who: @rhaena--velaryon when and where: during the first day of the verdant concord, cedric tyrell remains listening to one of the open debate forums, one of many faces within a crowd inside one of highgardens ornate halls. context: this post.
on the first morning of the verdant concord, with the summer sun pouring through the high, painted windows of highgarden’s eastern hall, king cedric tyrell found himself one of many within a throng of courtiers, scholars, and wanderers alike. the hall, once reserved for stately affairs of blood and land, had been transformed for the occasion—swathes of silk draped overhead in tones of ivory and moss, and beneath them, a raised forum circled by tiers of standing guests.
at the centre, two men stood in fierce but civil contention, surrounded by notes, scrolls, and a third figure who merely moderated. it was not war being waged in that room, but the far finer edge of thought. dotted somewhere to the left, rather in the middle of the audience, cedric stood without fanfare, dressed plainly for a king in his usual tunic of blue-he had insisted on walking the floor on this day, anonymous where possible, woven into the tapestry of those who had come from near and far to witness something new. progress, he thought, was not loud. it bloomed like ivy—quiet, persistent, unstoppable.
he listened intently as the speaker before them, a thin man with ash-grey robes and a voice that cracked with age, paced the circle. “if the world were chaos,” he said, gesturing to the heavens sketched above on the frescoed ceiling, “then why would the stars trace perfect paths? why would the seasons arrive like clockwork? no—there is design. and where there is design, there must be a designer.” the murmurs of the crowd rippled with interest, humming and some attempting to involve themselves in the debate. the man found himself smiling faintly, one of wyry amusement that such a conversation could be held in the open—without threat of excommunication or shadowy censure—was the very heart of what he had envisioned.
they could now speak of divinity as inquiry, not mandate. it was, in truth, more reverent that way, or so he thought.
he shifted slightly, adjusting his stance for comfort, when he noticed the dark-haired woman before him trying to peer around a taller man in front. her posture was curious, unselfconscious. cedric, without thinking, stepped aside, clearing a line of sight for her to move forward. she did so with ease, weaving through the crowd with a grace that suggested breeding and familiarity with attention. it was only when she turned to glance over her shoulder—perhaps to thank, perhaps to check who had yielded the space—that recognition stirred within him. lady rhaena velaryon.
the resemblance to her brother, lord aemon, was not overt but unmistakable in certain angles—the set of her jaw, the valyrian poise in her bearing, and yet her features appeared far sharper. she looked shorter than he remembered, though he doubted that was true. perhaps it was the light, or the fact she was watching, truly watching, not performing. he met her eyes briefly and inclined his head in acknowledgement—not as a sovereign to a lesser, but as one guest to another. there was no need for speech. some moments, cedric had learned, gained more weight in their silence.
she returned her gaze to the forum, and so did he, letting the world around them swallow any meaning that might have lingered between glances. the speaker had moved on now, responding to a challenge from a younger man with flame-red hair and the air of a maester. they danced between theism and rationalism with laughter, not bitterness—jests about order and entropy drawing soft chuckles from the assembled minds. cedric chuckled, too, arms folded across his chest, eyes sharp as he leaned forward to mutter something to lord mathis rowan, who appeared rather in his element.
