hugovance

[hugovance]

If Hugo Vance were asked to be frank he would speak over the crowd with contempt and weariness. War had turned the tide in the young man who left a green boy eager to prove something and for what? They all lost their way and found it in others. He would never follow, fight, or let his own die for false hopes and promises. Still with such resolve he could not find peace. Being in this grand hall unarmed made him feel naked. But was of the Rivers and Rivermen fought with more than their swords.

The fitted, silver doublet clung sharp to his frame, structured but not as stiff as his spin as he sat straight in his seat. Pale gold embroidery climbed the seams in delicate curling patterns—stylized river reeds stitched in narrow lines. It was formal enough for a Concord, elegant without being flamboyant. Handsome. Purposeful. Just like the man wearing it. If only there was a shade to convey boredom and distrust.

No matter how he tried he would not be able to ignore the presence of Ronan Bracken, the impossibility strengthened by the other Lord speaking to him as if they were strangers. And perhaps they were. The memories which flooded his mind felt as though they belonged to a stranger. To boys he knew and then who insister they were the same.

Hugo looked him and he searched for the mask, for the smile that would hide any feelings he didn't want to bring it to the surface. Instead he took a long drink from his cup and nodded his head. "That's true. Better than most regions who let chaos control the seats. Makes a better dinner if you recall the lion Prince pulling out the pirates eye." Hugo took another drink. He was the head of a house. A lord. And lords set the example for their house and men.

Still. When looked at Ronan something in his flickered, it was a barely there look of guardedness. There was no smile or song on his lips. Hugo brushed his blond hair away nodded his head at the question. "Lord Brax, we have managed to maintain a connection. Odd I know but I know what and who the man is, there are no surprises there." It was a slight masked by nothing more than the polite tone he used for Ronan.

"And what of you, Ronnie, have stayed close to your odd friends?"

who: @hugovance when and where: the verdant concord, within the glittering grand hall of highgarden, the riverlanders remain together across a long table where multiple people shifted seats throughout the night. context: "but even if a traitor may mend...i knew one who did."

ronan had never quite understood how a hall could feel too large and too close all at once until now. highgarden’s grand hall glittered with candlelight and gold, the vaulted ceilings echoing with laughter and clinking goblets, but across the long table where the riverlanders had gathered—fragments of a once tighter braid—he could not help but feel the press of silence where once there had been ease. when he’d slid into the open seat, it had not been calculation but impulse. he should have stayed put. he should have known better. he always had where hughie was concerned.

lord hugo vance. it still didn’t sit right in his mouth; it left a bitter aftermath of betrayal, of treachery, and of a sense of shame he would never truly be able to swallow down.

the wine was good—of course it was; nothing else would do in highgarden—but ronan hadn’t tasted it. his cup remained half-full, untouched as the low murmur of riverlander voices filled the space between old loyalties and newer alliances. a few seats down, lady genna blanetree was saying something about stormlander steel, and lord charlton laughed too loudly at his own jest. but ronan’s eyes had drifted again—always, it seemed—towards the man opposite him, whose hands were far too still for someone meant to be relaxed.

they were all pretending, weren’t they? the riverlanders, still clumped together though their banners had flown at odds not long past. talking of harvests and bridges as though some of them hadn’t spent the better part of two years trying to tear each other to pieces. but such was the game now. smiles passed down the long table like sweetmeats: dry, courteous, palatable. ronan knew how to play his part. he’d learned it at his father’s knee, and again, more bitterly, in the firelight of campaigns he didn’t care to recall. "hugo," he said evenly, tilting his head just slightly, as though the name didn’t thrum in his ears like a bell rung wrong. "i was told you spent the spring along the blue fork. still flooding every year, is it?"

he hadn’t meant it to come out so stiff. the rhythm of easy talk wasn’t there anymore. there had been a time when they’d made each other laugh so hard they couldn’t breathe, faces red, doubled over in mud or smoke or the dark halls of their fathers’ keeps. but those days had been shovelled over, buried under choices neither of them could unmake. ronan gave a smile—not too warm, not too false—and set his goblet down with care. hughie hadn’t changed, not where it counted. still had that way of watching people like he was weighing them, like he could see straight through courtesy to the thing beneath. and ronan… well. he wasn’t sure he liked what hughie might see in him now.

