dwell in possibility.

malee westerling น้ำหวาน, nine and twenty, lady of the crag and somsri family of shenlong.

[saffroninsilk]

♛ → THE WESTERLANDS present(s) MALEE WESTERLING, the LADY of THE CRAG. when the dragons danced in the sky they thought the GREENSwould still fly, but in the blink of an eye, they would all die. the TWENTY NINE year old FEMALE who was INSIGHTFUL & SERENE before they saw the first of the flames, is now RESTLESS & CAUTIOUS after seeing the last. lithe fingers weaving intricate tapestries, the smell of jasmine flowers in full bloom, the soft hum of distant waves meeting an endless horizon. ( davika hoorne. )

about | pinterest | spotify.

[anya-snow]

For the majority of the Concord, Anya had perused through the different stands and watched the different exhibits mostly to detect if there was anything that would be worth entering talks for to begin importing into the North. As Head of the Merchants' Guild it was up to her to watch all that wonder with that critical eye and not be simply dazzled by beauty or useless flights of fancy from inventors. She was hunting only for what was durable, necessary, and useful.

The raven-haired lady turned as she heard someone address her directly. She didn't immediately recognize the other one as someone she had spoken to before. Her gaze dropped to her own sleeve, as if reminding herself of what she was wearing. One of the rolls of silk her uncle had given her during his visit had been turned into the black and gold coat she wore. “Thank you, my lady. It's YiTish,” she answered with a polite nod, her fingers absentmindedly brushing at the rim of her sleeve. “It was a gift, brought from Wan”.

She looked at the other lady with that same measured calm, a spark of curiosity inevitably being sparked inside her. “Would I be correct to assume you recognize this sort of craftsmanship?” she asked, regarding the particular gold-thread embroidery on the delicate fabric. To Anya, it seemed like the other woman approached her because she actually recognized the quality of the silk and the decorative motifs, more so than due to mere curiosity about something unknown to her.

[saffroninsilk]

malee’s smile deepened just slightly at the woman’s answer, her gaze lingering for a moment on the sleeve where the gold-thread embroidery caught the light. the pattern was unmistakable, delicate motifs resembling clouds or flowers curling between narrow bands of threadwork, the sort favored by artisans to the east. she had seen it before, years ago, in markets where silk banners stirred like water in the wind.

“you would be correct,” she said softly, the warmth in her tone carrying something quieter beneath it, something almost fond. malee was not so openly emotive, but she felt a sense of giddiness at finding another familiar with a land so dear to her. “it’s difficult not to recognize work of that kind once you’ve spent time around it. the stitching alone gives it away.” her eyes lifted from the sleeve back to anya’s face, thoughtful but open. “wan produces some of the finest silks i’ve ever seen. the goldwork in particular is…distinct.”

she folded her hands lightly before her, posture relaxed despite the small flicker of homesickness the sight had stirred. “i had the fortune to travel through shenlong some years ago. my mother’s family are well known there.” she explained, her voice gentle but matter-of-fact. “i was immersed long enough to learn how much patience and skill goes into something like this. it’s a rare gift to receive.” her gaze returned briefly to the coat, admiring rather than covetous. “your uncle has good taste.”

the lady of the crag stood silent a moment as she admired the fabrics once more. she was not always much for words, preferring to mind her own unless spoken to, or when she needed to. it were not often where she wanted to truly engage in discussion over something that actually interested her. “have you ever visited, my lady…?”

[maidavika]

💐

[saffroninsilk]

setting: highgarden, the verdant concord. malee attends a ladies party one night and endures the evening with an ally by her side ; @cerissalefford

the verdant concord had drawn half the realm to highgarden, it seemed, and tonight the ladies alone were gathered in a large, lamp-lit room fragrant with crushed herbs and summer wine. malee had arrived late enough that the shape of the evening already felt set without her; she could not, for the life of her, determine who precisely was meant to be hosting, only that servants drifted in and out with practiced ease and no one seemed inclined to explain. she found herself seated beside cerissa lefford by a twist of chance or mercy, their places tucked just far enough from the center that they could observe without being immediately claimed.

guinevere had excused herself earlier in the evening, and malee felt the absence keenly as the hour crept later than propriety might have preferred. the room itself had loosened into something ungoverned: women lounged across cushioned benches and low-backed chairs as if the evening had grown too heavy to sit upright, while others stood in drifting knots near the columns and open arches, wine cups balanced precariously in hand. skirts spilled like flowerbeds over the tiles, shoes abandoned beneath tables, laughter rising and falling without pattern. cups were refilled too often now, laughter rising a shade too loud, too sharp. conversations slid sideways, marriages dissected with careless humor, rival houses reduced to punchlines, confidences shared that ought to have remained locked away. malee listened more than she spoke, her expression composed, though more than once she had to glance toward cerissa to steady herself against a remark that landed somewhere between mortifying and absurd.

she leaned closer to her ally, voice kept low, choosing wry observation over retreat. “i can’t recall the last time i’ve been to an event so…lively.” malee lifted her cup only long enough to wet her lips, content to let the night burn itself down around them. “the reach certainly knows how to throw an interesting party, but i think i’m happier as a simple observer than a participant.” her gaze flicked briefly toward the source of the noise, then back again. “did you hear what lady ryewood just said? bold, to loosen one’s tongue so freely in front of so many strangers.”

there was no judgment in her tone, no hint of prudishness; if anything, a quiet note of admiration threaded through it. there was something almost commendable in the bravery of a woman who either cared very little for what she said, or cared very little that wine would loosen her lips enough to say it at all. malee knew then that even if she did not yet belong to this tangle of voices and spilled wine, she could at least endure it, so long as she did not have to do so alone.

[gcuienveres]

♝

the silence that followed malee’s admission stretched long and quiet, as though the room itself held its breath alongside them. guinevere remained where she sat, posture poised but no longer performative—her spine regal not because it must be, but because it was all she knew, as though she were a part of the gilded chair itself. "it always is the end of something, somewhere, malee westerling." guinevere muttered, and yet there was a ringing firmness to her words - that even the saddest of notions no longer were tainted with grief, or goodbyes.

she did not speak bluntly either, or as though she were putting an end to a conversation; she spoke, as though it simply was. as seamlessly of a manner as the gods ceased their will into existence.

glinting emeralds reflected back at her from some yards away, and to catch a brief glimpse of themselves in the mirror was an utterly wretched sight; and yet, one of beauty in itself too - it were hard to ignore the cracks when they were so clearly on show. she drew in a soft breath, as though to steel herself, and for the first time in days, months, weeks, the pride's scandal allowed a ghostly smile to cross her lips and a laugh to slip from whatever still bloomed within her ribcage at the sight of their faces peering back from the reflection.

“you are not the same girl who left for shenlong,” she continued. “and i am not the same girl who watched you go. we have both grown teeth, i think—quiet ones, hidden ones. but mine are sharper when it comes to you. i would see you free, malee. not just in body, but in thought. in choice.”

guinevere rose then, her movements slow and flowing, like water drawn up by moonlight. she crossed to the window and looked out, but her gaze was not truly on the gardens below—it was turned inward, toward some future she had not yet spoken aloud. “this kingdom will keep you if you let it,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “the master of inertia, it will wear you down until you no longer remember that you once desperately wanted and dreamed of more.”

she studied her friend in that steady, paradoxical stillness, and her expression did not shift even as something inside her twisted. she had always known the world was cruel to women, but there was a particular, sharp-edged cruelty that haunted women like malee: women who dared to dream of more than survival. of bamboo forests, of kites, of languages half-forgotten. and of walking away - rumours of how they never truly belonged in westeros, due to their features appearing different. for all the rumours guinevere lannister had found herself making a home within, never had she been told she did not belong - something she were wholly aware of.

guinevere’s eyes drifted to her teacup, but she made no move to drink. instead, her gaze returned to malee, the line of her jaw softening just slightly as it always did when she spoke of matters such as emotions. and feelings.

