who: @jalabharmooton when and where: the riverlands, following the return of queen iona's court to riverrun from the westerlands. their aim had not been met.
the air in riverrun was heavy with failure, a weight that clung to ronan’s shoulders as he walked the dim corridor toward the solar. the court had returned from the westerlands all but battered by rejection; queen iona’s claim dismissed, her rule an affront to king tyland’s rigid notions of order. and in a world where that did not matter, ronan bracken would not give a shit; only, it did matter. they shared a border with the lions, and it would make their lives easier to have them on side rather than against it.
ronan’s steps were measured, his thoughts less so, tumbling through strategies, recriminations, and the glinting specter of gulltown.
when he entered, lord jalabhar motoon was already there, his dark silhouette framed by the hearth’s flickering light. the spymaster—though few called him that aloud—seemed as unmoved as ever, his face a mask of calm. yet, ronan knew ja saw everything. the shadows spoke to him, and in turn, he whispered secrets back into the dark. ronan crossed the room, the fire’s heat licking at his side. he didn’t sit. standing made him feel as though he could still move forward, even when so many avenues had closed.
“we wasted our time,” ronan said, his voice loud and clipped, his thick irish brogue adding weight to each syllable. “three bloody weeks just to hear tyland lannister ramble about ‘duty’ and ‘tradition,’ like they were carved into the seven-pointed star itself.” there was a lace of irritation in his words; ronan did not appreciate feeling as though he had lost. the clang of the goblet against the wooden surface was a pointed hint toward his irritation. “and you knew, didn’t you? you knew we’d be knocking our heads against a stone wall, and still, here we are.”
he exhaled sharply, his frustration flaring but contained. sometimes, dealing with the riverlands was like dealing with a hundred churning currents all at once; and for all his patience, ronan was more stubborn than patient. he hated to see things go wrong. “saltpans,” he continued, the word rough as it left his mouth. “it’s slipping through our fingers. gulltown’s got the trade, the coin, the connections. they’ll snap up the iron bank if we let them. and what do we have? fishwives? crumbling docks? it’s not fuckin enough.”
he began pacing, his boots scuffing the worn stone floor with each deliberate step. “the queen has the heart of the riverlands, but hearts don’t fill coffers. if the iron bank lands in gulltown, the vale will drown in gold, and they’ll bleed us dry, bit by bloody bit. you see it, don’t you?” he stopped abruptly, facing jalabhar directly. “we need leverage,” he said, his voice firm, each word deliberate. “something to force their hand. you’ve got ways of finding things, ja, things that could shift the scales. secrets, weaknesses… gods, even lies, if they’ll do the job. find me something. find me what they’re afraid of losing.”
