhred's  reaction.  but  he  doesn't  falter.  not  with  this  ---  never  about  ren.

"ren  is  mine,  and  if  anyone,  especially  the  brackens,  threaten  him  and  his  standing,  i  will  shoot  them  where  they  stand,  mordhred."  even  you.  please  do  not  force  me  to.  "i  will  be  more  than  dragonslayer  if  it  means  my  son  doesn't  suffer  the  ire  and  prejudice  of  the  realm."

he  does  not  cower.  not  even  as  he  waits  with  bated  breath.  it  is  not  only  his  life  placed  in  mordhred's  hands.  so  what  will  he  lose  in  trusting  the  one  he  aches  for?

[eclipt1cs]

the  embrace,   more than  comforting,   feels  undeserved.     she  has  done  nothing  to  earn  it.     years  of  neglect,   of  abandonment  in  fear  of  being  left  first,   weigh  heavy  on  her  chest,   and  still  she  folds  without  resistance,   forehead  pressing  against  hira’s  neck  as  though  she  would  be  able  to  hide  there  forever.     the  scent  of  her  is  painfully  familiar:     a  yearning  so  powerful  overtakes,   for  those  simple  moments  of  childhood,   when  she  had  been  just  a  girl  with  scraped  knees  and  harmless  nightmares,   seeking  reassurance  from  the  warmest  source.     those  monsters,   born  from  imagination,   could  be  slain.     this  grief  cannot.     while  her  mother  speaks,   shattered  and  aching  but  never  broken,   viserra  squeezes  her  eyes  shut,   willing  to  make  herself  believe.         ❝         but  what  if  she  does  not  return?     what  if  she  is     —         ❞         gone,   swallowed  by  the  waves  and  imprisoned  away  from  them,   thousand  miles  down  to  the  seabed.     what  if  she  has  died  without  knowing  that  i  love  her?     what  if  she  has  left  unaware  that  i  need  her,   more  than  i  ever confessed?     as  a  child,   delfina  had  been  her  strength,   an  impossible  ideal  to  imitate,   but  one  she  would’ve  wished  to  become,   had  she  not  strayed  and  destroyed  precious  bonds  instead.     she  had  wasted  so  much  time since then.     on  what?     isolation  and  silences,   rebellions  against  the  heart  which  have  left  her  alienated,   which  were  meant  to  protect  her  from  future  horrors  and  future  slights.     if  she  had  been  right,   why  does  this  hole  in  her  stomach  gnaw?     why  does  it  spread,   unstoppable,   if  her  methods  should  have  slain  it  before  it  could  grow?            

❝         i’m  sorry,         ❞         her  realization  has  not  reached  full  bloom.     it  is  hard  to  accept  wrongdoings,   after  all,   when  you  are  used  to  swallowing  them  whole.     she  does  not  quite  possess  the  correct  words  of  repentance,   not  yet.     when  hira  pulls  back  to  cradle  her  cheek,   the  gentle  contact  burning,   her  gaze  flutters  shut,   tears  wetting  her  lashes.         ❝         i  have  been  so  selfish,   momma.     i     …     i  should  have  been  better  for  her.     for  you.         ❞         some  say  old  habits  are  stubborn  even in  death,   and  a  part  of  her  would  scream  in  agreement,   reproaching  that  she  ought  not  to  mention  this,   not  to  think  of  this,   but  it  scorches  her  insides,   threatens  to  rip  through  her  skin.     finally,   she  looks  at  her  mother  again,   straightening  her  spine  in  an  effort  not  to  crumble.         ❝         what  are  we  going  to  do?         ❞

[rottedhearts]

what  if  she  does  not  return?  the  question  that  haunts  her  every  waking  moment.  she  has  no  answer.  logic  demands  they  continue  marching  forward,  but  their  hearts  ---  how  could  you  survive  without  the  best  part  of  it?  hira  pets  viserra's  hair,  the  struggle  to  answer  plain  on  her  face.

"no  matter  the  selfishness,  viserra,  you  are  ours.  delfina  loves  you  fiercely,  and  i  know  you  do  her."  she  doesn't  know  if  this  brings  true  comfort.  not  when  delfina  isn't  the  one  speaking  assurances.  but  there  is  a  piece  of  truth,  for  hira  watched  delfina  crumble  in  her  worry  for  viserra.  love  is  the  prologue  to  grief,  and  both  delfina  and  viserra  wrote  in  equal  parts  to  theirs.