“i do not bring him up to wound,” she said at last, her voice so low it seemed to blend with the rustle of silk curtains as a gust of western wind flooded into the apartments, a distant sea breeze engulfed in what would soon become an hour of gold. “nor to unearth what you and yours have chosen to leave buried, and i pray you insist it remain so should you wish. yet you looked at me at his name, malee, as though someone had reached inside you and stilled your heart." the breathing in, the expression of weariness: they had only met the once, and yet somehow whoever the lord of hornvale was, had done enough to inflict such a reaction from her.

"he said nothing of substance. i merely am seeking to discover whether he is a man with ambitions sewn into the lining of his doublet.”

[saffroninsilk]

malee did not answer at once. she let guinevere’s words settle the way tea leaves did at the bottom of a cup, dark and slow and inevitable. the room felt smaller for them, or perhaps quieter, the sort of quiet that followed truths spoken without ornament. she watched the other woman by the window, the way the light caught along her profile, and thought how strange it was that endings could sound so much like statements of fact. “yes,” she said at last, softly, not contradicting her. “it always is.” there was no sorrow in it, only recognition. she had learned, east and west alike, that some things ended not with grief, but with acceptance.

she shifted in her chair, folding her hands together, fingers brushing familiar calluses earned from needle and thread. “you are right,” she continued, voice calm but thoughtful. “i am not the girl who left. shenlong gave me more than distance. it taught me how to so much as breathe without waiting for permission.” her gaze lifted then, meeting guinevere’s reflection in the glass rather than her face. “but the wanting has not vanished. it’s only learned patience. and patience can look very much like surrender, if one is not careful.” a faint smile touched her mouth, wry and brief. “i think that is what you fear for me.” beneath it lingered guilt, too, the unspoken weight of leaving guinevere behind, the woman who had given so much of herself and endured more than most ever should.

something in malee’s chest tightened, a quiet ache she did not outwardly show, thoughts of never leaving, if she stayed too long. “these gilded halls are quite good at that,” she said. “they do not cage you outright. they ask you to stay, just a little longer, until leaving feels ungrateful.” she paused, then added more gently, “you have never asked that of me. that is why i listen when you speak of freedom.” it was her way of answering the unspoken loyalty between them, the truth she rarely named aloud.

her composure held, but only just. her fingers stilled, her breath measured more carefully. “you do not wound,” she said after a moment, choosing each word with care. “we were… briefly bound, once, in a time when many poor decisions were made for the sake of stability.” she did not say betrothed. she did not say war. she did not say her brother’s name. “i did not trust him then,” she added quietly, eyes lowering to her teacup, saffron steam curling like a memory she would not follow. “and i do not trust him now. not because of what he says, but because of what he listens for.”

she lifted her eyes back to guinevere, steady and sincere. “if he spoke nothing of substance, i would take that as answer enough. men with true ambition are rarely subtle about it.” there was a pause, and then, softer still, “but if his presence unsettled me, it is not because you asked. it is because some names remind us how close we once stood to losing everything.” she reached for her cup at last, cradling it between her palms. “you have done nothing wrong by wondering. and i will not have you doubt yourself for it. a man like elys brax, i think, has ambition sewn into his very soul, much less his doublet, if he has even that.”

malee took a slow sip of her tea, savoring the warmth. “though it was long ago,” she added quietly. “we were all different then. perhaps i am speaking more from feeling than from truth.”

[younescorbray]

there was something in malee's demeanour that unsettled younes deeply, though he could not truly say what it was that had him out of sorts. perhaps it was just that he was so worked up he would have spiralled further at the slightest of provocations, seeing insult and suspicion where there was none to be found. he followed her further into the docks, eyes darting left to right, taking everything in.

it was all a little too convenient that she just happened to know a yitish trader, he thought, listening to the two of them converse in words he could not understand. was she truly interceding on his behalf, or were they trading secrets, mocking him, thinking about how further to empty his pockets?

the latter. the moment malee spoke of coin, his demeanour shifted, the gleam in his eye that sparked might have been confused for playfulness had there not been more than a tinge of mania to it. he would not be cheated twice - even if he was inclined to be gullible. he had no more coin to spare.

"coin," he let out a sharp hiss of a laugh, though there was no amusement in it. "of course he does." he stepped closer to the merchant, eyes fixed on his, though when he spoke, it was still malee to suggest. "it is lucky for the gentleman here that i am feeling generous," he said. "generous enough to give him another chance to tell me what he knows, before i throw him into the harbour and let the water take him."

[saffroninsilk]

malee moved to speak again with the merchant, though she could practically feel younes’ gaze burning into the back of her skull. the man seemed to square his shoulders at the threat, pride settling over his features like armor. though he made no effort to speak the common tongue, by choice or otherwise, he clearly understood enough to catch younes’ meaning.

the lady of the crag turned toward him, her expression composed even as her pulse quickened. the last thing she needed was to be caught between his temper and a man’s wounded pride. “what good would it do to drown the only one who can give you such answers?” she asked evenly, her tone a quiet reprimand. swiftly, malee reached into her coin purse, withdrew several coins, and placed them into the merchant’s open palm before slipping back into the rhythm of her mother's tongue, asking for a name, a manifest, anything of substance.

the exchange was brief, but fruitful. when he gave his answer, she inclined her head in thanks, then turned back to younes, stepping a few paces away to keep distance between them and the merchant. “he says it is with captain liu’s ship,” she relayed. “they were delayed by a summer storm, forced off their usual course. he expects it within three days.” she drew in a slow breath, easing the tension from her shoulders as she exhaled.

“see? only a delay,” malee said softly. “unless fate has more mischief planned, you should have your shipment soon enough.” her gaze flicked toward the crowd, scanning for a familiar face among her retinue before glancing back at him. “now, you’ll need to escort me back.”

[dcmsonidris]

davika hoorne | 🌤️ instagram update (210620)

[younescorbray]

where her calm demeanour may have soothed another lord, it only agitated younes further. it was all too rehearsed, the very mark of a woman with something to conceal, and frankly, he didn't believe an inch of it. "i don't know how you westerlanders get your kicks, do i?" he scoffed. "you probably did it just for fun. i don't know, lady westerling, and frankly, i don't care." what he did care about was that he invested money he couldn't afford to lose, on something he didn't have.

it wasn't even really about the flowers anymore, though it was a severe annoyance. his pride was dented more than he cared to admit, the dawning horror of wasted money scratching at him. and she had the gall to stand there, looking at him like he'd just grown an extra head, after planting the seed at watching him chase it halfway across the world.

"let it say what it says about me. i care not." he'd done enough humiliating things in the name of money, and it had left him with relatively thick skin when it came to what was said what he was not present. "you know what happened to them. and i know you know. whatever this performance you're putting on, you've chosen the wrong man." it was an insult to his intelligence to pretend otherwise. "if it was truly meant for me? i paid for it. of course it was meant for me." at this point, he had no point what she was on about, until her next words fell from her lips.

it was the mention of the yi tish trader that had his suspicions flaring again - she just happened to know one, who just happened to be here today, on the day he was missing a shipment from yi ti? too much of a coincidence. they were clearly in cahoots. "take me to this trader, then. see what he has to say for himself." he needed to see them together. then he would find something to prove her guilt.