"they've sat us all like good little cousins, ain't they?" ronan added lightly, a slight chuckle slipping from him that was fuelled more by nerves than by anything genuine. there was hardly a way he could bring himself to laugh around hughie, not for a number of years now - the guilt would forever remain etched upon every part of him. it would hurt less to be flogged, and actually bleed for it - his knuckles were pale where they rested on the table. his words came with the curve of a grin, but he watched hughie carefully. not hoping for a laugh—he wouldn’t insult him like that—but maybe a flicker. something. he wanted to say more. gods, how he wanted to. he wanted to reach across the space between them, say i was wrong, i was a coward, i miss you, and mean it until his voice cracked.

he wanted to tell hughie the truth of those days—what he had done, what it had cost. but he couldn’t. not yet. not while the table watched. not when civility was the only thing keeping the bridge from burning for good. they played along for the sake of their people, for the sake of comfort between their sisters, but here they were when the music died down. hugo vance and ronan bracken, at a table that they once would have made their own. "do you still have those westerland connections? who is it again....brax?"

[hugovance]

Hugo offered Ophelia a rueful smile as she caught her breath, his mind racing to keep pace with her torrent of words. He straightened his cloak—rich green wool embroidered in silver—and cleared his throat softly before replying. “Aye, it’s a fine day,” he began, voice thick with the Clover lilt. “More sun would set these roses ablaze, though I fear they’d pale beside your laughter.” He paused, glancing down at her hands clasped in front of her. “As for my accent…thank you. I’ve never found a better audience than one who listens as keenly as you do.”

He took a careful step forward, aware of the respectful distance he must maintain. “I am Hugo Vance of the Riverlands. I came seeking marvels—machines that breathe wind and water, they say—though I confess, it’s your company I’d sooner admire.”

When she asked his favourite flower, Hugo hesitated, recalling the willow groves by the Red Fork. “The willow,” he answered quietly. “Graceful, resilient—much like the women I once hoped to court, though I’ve yet to meet one to rival your spirit.” He offered a soft bow of his head.

Then her name landed like a stone in his chest: Allyrion. His heart stumbled. Allyrion—House of Dorne; another man’s wife stood before him. His smile faltered for the briefest instant as color rushed to his cheeks.

“Forgive me,” he stammered, stepping back a fraction. “I—I did not realize…” His voice trailed off as he fought the sudden knot of panic in his throat. He cleared it once more, striving for composure. “Lady Allyrion, it seems I’ve made an egregious mistake. My apologies run as deep as the rivers of home.”

He dipped his head, the warmth in his eyes dimming only slightly. Beneath his formal courtesy lay a young lord genuinely ashamed, caught unawares by the revelation—and by how swiftly his hopes had withered in a single, startling moment.

.

ophelia moved through the garden with an effortless lightness, the flowing fabric of her dress—a vibrant blend of coral, gold, and deep blue—catching the sunlight with every step. the intricate embroidery along the hem and bodice shimmered like the warm sands of home. as she walked, she took in the little details of the gathering—the way a noblewoman toyed with the stem of her goblet while stealing glances at a distant lord, the way an older knight chuckled too loudly at a jest only he seemed to find amusing. she smiled to herself, enjoying the way people danced around each other in conversation, each interaction its own little story unfolding.

and then, a voice caught her ear—uncertain, polite, touched with the lilt of the riverlands.

ophelia turned, her gaze bright and curious, instantly drawn in.

“oh! it is a lovely day, isn’t it?” ophelia beamed, turning towards the unfamiliar voice with her usual warmth. her golden-brown eyes flickered with excitement as she clasped her hands together in front of her, the movement as light and effortless as the breeze that rustled through the garden. “though, i must admit, i was just thinking it could use a bit more sun. not too much, of course, just enough to really make the roses pop. but then again, i suppose if it were any warmer, the guests would be wilting just as much as the flowers, and that would be a disaster, wouldn’t it?”

she laughed, as if the thought of an entire luncheon of wilting flower nobility was the most amusing thing she had considered all day. “oh, but where are my manners?” she continued, turning her full attention back to him, her bright smile never faltering. her words easily flowing out of her like they always did. forgetting sometimes when to breathe “you must be from the riverlands! your accent is wonderful. it’s got that—oh, what’s the word—rolling sort of sound to it. i met a merchant from the riverlands once, and i think i made him talk far too much just because i liked the way he said things.”

her eyes widened realizing she had done it again—rambling. “i’m sorry if that was strange to say. oh! but i didn’t even ask your name! how terribly rude of me.” she offered a small, sheepish laugh. “i’m ophelia allyrion”, she continued, cheerful as ever. “and you are? oh, and what brings you to this luncheon? do you know many people here? oh, do you have a favorite flower? i always think that says so much about a person.” she paused again. “i’m sorry i talk a lot. ive been told too much. i apologize that was many words all at once” she said almost giving an embarrassed laugh. “please stop me from talking i’ll keep doing it all day” she tilted her head, eagerly awaiting his answer, as if this were the most important conversation she would have all day.