hira  places  a  gentle  kiss  upon  her  daughter's  forehead.  a  moment  to  compose  herself  too,  blinking  fast  to  sweep  the  tears  dry.  gripping  viserra's  shoulders,  she  finds  viserra's  gaze.  "i  will  not  tell  you  to  harbor  no  regrets;  an  impossible  task,  and  one  i  cannot  bear  either.  so  hold  them  close.  but  tomorrow  ---  tomorrow,  you  will  do  better.  you  will  be  better.  one  day,  you  will  look  back  and  realize  how  far  you've  walked  from  who  you  were  then.  and  i  will  walk  beside  you."

it  will  not  be  enough  to  ease  the  pain  of  delfina's  absence.  it  never  will  be.  but  it  is  a  start.  in  all  the  lessons  born  from  watching  her  siblings  die,  it  remains  the  near  constant:  a  new  beginning.

another  stroke  of  viserra's  hair.  swallowing  hard,  she  finally  answers  the  lingering  question.  "we  will  search  for  your  mother.  but  we  must  fortify  in  the  meantime.  there  will  be  many  who  will  circle  us,  waiting  to  see  how  we  falter.  they  will  be  fools  if  they  don't  ---  and  that  includes  lord  bolton."  a  reminder  that  she  knows  of  the  affair,  and  the  explosive  trigger  to  the  fight.  "so  a  decision  is  to  be  made:  in  your  mother's  absence,  will  we  stand  by  maekara?"

she  knows  her  answer.  she  understands  the  cruelty  in  asking  this  when  viserra  clutches  her  tight.  but  it  doesn't  change  the  truth  of  the  matter,  and  that  viserra  must  choose.

[steelworn]

"i  suppose  you  have."  devrim  lets  a  small  laugh  leave  his  lips,  shaking  his  head  at  her  quip.  she  had  always  been  smart,  quick,  something  he  had  loved  to  keep  up  with  when  they  were  younger.  it  had  been  years  now,  the  last  time  after  his  son  had  been  born  and  a  horse  was  given  as  a  gift.  over  a  decade  ago  now,  nearing  fifteen  years.  it  almost  feels  as  if  he  is  seeing  a  ghost,  like  the  halls  of  the  red  keep  were  going  to  fall  to  ruin  around  him  and  he  would  instead  be  standing  back  at  harrenhal.  "still  at  your  work  after  all  these  years?  what  a  fine  woman  you  are,  lady  myria."  only  years  prior  to  his  son  being  born,  he  had  loved  the  lady  bracken  as  he  loved  his  lady  wife.  time  moves  quickly  it  seemed,  those  days  but  memories  now.  "for  too  long  i  suppose,  but  the  city  never  sleeps  i  am  afraid."

[rottedhearts]

"sweet-talker." an insult to most others, but delivered with warm affection to the kingsguard. an advantage of a shared past; an underlying acknowledgement of a love she held dear once upon a time.

she looks at him for a moment. sweeps her gaze over his face, taking the new lines, the few gray hairs, and the sorrow in his eyes.

"get some other lad to watch for a while," she says, quiet and soft. then her voice raises, tone rising in faux haughtiness that perhaps only devrim would catch. after all, she mimicked her own mother in this way time and time again in their youth. "i'd like an escort back to my chambers, and i'd rather have a familiar face to speak to than another boring knight."

[steelworn]

betha  would  not  say  she  was  standing  guard,  but  anyone  walking  through  the  sickbeds  would.  her  cousins  had  bravely,  yet  foolishly,  ran  in  front  of  a  dragon.  (something  every  knight  would  do,  but  betha  had  stood  paralyzed  with  a  fear.  how  could  she  be  a  knight  if  she  could  not  protect  anyone?  if  she  did  not  jump  in  front  of  danger?)  she  would  make  sure  their  fates  were  closely  monitored  by  her.  "i  cannot  stop  you  from  visiting,  my  lord,  but  my  cousins  remain  in  a  state  that  is  grim  and  i  do  not  think  a  conversation  is  what  they  seek."  her  sword  is  at  her  side,  her  hand  clutching  the  hilt  as  she  attempts  to  remain  strong  against  the  ruling  lord.  "perhaps  i  can  take  their  place  if  you  wish  to  speak."

[rottedhearts]

"well."  it's  all  he  can  say  at  first.  for  all  her  courteous  words,  he  did  not  believe  she  would  easily  allow  him  through  to  speak  to  the  swann  siblings.  running  tongue  over  teeth,  he  shrugs.  "perhaps  you  can.  you  squired  with  one  of  them,  no?  you  must  be  a  fearsome  fighter  then.  however,"  ---  he  taps  his  finger  against  the  back  of  her  hand,  tilting  his  head  toward  the  hilt  she  grips  tight  ---  "let  us  not  meet  on  opposite  sides  of  the  battlefield,  yes?  i  think  that's  something  we  can  agree  upon  despite  the  family  feud,  hmm?"