[saffroninsilk]

malee did not flinch at his anger. she simply folded her hands before her, posture unbothered despite the weight of his words. she let him speak, as she often did for men in the court of the west. it were not just out of politeness but because she understood that people needed to let the heat bleed out before they saw clearly again. her gaze drifted past him, toward the docks, where the bustle of the port and seabirds in the air carried on without pause.

“well, you did not do business with me, so i am only taking your word for it,” she pointed out, but she did not press further, now. “this way,” she said quietly, stepping lightly into the stream of foot traffic, weaving through dockworkers and foreign traders with an ease that came from years of observation. she did not glance back to see if he followed.

there was a part of her that still hesitated, not out of doubt in her ability, but from that quiet, ever-present worry that speaking her mother’s tongue aloud might feel too much like exposure. even here, so far from shenlong, something about it made her chest tighten. she craved it, yes, but it frightened her too. freedom had always carried the shape of her mother’s homeland, and that shape was not always soft.

when she spotted the merchant, settled on a crate near the edge of the harbor, robes loose and sleeves rolled in the heat, she paused just long enough to draw breath. then she stepped forward, her voice warm and fluid as she addressed him in yitish, careful, respectful, and clear. she asked after the shipment as though she had every right to ask. and in that moment, maybe she did.

she turned back to younes after a brief exchange, expression unreadable but voice quiet enough for just the two of them. “he says he might know something of a jasmine shipment,” she told him, a hint of something careful in her voice. “but he’s not feeling generous...he wants coin in exchange.”

[saffroninsilk]

setting: the verdant concord ; starter for @anya-snow

malee drifted through the verdant concord without a fixed destination in mind, her pace unhurried, her eyes drawn more to the people than the exhibits themselves. there was something wondrous, and slightly overwhelming, about it all: minds from every corner of the world gathering to offer glimpses of their craft, their beliefs, their imaginings. it left her with a quiet ache in her chest. so much of the world she'd only brushed the surface of. and still, even in all this variety, nothing tugged at her heart the way the memory of shenlong did.

the scent of sweet smoke and blooming vines hung in the air, wrapping around her as she passed shaded pavilions and clustered crowds. a gentle swell of music led her toward a small stage where a demonstration was beginning, but it wasn’t the performance that held her. at the edge of the audience, a woman stood turned just enough for malee to catch a glint of familiar silk. her breath caught, not dramatically, but in that small way one might blink at a half-remembered dream made real. yitish silk, she knew it as intimately as her own skin.

she moved closer, the expression on her face steady, almost unreadable, save for a softness at the corner of her eyes. restraint had been taught to her early and well, but she didn’t deny herself this small moment of wonder.

“pardon me,” she said gently, drawing near to the woman with a warm, respectful nod. “i couldn’t help but admire your dress, the silks are beautiful. would you be willing to share where you found them?”

[gcuienveres]

♝

guinevere breathed in the silence that followed malee’s words, and when she exhaled, it came like the final curl of incense rising from a brazier—soft, solemn, and scented with resignation. there was no argument in her. no protest. only that breath, the breath of one who knew herself best when surrendering. her hands, delicate as ever and wrapped in rings that no longer glittered for pleasure but for politics, folded neatly into her lap. the firelight caught on the edge of her white-gold sleeve, making her appear, just for a moment, as though she were glowing. she turned her head slowly now, and for the first time, truly looked at malee.

the way one might look at a garden one had not walked in since childhood, the kind that had long since grown wild. “you know, i would have you free, malee westerling. in body, not merely in spirit. and should that day come where you choose the forests of shenlong—of bamboo and the strange beasts i am half-convinced are a lie—i would not ask you to stay. have your reasons, but i do insist i am not one of them.”

freedom was the most precious of gifts; and yet here she was, once again denying it despite it being all but placed on her lap. she accepted defeat then, with a slight sigh. "then you will stay,” she said at last, and her voice carried not triumph, but grace in acceptance of defeat. “and i will pretend i am glad for it.” there was a harsh love to the words of guinevere lannister, an echo of her mothers words and mannerisms which she had not yet even discovered and acknowledged for herself. she did not look at malee as she spoke. her eyes wandered to the latticed shadows cast across the tiled floor, to the long silk curtains that danced like spectres in the draught.

she had always known how to speak without confronting, how to cloak the truth beneath silk and ceremony. “i will speak with you of this again by the middle of the year. but the plan will be ready before that.”

but in the presence of malee westerling, even guinevere lannister found herself pulled into the realm of the real, rather than that of the spiritual and the holy. she had resorted to remaining within a golden cage, rather than amongst those who had always treated her like true family. true kin, in that distant world that felt like something from a fantasy to the westerosi. “you were not at the ball, were you?” she murmured, and now her eyes did shift—first to the dying coals, then to the woman seated across from her.

“i will confess to waiting for the hour to close. i sat through all the dances, all the false laughter, apart from one. her majesty was... radiant. she thrives there. like a rose placed just where it might bloom. it was good to see her in her element.” there was no envy in her tone, nor bitterness. only observation, as if she were speaking of a painting she had studied many times but never understood. “i only danced once." her hand reached slowly, delicately, to her hair, and with practised care she unclasped the white diamond pin that had held her mane in place all day. the gold tresses fell in soft waves, heavier now, as if relieved to be free. she did not bother to smooth them.

“there was a man there. a lord elys brax."

she poured tea then, her movements slow, practised. she always poured for malee first. always. the scent of osmanthus petals and saffron steeping filled the room, golden and warm, like sunlight in winter. “and for a moment, i wondered if he knew you,” she said, and now her voice held something lighter, though it was not quite hope. there was something else in her tone, as though she were weaving together memories from years past, memories that she did not wholly have on hand herself but a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach.“does he?”

[saffroninsilk]

malee’s lips parted, not quite to speak, but to breathe, to let something rise up through her like a tide stopped just short of the shore. the words touched her like wind through sheer silk, light and impossible to hold, and yet they stirred something deep, unspoken.

guinevere did not often say such things plainly. even her truths came dressed in satin, but this… this was bone-deep. raw in a way that only restraint could make cutting.

“you always speak like it is the end of something,” malee said softly, and her voice held a fragile hush, almost somber, like snow just beginning to fall. “as if you know you’ll lose me, one way or another.” and she would, at some time or another. whether it be to a husband as would be her duty, or to the ocean between westeros and essos. it would not be the end of friendship, nothing would truly sever such a thing, but malee knew at one point, yet again, something would pull them apart, not matter how she tended to fight it.

she turned her cup in her hands, letting the steam rise between them. she didn’t meet guinevere’s gaze either. it felt too much like opening a gate she wasn’t ready to walk through.

“the middle of the year,” malee echoed, in quiet agreement, though something flickered faintly beneath her words. she looked to the fire again, but her gaze had gone inward. freedom, after all, was a heavy thing. not just the walking away, but the knowing there would be no one left to tell you how or where to go. no duties to pin you in place, no rituals to fold yourself into. she longed for shenlong with every bone in her body. and yet, she feared it in the same measure. the wide sky. the unfamiliar quiet. the chance that it would not feel like home at all, not really, just another story she’d told herself to endure what was never meant to fit.

“i wasn’t at the ball,” she said at last, and her voice had a threadbare quality to it, honest, without armor. “i meant to be. i even had the dress laid out. but the hour came and,” she shook her head gently. “i couldn’t step into it. not this time. i feigned a headache."

malee finally took a breathe, inhaling the aroma within the porcelain cup in her hands, lifting it gently to her lips, but when the name came, elys brax, she did not sip. her hand stilled against the porcelain rim, so slight a hesitation it might’ve passed unnoticed by anyone else. but not gwen. not someone who had learned her silences. not someone who had learned her stillnesses, too.

