who: @vilde-harclay when and where: the verdant concord, graham royce crosses paths with a woman whom he thinks is a complete stranger - only, he has no clue their paths have crossed before. context; a year ago, whilst cleaning up the mountain clans invasion within the vale of arryn, graham royce slayed vilde's brother.
he caught her watching him. it was faint at first—little more than a prickling on the back of his neck, that sense a man develops after too many years with blades drawn behind smiles. she was standing near the vendor’s stall, eyes like mountain frost, hair like wheat in the wind—unbrushed, half-plaited, too stubborn to be southern. northern. highlander, more like. he recognised the look. not the woman—no, she was a stranger—but her bearing. proud, half-wild, as though she’d bite your hand before she let you kiss it.
he didn’t like being stared at. not by lords, not by peasants, and certainly not by women who stood like they didn’t fear consequence.
graham turned to face her, slow, deliberate, a flicker of disdain already curling at the edge of his mouth. the verdant concord was busy, but not enough to mask intent. he stepped forward. his boots pressed into the soft grass, and a few bystanders shifted out of the way as they sensed the change in air. he paused, shifted his weight as if to study a cart of fruit, but really to draw her closer into view. she was standing by the edge of the market, near the tent where the grain sellers had gathered. arms crossed. watching him like a crow does a corpse—neither drawn nor repelled.
“you’ve got a look on you, woman,” he muttered, just loud enough to know she would hear it; his tone inherently dismissive. there was nothing she would have to say to him that would be of any genuine use; and therefore he knew there would be little reason for the two to interact. even for the two to know one another; no, he was sure he did not know this woman. perhaps she simply was twisted in the mind, or had something wrong with her eyes. and so when he spoke, he spoke in a tone that was dismissive, as though she were a mere fly he would swat away. “like you’ve something to say but no sense to say it.”
there was something behind her eyes, something unreadable. not admiration. not fear. something older than either. he’d seen it once, he thought, in a woman from wickenden who’d lost her son to the sea. cold, steady hatred that wasn’t loud or sudden but settled. deep-rooted. the clansfolk of the north believed themselves to be different to the clansfolk from the vale, though graham royce did not believe such a thing - wilderness was wilderness, and if not tamed, it remained a threat to order and stability. something in her gaze unsettled him slightly, as though he wished to ask her openly - what did she want? “clan, ain't you?"