[hugovance]

Hugo’s shoulders dropped, and he let out a low chuckle as he reached into his tunic pocket and withdrew a slender roll of dried sour leaf. He tucked it between his lips, the paper crisp against his skin, and lit the tip with a candle. A curl of smoke drifted upward as he addressed Niamh with a warmth that softened his usual formality.

“Alright, Ni,” he said, using the old nickname without hesitation. “I’ll admit it—I do get a kick out of ruffling feathers, whether with swords or syllables.” He exhaled in a gentle plume, then tapped his boot lightly. “And about roses and verses… I write what I please, and yes, I hide them under my pillow. But I’d never expect you to read them—some things are best kept for the night.”

He stepped a fraction closer, mindful of the respectful gap between them. His green eyes flicked to the tapestry where she’d pointed. “As for this mess you’re to admire,” he continued, voice easy now, “that bit you called a wilted turnip, just makes me hungry for a hearty stew.”

He gave her a crooked grin, smoke curling around his face. “I would hug ya, but—well, he may not be here, but I bet he has eyes in every corner.” His tone was teasing, yet respectful.

Leaning back against the marble colum, Hugo folded his arms. “Audacity, you wonder? Riverlanders don’t do timidity. Standing here, talking flowers and paint, feels small compared to what we faced back home. It’s honest, though. No hiding behind pavilions or perfumed arcades.” He flicked ash onto a nearby planter. “Look, this Reach show is all flash, chance to show off their wit and wilt.”

With another warm smile, Hugo lowered his gaze. “Thanks for humoring me, Your Grace,” he added softly, teasing.

He lingered in her presence for a heartbeat longer, feeling the ease of old companionship settle around them. “Now,” he said, drawing a final pull of smoke, “shall we let the Reach marvels carry on without us?” He pointed over his shoulder, "I hear there's little pond in there. Away from all these eyes."

♧

niamh tilted her head as she listened, though she did not look at him. not for too long. her gaze swept the hall instead, alighting on lords and ladies she recognised and acknowledging them with that warm smile of hers, that soft lift of chin which suggested poise and attentiveness. her husband was across the room, deep in talk with the king of the reach - she nodded toward him as well, just enough, though found herself wondering why she were feeling the need to do such a hting. nothing about her posture betrayed the quiet thrum beneath her skin, the very particular sort of warmth that accompanied hughie vance.

“i do think you take rather too much pleasure in the ire of others, hughie, be it of swords or syllables,” she murmured, tilting her head the other way now as though inspecting the tapestry from a new perspective, though truthfully she still could not make heads or tails of it. “and i daresay you’d be the first to call a rose a symbol of fleeting beauty, and the second to turn around and write three verses about it which you hide below your pillow.” she tapped the tip of her gloved finger against the woven mess of colour before them. then, with the faintest glance his way, she added,

“though you would no doubt tell me that’s precisely the point.” she resisted the urge to mimic his voice.

she let that linger, but only for a moment. then she straightened and folded her hands with practiced grace. “now, tell me which part of this mess i’m supposed to pretend to admire. i assume it’s not the bit that looks like a wilted turnip.” he was standing just close enough that she could hear the lightness in his voice, the way he still said things as if they had been only moments apart. her expression did not soften—niamh tully was not one for such things in public—but there was a particular stillness to her that suggested familiarity.

“you’re right about one thing,” she said, keeping her voice quiet but not conspiratorial, “the reach is fond of audacity. i am wondering where you have found this audacity yourself, to stand there and speak to me of flowers and paintings.” as if i were a mere stranger, was what she wished to add; only, she said nothing as she caught the gaze of her cousin lord ben blackwood - she briefly waved, her smile still bright upon her face. "you feel nervous. don't be nervous. it' fine." she reached out to touch the part of the tapestry she likened to a turnip, as though to make it appear as though she were talking about that.

it was fine. she would not get in trouble for this. gods knew jaehaerys' own family spoke to men just as easily. perhaps even more so.