“yes,” she said after a beat, voice even, as though pulling it from behind a curtain. “we were briefly betrothed. during the war.” she kept her gaze on the tea, not the woman across from her. “it was never meant to last, i don't think. not really. it ended while i was in shenlong."

a pause. she breathed in, slowly. “i only met him briefly, but i never liked the way he looked at people. it was... as if everyone were some puzzle, and he already knew the answer. smug men make dangerous husbands.” it was almost a joke, except it wasn’t. she took a sip then, if only to steady the heat behind her ribs. not from the tea.

she didn't mention her brother. didn’t say his name. she never did, not in connection to brax. not out loud. but the thought rose sharp in her like a splinter just beneath the skin. she wondered why gwen had brought him up now. wondered if this was some sort of game he was playing, sidling into balls and dances like a shadow from another chapter.

“did he say something?” malee asked at last, lifting her eyes. there was no accusation in her voice. only a thread of wariness, quiet and unmistakable. “or were you simply curious?”

[younescorbray]

for a moment, younes stared at her. she shrugged. she actually had the gall to shrug. as though this wasn't the single most inconvenient betrayal of younes' week, if not month. he exhaled a sharp burst of air through his nose. it was an attempt to keep his temper, when he could feel his temper slipping from his grip, and his hold on it was tenuous at best to begin with.

"right. innocent as a lamb," he muttered, gesturing broadly towards malee. "of course you don't know anything about it. it's just a staggering coincidence that you happen to be swanning about on this exact wharf on this exact day, while my very expensive, very rare, very romantic gesture is nowhere to be seen." it was not just anger in his voice - it rang with an injured pride, the look in his eyes nothing short of venomous.

"i should have known," he jabbed his finger at her, his next words spoken in a mockery of her voice. "'oh, lord corbray, in yi ti they have this rare flower that makes all the ladies swoon'. admit it. it was a trap. you set a trap, and i walked straight into it. well, i hope you're pleased with yourself, lady westerling."

he was about to ask if she had any idea how much it cost him - but she must do. or else, she wouldn't have needed to concoct such a plan to begin with. no, malee westerling knew exactly what she was doing, and like a fool, he had danced like a puppet on her strings.

she was entirely too unbothered by the whole thing for his liking. too composed, too confident. he knew a little something about telling lies, and she was too effortlessly composed for it to be real. it was always the composed ones, he thought, that were all the more dangerous, the ones who made spinning a tale look like art.

"you know, i almost believe you," he said, his hands coming to clasp behind his back. "yet you expect me to believe this is all a coincidence? you insult my intelligence, lady westerling. you planted the seeds in my head, and now you claim my prize."

[saffroninsilk]

the sea breeze tugged at the hem of malee’s robe as younes spoke, no, accused. the world moved around them in frantic, salt-stained disarray: gulls shrieked, dockhands shouted, sails cracked in the breeze. but she stood still, unshaken, even as his voice pressed harder, trying to break something in her that had already weathered far worse.

for a breath, she said nothing. just watched him, studied him, as one might a storm rolling in over still water. there was pride in his anger, yes, but he almost seemed betrayed, as if she had carefully laid out some plan to trap him.

“if i had wanted the flowers, lord corbray,” she said softly, “i would have purchased them myself. not stolen them from you like some... thief skulking about the docks.” her words weren’t sharp, not quite, but they were cool, tempered like a blade folded a thousand times. “i didn’t set a trap, but you should think more carefully before giving weight to passing words.”

her eyes flicked down to the planks between them, then back up to meet his, calm and dark. “i mentioned them in passing. a single mention. i did not beg you to go chasing after them across oceans.” her chin lifted slightly, proud but not cruel. “that you did, that you invested so deeply in the idea, says more about you than it does about me.”

and yet, she didn’t step away. despite the jabbing of his finger, the mockery in his tone, malee couldn't help, but pity him, there was almost desperation to his demeanor. she wondered how much this would cost him, how much he needed it.

the lady turned slightly, the fine silk of her sleeves catching the light as she lifted her gaze toward the rows of ships anchored in the harbor. sails bearing markings from across the world, banners faded from salt and sun. too many places. too many hands.

“if it truly was meant for you,” she went on, still not quite looking at him, “then it’s likely still here. waiting. lost beneath someone else’s name, or misspoken in translation.” then she glanced at him, just briefly, cool and even.

“there’s a yitish trader i recognize from my brother’s routes. he’s on the manifest for today’s docks, third vessel down.” a pause, then the faintest arch of a brow. “i can speak with him. it may be faster than relying on...however you've managed to effectively communicate thus far.”

it wasn’t kindness, not exactly. but it wasn’t cruelty either. it was efficiency. pride. and perhaps, under it all, a sliver of something harder to name. “if you’d rather sulk than find what’s yours,” she added, turning now with a swish of her layered skirts, “you’re welcome to stay here and throw accusations at seagulls.”

[gcuienveres]

♝

guinevere’s gaze did not flicker. not even for a moment. she had grown too used to the stillness, to becoming the marble upon which others projected their grief, their fury, their awe. her body may have softened beneath the silk and shadow, but her expression remained carved in ivory—serene, untouchable, inscrutable. only her eyes, deep and endless and ever tired, betrayed her - only in the slight crack that came from her lips turning downward, as though the soft grace of malee westerling was enough to bring something to the surface.

emerald hues lingered on malee’s face longer than necessary, as if she were memorising it, as if she feared that someday soon, she would forget the warmth of it, the quiet strength threaded through every word the other woman offered her. the mention of eating caused her to nod ever so slightly, the quiet reminders to eat brought her much sense of normality - normality, and complete control. "could you send word to the attendants?"she brought her leg to rest over the other, looking as though she were thinking as her hand rested below her chin. "cod, no butter nor oil, with some stewed greens."

should she tell her everything? when she had already uttered a lie so casually to her face? would she do it again?

“truthfully, there is much you should know,” she said at last, and the words settled heavily in the space between them, thick as incense smoke. her voice was low and reverent, as though she were speaking not to a friend, but to a saint, or a statue that might shatter if she dared raise her tone. “alas, i won’t.” her fingers flexed against the armrest, thumb brushing over the edge where the wood had splintered, unnoticed until now. it caught on her skin, just barely, but she did not move.

“i would sooner go to my grave with the taste of ash on my tongue than see your conscience weighed down by truths that are not yours to carry., malee westerling.” her lashes lowered, casting long shadows along her cheeks. “and if you are to be weary with me, i regret to tell you frankly, i will endure it." she lifted her gaze once more, chin tilting slightly in that familiar, regal way—something not learned but bred into her, the echo of a thousand women who had ruled without thrones and bled without recognition. the fire crackled softly beside them, casting gold along her profile, a queen painted in ruin and reverence.

“you remember the promise i made you,” she continued, not asking but stating. “the night after the snowfall in the rosewood garden." when they spoke of the rivers of shenlong and the scent of spice on her skin, guinevere lannister had told her then, with all the foolish pride of a young woman who thought the world would bend to her will, that she would see her home. guinevere leaned forward slightly, not enough to disturb the illusion of distance, but enough that the words came gentler, lower, closer to confession. her hand reached upward, almost absentmindedly unclasping a white diamond clip from keeping her golden locks pinned tightly behind her head, a slight breath escaping from her lips.

“if you still wish it, the path remains open. you need only name the season, and i will ensure it. they will not know you are gone until it is too late to stop you. and i...well, i will not chase you." there came a lack of sorrow in her words; it was not her right to chase malee westerling. it was not her ordained, godsgiven right to pull the woman from where her roots so deeply intertwined - but rather, she would hope all paths remained clear and open for her friend. "i will only write, and hope you answer.” she let the silence linger after that, letting her gaze drift toward the fire, though her mind remained fixed on the woman at her side. malee could see the stone that guinevere had become—but she had also seen the blood that once ran beneath it. that had to be enough.

"we both know, there is no true reason for you to stay."

[saffroninsilk]

malee had always craved home.

not the one she was born into, with stone corridors and maesters who spoke of duty as though it were love, but the one shaped by scent and silence, by steam curling from teacups and the crisp press of her mother’s robes. she had dreamt of shenlong not as a place, but a feeling: quiet certainty. ritual. a rhythm older than her restlessness. for years, it had called to her like a distant drumbeat under her skin. even now, in the flicker-light of a storm-chased evening, she could smell the flora and fauna that never grew in westeros. she missed it so sharply she could taste it.

and yet, she stayed.

because guinevere had always been there. long before the yearning for elsewhere had formed a language in her chest, there was gwen. they were two girls made wary by different shapes of silence, one taught to endure, the other to obey, and they’d found in each other not escape, but recognition. malee had cared for her with the same steadiness she brought to her stitching, quiet and meticulous. and she worried for her, too. not because guinevere was fragile, she was not. she had teeth and a spine of steel, had survived things that would’ve broken stronger-willed women. but strength was not a shield against loneliness. against weariness.

and though she was not bound by oaths, or rings, or titles, malee had found it difficult, perhaps impossible, to leave her behind.

she hadn’t said as much. she never did. but her presence, her silence, the way she made sure guinevere ate and rested, the way she steeped tea only they drank together… all of it was a tether. as firm as any vow.

“i do have reason to stay,” she said again, quieter now, as though confessing it to the fire rather than to guinevere. “not all of them wise. not all of them kind. but they are mine. and for now... they keep me rooted.”

her fingers brushed over the edge of her sleeve, thumb ghosting a thread she had stitched there herself, deep green, almost black, the same shade as the forests that once lined the valley outside her mother's ancestral home. her voice lingered, low and calm, edged with something ancient in its patience.

she rose slowly, the fabric of her gown whispering across the floor. the room held a warmth now, though it was not only from the fire. something had softened, even if neither of them would name it aloud. “when the time is right,” she continued, pausing by the door, “when the air is clearer, and we are not always waiting for the next tremor beneath our feet… then i will think on it again."

from there, she spoke softly to the waiting guards. “a tray for two, cod, no butter or oil. stewed greens.” a breath. “and the saffron blend from my vanity.”

the tea was hers, yes, but it had been hers since before. saffron for clarity, lavender for peace, a hint of dried orange peel for memory. it was the taste of early morning scrollwork, of her mother’s voice reciting ancient stories, of a promise made by the sea’s edge in another life entirely. she hadn’t brewed it in months.

returning to her seat, she glanced to the fire again, watching as one log split and crumbled, red embers blooming like scattered jewels.

“we don’t have to speak of it more tonight,” she said softly, folding her hands in her lap. “but we should eat. and drink something warm.”

then, turning her head toward guinevere, she added, with a small flicker of a smile, “it’s a strong blend. it’ll keep your thoughts from turning to ghosts, if only for an hour.”

[fortheakhirah]

☯

he listened—intently, more than he had expected himself to, despite the fact he found himself quietly judging her stance whilst wielding the katana, and also ensuring she did not end accidentally cutting herself with the blade. her words stirred something quiet in him, like a soft wind bending the tall reeds that edged the shores of tarth. most people who spoke of their homeland did so with pride, or with longing, or with some forced poetry that reeked of what they thought they ought to feel. but not her. no, lady malee westerling spoke of shenlong with something else—this was not nostalgia, nor was it obligation. it was... search. and it caught him off guard.

she said she was trying to understand herself. openly, plainly, without a veil of performance. he blinked, once. it took him a moment to realise he was surprised. not by what she said—people were always trying to 'find themselves,' though most wrapped it in riddles and half-truths—but by the fact that she said it aloud. to him. there was something oddly admirable in that. unsettling, even, in its sincerity. “well, that’s rare,” he said finally, voice low, almost reluctant to disturb the quiet that had settled between them like mist on a mountain.

“most people search for themselves in others. in titles. in victory and when they can’t find what they want, they blame the world for hiding it from them.” he watched her fingers trace the hilt once more, and for a fleeting moment, imagined what it might be like to feel unmoored like that—to not know where one began or ended. it was foreign to him. he truly searched for himself in carrying through the deeds of knighthood; fulfilling quest after quest, standing his ground in the face of adversary and corrupt councilors. that was akhirah, he knew that of himself like he knew the back of his mind.

“i have never felt that,” he admitted, and the honesty surprised even him. “i know myself. i always have. i know where i begin—on the isle of tarth. i am... of that place. probably shaped me before i could even stand.” he paused, thoughtful. as much as he loved his home, it was not often he found himself wishing to return. “i do not envy you, lady malee. but i do not pity you either.”

his gaze dropped, following the line of her arms as they adjusted the blade again. the weight still sat awkwardly in her grasp, but there was grace in the attempt. patience, as she had said. still, something stirred in him as she spoke of the riverbed. of beginnings. she said it like it were obvious—that one must start low, at the base of things. but to him, it felt wrong. he’d been half listening, half watching the way she adjusted her grip again, still mindful of the katana’s balance against her wrist. the way she spoke, there was always meaning folded within meaning, and for a moment he’d thought she’d meant to speak in metaphors again—about rivers and renewal, about beginnings and foundations. but no. she meant it plainly.

he exhaled softly through his nose, the sound barely audible, but his jaw tightened just so. not in anger. not in condescension. simply in certainty.

“the riverbed is too open,” he said after a long pause, voice low, his words spoken like stone laid with deliberate weight. “flat ground. exposed angles. it’s the first place i’d go if i wanted to watch someone approach from miles off.” his gaze drifted past her for a moment, as if he could already see the terrain laid out before them, drawn in his mind with the sharp clarity of a man used to mapping danger before it came near. “too many ways to be seen. not enough ways to disappear.” he looked at her again, eyes steady, and though his tone was measured, there was an edge of conviction beneath it. “if they’re clever, they’ll have lookouts posted before the bank ever comes into sight. especially if they’re stationed close to the water for transport. we’ll be in the open before we can see anything. that’s not a risk i take lightly—not with what we’re recovering.”

he let the silence hang, not quite challenging her, but not backing down either. he did not speak in riddles, and he had no need for honeyed words when a truth could stand on its own legs.

“we come in from the ridge,” he said at last, with the quiet resolve of a man who had walked terrain too many others had only read about. “from the east side. forest cover’s thicker there, and the wind turns the scent south—less chance of dogs catching it if they’ve any trained. it’s slower, yes, but we choose our footing that way, not have it chosen for us.” he leaned forward to pick up the last remains of the tea in his cup, draining in one go before placing it back down on the mat before him. "and if anyone tries to attack you, just stab them."

[saffroninsilk]

malee offered a soft smile at his words, but it was the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes, thoughtful, distant, turned inward. her posture was composed, the lines of her body drawn in gentle, deliberate quietude. there was no tension in her limbs, only a settled stillness, like silk laid smooth across a surface. she shifted slightly where she sat, the flickering candlelight catching in the curve of her cheek as her gaze dropped to the table once more.

"stab them," she repeated gently, the words feather-light on her tongue. a quiet amusement tugged at the corners of her lips, restrained but unmistakable. her hand moved again to the hilt of the katana, this time with a touch more ease, though the weight still made itself known in the subtle drag of her fingers. “i suppose that would be the most direct approach.”

her fingers tapped lightly along the scabbard, not with restlessness, but thoughtfulness. each tap fell into a slow rhythm, as if echoing a quiet, internal cadence. she was weighing things, not just steel and blood, but what paths might unfold after.