[hugovance]

Hugo’s smile was wry as he regarded Niamh’s teasing. Keeping his arms respectfully clasped behind his back, he nodded at her remark before replying in a measured tone. “There is little I find more joy in than a good war of words and ideas. It certainly saves on armor and swords.” He allowed the gentle lilt of his clover accent to underline his sincerity, and with that, he stepped alongside her toward the tapestry. The respectful distance between them was maintained—he was well aware that a closeness too familiar might draw the wrong sort of attention from her husband, the mad boy king.

As they walked, Hugo’s gaze softened at her playful inquiry about the paintings. He chuckled lightly when she mentioned the depiction of babies as fat, balding men, nodding in amused agreement. “I’ve often wondered the same,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “I’m sure the painter is here, ready to weave tales of inspiration and gods before he offers to make you one of his own. Such is his style—taking liberties with nature and propriety alike.” His tone was both affectionate and lightly mocking, a subtle jab at the Reachmen’s flair for the extravagant, yet hiding a note of sincere admiration for their bold artistic expressions.

He paused beside the tapestry, looking up at its chaotic, vibrant display. “How many gardeners do you think he has? Not even a rose of place,” Hugo mused, his voice carrying a hint of disbelief and dry humor. “Truly jarring, isn’t it? But then, one must admire the audacity of it all—even if I suspect there’s more artifice than cultivation behind these works.”

Hugo’s eyes met hers briefly as he smiled, his words a blend of genuine amusement and cautious regard—a reminder that, for all his enjoyment of the festivities, he remained ever vigilant of the motivations behind the elaborate veneer of the Reach.

♧

niamh was doing her best to appear engaged, though the art surrounding her seemed as little more than a parade of shapes and colours that blended into an overwhelming blur - what was any of this meant to be? the people around her whispered in reverence, their voices hushed as if they feared disturbing the air itself. it wasn’t that she disliked art, per se—she simply couldn’t see the grandeur in it that others did. she was more of a practical woman, grounded in the daily routines of her life rather than in the dreamlike worlds people tried to paint.

still, she knew the importance of these events. her husband, king jaehaerys, was trying to make their court into a beacon of culture and progress, and she was here to lend her presence, her grace—her appearance, really- the reach truly did it best and there were matters they needed to handle with king cedric tyrell. the scent of freshly lit lanterns and rich oils in the air tickled her nose as she paused before a display of abstract patterns. she didn’t understand them. didn’t feel them. perhaps others did, but she felt herself growing weary of the effort to feign interest.

her fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of a tapestry nearby, the bright colours reflecting a world she couldn’t connect with. she frowned, only slightly, as she looked closer at the brushstrokes and the intricate details that were supposed to invoke some sense of beauty in her. to her, it was all so much meaningless noise, the kind of thing she could never quite bring herself to appreciate. her lips pulled into a wry smile, and she did not immediately look at him—didn’t need to.

“lord hugo vance,” she replied, her voice a mix of affectionate exasperation and fondness, “always there with your timing and circumstance. you’re still using words that mean the same thing just to sound clever, i see.” she finally turned to face him, her gaze softening with the sight of him. certainly, him. hughie vance. such affection was only present in the eyes, yet her words remained quiet. “i should’ve known you'd find joy in this… chaos of opinions, my lord." she raised an eyebrow and shook her head, her lips pulling into a half-smile as she allowed herself a moment to soften, just a little.

“you may join me, though. i may not be much of a critic, but you’re always good at making people look at things from a different angle. even if i still think it’s all just shapes and paint.” she sighed, looking over the chaotic patterns of the tapestry again. what tapestry? her eyes glanced toward what he referred to, noted it quietly; and she decided it was too much of a risk to go wandering over with him to some corner. they were hiding nothing; there was no need for them to appear so. besides, he would always be seen considering his height; overgrown, still. "what exactly are we looking at here?" she asked, a slight expression upon her face.

she reached forward to touch it, not considering that perhaps she was not supposed to do so. "and why is it babies appear as fat, balding men in these works?" a serious question, and yet she no doubt was jesting as she looked back at lord hugo vance; no smile on her features, completely still - and yet, the corners of her eyes turned upwards.

[hugovance]

who: @niamhtullys where: during one of the gatherings about art.

The smell of the Reach was unpleasant to him, artificial. The event pulsed with the promise of progress and quiet power as scholars and nobility mingled beneath the soft glow of lantern light. Amid the elegant chaos, a familiar presence caught his eye—a figure whose grace and measured bearing commanded respect.