“and if they strike you first?” she asked, her voice soft, even, a little warmer now, but no less composed. her eyes lifted to his, calm and searching. “what would you have me do?”

the question lingered in the hush between them, unhurried, unafraid. she didn’t look away. there was a quiet resolution beneath her serenity, not fire, not defiance, but something deeper. she would not be left behind, not in action, and not in understanding.

a moment passed before she spoke again. her gaze drifted toward the window, where the wind pressed against the pane in gentle, shifting sighs. shadows moved across the floor like water, and she seemed to study them with the same quiet contemplation she had turned on him.

he had certainty, like stone shaped by time, grounded in a sense of self that didn’t falter. she could see it in the way he sat, the way he spoke. even his silences were rooted. she admired it in the same way she might admire a mountain in the distance, imposing, beautiful, and entirely apart from her.

but she was not stone. never had been. she was river and reed and wind through leaves. she had not been taught to hold her ground, only how to bend without breaking. and still, something within her insisted she find her footing now.

her eyes returned to him, her expression unreadable for a moment, then softened, a small tilt of her head conceding his point about the ridge. “then we’ll go from the east,” she said, steady and sure. “i trust your judgment.”

her hand reached for her cup, graceful in its motion, fingers curling around the ceramic with practiced ease. she took a sip, lukewarm now, but it grounded her, as if even the small act had meaning. she set the cup down with care, the soft sound barely breaking the air between them.

“i do hope you’ve brought a sharp blade,” she murmured, and the faintest thread of dry humor threaded through her tone, “and a strong arm. bamboo doesn’t yield easily, and i doubt either of us want to spend the whole morning cutting a path, not that i think i would make much headway.”

her hands folded neatly once more in her lap. serene. poised. but beneath the composed lines of her figure, there was a quiet readiness. she would follow, yes, but not passively. not blindly.

her voice, when it came again, was quiet, but clear. “we leave at first light, then?”

[fortheakhirah]

☯

as he watched her fingers shift along the hilt, trying to accommodate the weight of the katana in her grasp, akhirah found himself considering whether he should intervene more directly to aid her - torn between his inherrent urge to fix the glade's structure, and ensure he does not cross boundaries. this situation in itself was unusual enough, and he would not push or break boundaries - the curve of the blade was subtle yet decisive, demanding an understanding that could not be forced. watching her only made him recall his own years of training, it had taken him years to refine his own technique—years spent under his father’s watchful eye and his mother’s gentle correction.

the old ways and the new, tempered together in the forge of his childhood.

now, watching lady malee, he saw the familiar tension of a warrior adjusting to a foreign weapon, the instinct to treat it like a blade she knew but that it was not. he reached out, a pause lingering as his fingers hovered over her wrist as he waited for her to nod her head, and then gently guided her arms. “i know, it is heavier than it seems,” he murmured, his tone low but steady as a slight amused smile crossed over his dark features. “your wrist—loosen it, just a bit. let the weight of the blade settle. the katana does not bend to you; you must move with it.” he adjusted her stance, nudging her elbow slightly inward, tilting her grip until it aligned. “there. it should not feel so burdensome now. let it rest in your hand, do not grip so tightly.”

he took a step back, watching as she adjusted. there was a quiet grace to her movements—a discipline honed somewhere far from the halls of westerosi castles. this, he knew, was not simply the posture of a noblewoman trying to prove herself. there was intention, control. the weight of discipline behind her actions. his gaze lingered on the way she turned the blade, considering its weight, the flex of her wrist adapting slowly but surely. a part of him wondered at what had shaped her skill—what training she had endured and who had demanded it from her.

“your daab,” he began, the word awkward but curious on his tongue. “is that some manner of blade from your homeland? from shenlong?” he did not attempt to feign knowledge, for it was not his way to pretend expertise. his ignorance, he had learned, was better admitted than concealed. “i imagine it moves differently than this—quicker, less dependent on weight. more fluid, perhaps?” the question hung between them, a bridge of curiosity he extended willingly. the air in the room felt tempered, the quiet sound of the blade shifting in her grip a whisper against the stillness. he glanced toward the candlelight flickering between them, the shadows cast along the table reminiscent of training halls long past—of his father’s patient reprimands and his mother’s whispered encouragements.

“well, it is a tradition of my house,” he said eventually, his voice steady, though reflective. “men and women alike are taught the blade. the seas around tarth are not kind, and the storms that come can be as cruel as they are unpredictable. our people trade across the narrow sea, and in our absence, the women guard the keep. my mother was no less a protector than my father; she was the first to put a sword in my hand, before my father had even considered me old enough to wield it.” he smiled faintly, a memory threading through the words. “to leave my daughter defenseless—if i had a daughter—would be an insult to her blood. and a failure of mine."

he wondered if she had ever considered such things—the need to fight, to defend, not simply as a duty but as a birthright. for him, it was as much a part of his heritage as the blood in his veins. “you mentioned wanting to understand,” he prompted gently, his gaze returning to her face as he recalled on what it was she had briefly said in a larger portion of words. “what is it, exactly, that you wish to understand? the blade? its nature?” a pause. “or something else?” why is it that women spoke so mysteriously? entirely vague and ambiguous - having them need to be double think and second guess every word.

he found himself watching her expression, the flickers of thought that passed across her features. there was a complexity to her—a labyrinth of intentions and motives that he had yet to map fully. she had already proven herself capable, yet still he wondered. was it the art of the blade she sought to master, or the measure of the man who wielded it? he let the silence settle briefly, giving her room to answer. then, his mind turned back to the matters that had first brought them together—the purpose beyond this room, beyond the quiet exchange of instruction. “the thieves,” he continued, his tone shifting to one of more deliberate inquiry. “the ones who took the silk meant for the merchants’ guild. do you know if they are an organised group? or mere vagabonds?”

he watched her closely, searching for any hint of insight. the bandits’ theft had drawn them together, the path they now followed forged by that single act. if they were to face such a threat, he needed to understand the nature of their opposition. to walk into the unknown with half a map was no better than walking blindfolded. for a moment, he wondered what his father would say of this—of the risks he now measured and the alliances he tentatively forged. but his father’s voice was silent, and in its place remained only his own judgment, tempered by experience and weighted by the responsibility of another’s safety.

[saffroninsilk]

malee stood still for a moment, her fingers gently tracing the hilt of the katana, her thoughts drifting through a haze of memories. she had always been taught to listen to the weapon, to let it speak through her hands. the daab she was familiar with was a blade of grace and agility, one that danced through the air in arcs that mirrored the shifting tides of her homeland, shenlong. it had been light, but quick, with an unspoken fluidity, a companion that moved alongside her rather than against her. she had never known the weight of a blade like this one, solid, decisive, and heavy with the history of its craft.

"the daab," she began, her voice soft but steady, "it is from shenlong, yes. a curved blade, light, swift. it flows like water, and you must move with it, not force it. it's a dance, one that speaks more to the rhythm of the body than to the strength of the arm." she glanced up at him, noting the curiosity in his eyes, a flicker of understanding passing between them. "it's very different from this katana. this one... demands something else from you. patience, precision." she shifted her grip again, testing the weight in her hands, "i can feel its nature—it's as though the blade is not simply an extension of the body, but an extension of the will."

the memory of her grandfather's teachings lingered in the back of her mind, though it had been years since she had held a weapon like this. still, she didn't let it show. she met his gaze with calm confidence, though a flicker of something passed through her eyes, a quiet recognition of her own limitations and the ways she had chosen to learn in silence, far from the eyes of others. there was no shame in that, only the quiet understanding that sometimes, to learn, you had to teach yourself.

malee’s fingers rested lightly on the hilt of the katana, her gaze distant for a moment. a flicker of wistfulness passed over her features, a quiet longing that was quickly softened by the calm of her expression. “it is admirable, the way women in your culture are taught to wield the blade, to stand side by side with men as equals in strength and skill. it must be a gift to carry such traditions so freely, embrace them without question.”

eyes drifted to the flickering candlelight, its soft glow casting shadows on the walls. she folded her hands loosely in front of her, her posture poised but relaxed, as if the weight of her words was something she had carried for a long time. "there is a part of me," she said quietly, her voice thoughtful, "that i’ve never been able to fully touch, to truly understand. shenlong, it’s a piece of who i am, yet it feels like a world i cannot fully enter. in westeros, i am so far from it, and i’ve spent my life trying to bridge that distance. i long to know it all, not just the customs or the ways, but the very essence of it... to feel it in my bones, before it fades completely." her eyes lingered on the flame for a moment longer before she turned her gaze back to him, the quiet longing in her expression barely hidden. "before i must say goodbye, possibly forever."

it was a complicated feeling, one she struggled with since she was a young girl, and the feeling that sunk within the pit of her stomach caused her to quickly shift topics.

when the conversation turned to the bandits, malee’s brow furrowed slightly, the shift in focus grounding her back in the present. she had learned much from the merchant guilds, in preparation for this. "the bandits," she began, her voice becoming more focused, "they are called ‘raksha khon,’ which means 'ghost soldiers.' their name reflects the way they strike, silent, swift, and often leaving no trace. they have been a thorn in the side of the merchant guilds for some time now, targeting trade routes, shipments, and even merchants themselves. no one has been able to pinpoint their leader, and those who try to pursue them rarely return."

she let the weight of the words settle before continuing. "there are rumors that the raksha khon may be connected to larger criminal networks, even some within the city. but no one can say for sure. the guilds are worried, they’ve started hiring more guards, but that hasn’t stopped the attacks. it seems they always know when and where to strike."

malee regarded him quietly for a moment, her expression calm but attentive. "is there anything you’d like to discuss before we depart in the morning?" she asked, her tone steady and open. "any details we should consider or adjust before we set out?" her gaze was patient, giving him space to voice any thoughts or concerns he might have.

"i think we should start at the river's edge," she said thoughtfully, fingers drifted lightly over the surface of the table, tracing an invisible map with a quiet focus. "it’s a natural boundary and gives us cover as we move through the trees. from there, we can make our way north, where the terrain grows denser. it’s a path less likely to be watched, and it will give us a chance to move in relative silence."

[maidavika]

mai davika on vacation ♡

[gcuienveres]

♝

guinevere did not shift beneath her companion’s gaze, though something within her stilled, calcified. the quiet crackle of the fire hummed through the chamber, filling the spaces where hesitation threatened to creep in. she knew what she had to say. she knew how to arrange the words, how to string them together like pearls upon a thread—delicate, perfect, irrefutable. but the truth curled sour at the back of her throat, and she could not swallow it down. she had lied. she had lied, and it should not have been difficult—not after all these years, not after all the quiet betrayals she had wrapped in silk and prayer. and yet, the weight of it pressed against her ribs, a dull and steady ache. the knowledge of it clung to her like the scent of myrrh, suffocating and inescapable. she should not have felt guilty. it was not as though she had never deceived before.

guile had been a necessity, a currency more valuable than gold, and she had spent it freely when required. but this was different. this was malee.

malee, who had stood beside her when so many had turned away, who had held fast when guinevere had become little more than a whisper of what she once was. the years had stretched between them, pulling at the fabric of their bond, fraying the edges until guinevere feared one day it would simply snap. and yet, it had not. malee remained. and she was repaying her with lies. guinevere’s fingers, resting lightly upon the carved arm of her chair, curled inward, nails pressing against her palm. she forced herself to meet malee’s gaze, to hold steady even as the firelight cast shifting shadows across the other woman’s face.

“there is no proof,” she admitted, her voice measured, careful, as though speaking too swiftly would allow the truth of her guilt to slip free. “none but the certainty of my own word. and that is not enough—not for his majesty.” she exhaled, slowly, deliberately. “it will not be the king who is swayed. it will be arron. he will stand where i cannot, speak where i must not. he will make my case undeniable.” and yet still, she could almost hear the sounds of his footsteps echoing against the stones beneath the corridor leading to her apartments, or the sound of the door creaking from the hinge as it is forced open - she knew it would come, sooner rather than later.

she had been a queen once. she had stood upon the heights of the vale, and men had bowed before her. but queens did not outlive their kings, not truly. queens became relics, their power withering like autumn leaves, their influence measured only by the strength of the men who still deigned to hold them close. but even as she shaped the plan in her mind, even as she constructed the path forward with meticulous precision, she could feel the betrayal coiling beneath it. not the betrayal of tyland, nor of court, nor even of malee, though that, too, festered unspoken between them. it was rowan. she did not speak his name, not now, not ever, but he lingered in the air, in the space between her ribs where grief had long since made its home.

she had betrayed him - and it were the final nail, the cut that would always bleed.

it should not have mattered. he was dead. gone. his blood had soaked into the snow, and whatever love had existed between them had been shattered long before his body had grown cold. he was a lie, a falsehood, a deception woven into the very foundation of her life. and yet the thought of turning on him now, even now, even with all she knew, made something recoil within her, as though she were twisting a blade not into him but into herself. it disgusted her. she loathed the feeling, loathed the truth it revealed. she had betrayed the living with far more ease than she could bring herself to betray the dead. what did that say of her? what wretched thing had she become, that her loyalties lay not with those who still breathed, who still stood beside her despite everything, but with a man who had been dead for years?

her gaze lifted to malee’s once more, her expression unwavering, her tone softened only by the barest thread of something weary, something that did not belong in the voice of a princess. “this will not touch you,” she assured, and she would make it so. “if the prince speaks to you, you will tell him you knew nothing. you will repeat it until it is truth, as it is the truth. you knew nothing, and i will ensure you are not forced into any corner on my behalf. you will let it sit between you as though it has always been there.” a pause. her fingers relaxed, smoothing against the silk of her gown. “it will be settled,” she said at last, and though her voice was quiet, there was no room for doubt in it. “it will be done.”

and with that, she let the matter rest. they would always be birds, of champagne and the brightest colour of jade that had been locked within a golden cage - and though she had no choice but to remain here, that did not need to be the truth and nothing but the truth. there could be a way around this, a way for guinevere to ensure malee lived the life she wanted as her own caved in on her. it would be worth it. "perhaps it is perfect timing for you to arrange a visit to your kin in shenlong, if you wish to avoid what court will feel like for the next weeks." months.

[saffroninsilk]

malee watched guinevere in the hush of the chamber, the firelight painting shadows along the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw. she could see the weight pressing against her, heavier than the silk of her gown, heavier than the crown she no longer wore but still carried in the way she held herself.

she would not ask if it was a lie. she would not ask if it was the truth. those things did not matter—not now, not between them. what mattered was that guinevere had spoken, and malee would stand beside her, as she always had.

“i will say it as many times as you need me to,” she murmured, her voice a steady thing, soft but unwavering. “i knew nothing. because i didn’t.”

her fingers traced the seam of her sleeve, a quiet motion, a grounding one. she would not need to pretend. she did not know what had transpired, what hands had moved in the shadows to bring them to this moment. but she knew guinevere. she knew the way she carried her burdens, the way she measured every word before it left her lips. and she knew that there was more.

“but if there is something i should know,” she said carefully, tilting her head ever so slightly, “tell me now.”

her voice did not press, did not demand. it was an offering, nothing more. she would not pry into things guinevere was not ready to speak of, nor would she ask for explanations that were not hers to receive. but if guinevere had something to say, something she needed her to understand before the storm that loomed on the horizon broke over them, malee would listen.

she had always listened.

she let the quiet stretch between them, patient, unafraid of the silence. whether guinevere answered or not, it would change nothing. she would still be here. she would still be the woman who had stood beside her when others had not. if there was nothing more to say, the matter would be settled then. malee would not press, but she would not forget the matter, either. she trusted her friend, with a crown of golden curls upon her head, heavier in itself than any gold that may be placed upon it.

malee let out a slow breath, steadying herself as she let the weight of guinevere’s words settle between them. she had spoken of shenlong, of leaving court, of putting distance between herself and whatever storm was brewing, but the thought of it twisted something deep in her chest.

“it is not time to go,” she said finally, the words quiet but certain. she did not know why they unnerved her so, only that they did. the court of the west made her uneasy, its shifting loyalties and carefully veiled threats pressing heavier with each passing day. but to leave now, to step away when guinevere stood at the heart of something so precarious, it made her just as uneasy. "not yet."

she reached for the other's hand again, just briefly, a touch meant not to anchor but to reassure. “you have always had me, guinevere,” she said softly. “and you always will. whether i am here or across the sea, that will not change.” she pulled her hand back again, placing it into her lap. there was a moment of silence, eyes tracing the room back to the hearth that seemed to be the biggest source of strength and destruction at this moment.

"you should eat something, gwen."

[fortheakhirah]

☯

as akhirah let out a slow exhale, he reflected on her words with a serene sense of stillness, watching the way her fingers idly traced the rim of her cup. his name, his people, and his house were all burdens he had carried without question, weight he had long since accepted. but this—this was different. in these moments, in these tasks, he had always been solely accountable to himself, his mind attuned to the precise calculations of his own survival. now, with her presence altering the path ahead, he found himself in unfamiliar terrain, responsible for more than just his own blade.

leaning forward, he let his fingers brush the hilt of his blade where it sat on the table. the wood and steel were nicely polished, but it was also reassuring. "then you understand why i do this, too," he said, his voice quiet but firm as his fingers folded over the hilt. "if we are to do this, if we are to ride into the unknown, i need to know you can wield a blade when it is necessary." his head leaned to one side slightly as he noticed her reaching for the katana, her fingers curling around its hilt. she was no stranger to the weight of a weapon, but before she could even move, he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way instinct led her to hold the unfamiliar grip.

he exhaled, lifting his hand slightly to stop her without touching her. “not like that.” his voice was calm, even, though there was no mistaking the authority in it. reaching forward, he guided her wrist with the careful certainty of someone who had spent his life understanding the weapon’s nature. “if you draw it like this, the blade won’t flow freely. your wrist is stiff. this is not a longsword to be swung like a club.” he adjusted his own grip in the air, demonstrating the way his fingers curled around the hilt with practiced ease. “tilt the hilt downward, let the draw be the cut. the katana is not meant for hacking—it should move like water.”

he watched her closely as she adjusted, the blade whispering against the scabbard as she attempted to mimic his movements. the small, subtle shift in her grip did not go unnoticed. she was adapting, quickly, adjusting in a way that many failed to grasp. she had some skill, even if she was unfamiliar with the weapon’s weight. her stance was natural, lacking the stiffness he often saw in the untrained. but she had something else, too. an easy certainty in the way she carried herself, a quiet confidence that did not waver even as he corrected her. many in her position would have bristled under his instruction, but she simply studied him with that same measured expression, as if turning over his words in her mind.

he realised then that she was not just some noblewoman playing at adventure. she had learned her way around weapons before; the question was from whom. not just anyone could teach what she seemed to already know. this, too, unsettled him. he was meant to be the one in control. he had prepared for that, for a journey alone, for facing the unknown with his sword and his instincts, and suddenly he had to account for another. he had to trust her to follow his command, but more than that, he had to be sure she would not slow them down.

“better,” he admitted finally, though his tone held a note of assessment rather than praise. “you have some skill.” he watched her for a moment longer, the candle between them flickering, the dim light glancing off the steel. he let out a slow breath. “when we ride tomorrow, i implore you stay close.” his voice was quieter now, but firm, like a hammer striking steel. “you may know these roads, but i know the blade. if a sword comes for you, you don’t meet it. you move.” he let the words settle, tilting his head slightly, his fingers still resting upon the hilt of his katana. he was used to moving as one, responding only to the shifting rhythm of his own breath and balance, to the wind in the trees and the subtle signs of an attack before it came. this—this was different. he was different in this, because of her. he had never been required to account for someone beside him, had never had to measure his own movements against another’s survival. he could not help but wonder if she understood that.

“what was it you trained in?” he finally asked, his voice quieter now, eyes fixed on her hands as she turned the blade in them, feeling out the weight. “not this, surely. and not in westeros.” his fingers tapped lightly against the table. “i imagine that is a story of its own.”

[saffroninsilk]

malee let the weight of the katana settle in her hands, adjusting her grip with quiet focus as she absorbed his instruction. it was unfamiliar, the curve of the blade, the way it asked to be drawn with precision rather than force. her daab had been different—lighter, swifter, its movements like a dance rather than the deliberate flow of water he described. but she listened, watched the way he demonstrated, and followed suit without resistance.

his words did not unsettle her, nor did the assessment in his tone. she had no illusions of mastery, nor did she cling to pride where skill was concerned. she had learned in secret, practiced in the quiet hours when no one was watching. it had been a long time since then.

her gaze lingered on the candle’s flame, the way it swayed with the air between them, then drifted back to him. “not this,” she agreed, her voice soft but certain. she turned the blade slightly, feeling its weight shift in her hands. “one summer, when i was younger… a dhab. my grandfather showed me. my brother's found more interest in the broadsword.” she let the words settle between them for a moment. “my mother found out and forbade it.” her fingers curled briefly, as if remembering the feel of a different hilt, before she let them rest again.

there was no hesitation in the admission, only a quiet understanding of the past. “it was never meant to be mine, not truly. i was never meant to fight.” she let the katana rest in her hands a moment longer before placing it down with care. “but i never wished to fight,” she admitted. “only to understand.” something stirred in her at the words, quiet but deep, a feeling that had shaped her for years without name, but she did not elaborate further.

she exhaled then, a quiet breath, and her lips curved just slightly. “truth be told, i am better trained to use a needle than a weapon.” there was no bitterness in the words, only a wry sort of amusement. “embroidering silk is a far more acceptable pastime for a lady of my standing.” she placed the katana down with care, meeting his gaze with something unreadable in her own. “and yet, i doubt fine stitches would be of much use to us on the road.”

her expression did not shift at his command to stay close, but something in her eyes sharpened, like the edge of a blade left in its sheath. she understood what he was saying, the weight of his concern wrapped in firm instruction. “i will not slow you down,” she said simply. no defiance, no wounded pride, only the quiet certainty of someone who had long understood the necessity of movement, of adapting, of surviving in the spaces where she was never meant to belong.

malee continued, giving a small nod, simple and assured. “i will move,” she said quietly. “i will not meet a sword.” she didn't even want to think that she may have to hold true to her word.

she tilted her head slightly, studying him now as he had studied her. “and you?” the flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows over his face, over the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders. “who taught you?”