There she stood, poised near a silken forum. Raising his chin, Lord Hugo Vance approached with an easy stride, his dark green tunic and embroidered accents catching the light. He paused a respectful distance away before greeting her in a tone both casual and sincere. “Your grace,” he said, his clover accent softening the formal address, “it is a pleasure to see you again.” His smile was warm, tempered by a quiet confidence. “The Reach certainly knows how to gather its finest minds and spirits.”

Hugo’s gaze held a hint of unspoken camaraderie as he continued, “I don't take much pleasure in debate but I've always enjoyed art of the Reach, what do you think?” His words were measured, inviting conversation without delving into territory best left for quieter moments.

“May I join you for a moment?” he asked gently, his tone polite and respectful. “I find that in events such as this, a shared perspective can make all the difference. I was just going over there near that large tapestry." For the moment no eyes fell on the tapestry and perhaps ears were busy elsewhere.

[hugovance]

Hugo’s eyes crinkled with a fond smile as he regarded Fiadh, his voice soft yet edged with his customary resolve. “Ah, Fiadh,” he began, his tone warm and measured, “ye always had a way of mixin’ truth with jest. I’ll admit, your words strike true—our legacy isn’t just ours to keep, but a tapestry for all the Riverlands to sing about. Lost causes we may be, but by the gods, we’re the finest of them, even if we’re fools in the eyes of the world.”

He paused, his gaze drifting thoughtfully as if recalling old songs and shared memories. “Harrenhal, with its dark tales and haunted corridors, might yet be less a curse and more a challenge for those bold enough to pry its secrets. And perhaps that mystery will unravel not with force, but with the kind of clever persistence you so excel at. I wouldn’t have it any other way—even if the task leaves us all a touch distracted.”

Hugo’s smile turned wry as he shifted his attention to her final words about the cup. “And about that cup,” he said lightly, a playful glint in his eye, “I daresay no dog should sample such fine brew. If the lazy lump won’t rise to the occasion, then perhaps I should fetch you a replacement. A proper warming drink ought to be savored, not squandered on mutts.”

His tone grew earnest as he drew nearer, his soft accent wrapping each word like a familiar cloak. “Fiadh, our chaos isn’t a flaw—it’s the very spice of our tale. It reminds us that not every story can be neat or sorted, but that’s what makes our legacy all the richer. Let’s embrace it, for in our disarray, we’ve found more truth than in the silence of order.”

With a gentle squeeze of her hand, Hugo concluded and rose, “So, my dear sister, let us walk these halls a while longer, share a few more tales, and keep our mischief alive. For what are we but the vibrant, unruly heart of the Riverlands?”

fiadh let out a light laugh in the face of hugo's teasing. "you've always been too kind to me, hughie," she spoke fondly, in reference both to her skill with words and his declaration he would rather be a fool with her. but then, that was nothing new. the two had always been close, and fiadh would freely admit that her brother was the first friend she had ever had, and she wouldn't have had it any other way.

"worse things indeed," she agreed, her gaze warm as it lingered on him and her tone softer now. "we'll stay lost causes, full of foolish sentiment, and be all the happier for it." she put a gentle hand on his forearm and gave it an affectionate squeeze, though her gaze turned more thoughtful. "a legacy," she echoed, the word seeming suddenly weighty. "i suppose it is, but not just ours, is it? these stories belong to all in the riverlands." it was why she took such care in turning her tales to song - not everyone could read, but anyone could sing and remember, and pass those songs along.

harrenhal was another matter, its name enough to invoke both fear and superstition in those otherwise inclined to share tales. fiadh would be lying if she said the idea of it didn't tug at her nerves, but it was too valuable a place to ignore, especially with the document she was attempting to decode being so linked to it. "maybe it won't be the challenge we think it is," she pointed out, her voice more cheerful than she felt. "maybe he'll be happy to share. i suppose it will depend how much of a nuisance other people are making of themselves, given that there's no lord and enough people who want it."

fiadh waved a dismissive hand, though her expression remained amused, taking hugo's words on her disorganisation with the good nature with which they were intended. "there's a charm to the chaos," she said. "though i'll admit, it could do with a bit of sorting out. that was never my strong suit, though. i get halfway through and end up distracted."

she glanced down at her cup, shaking her head a little. "it's too cold for me now, anyway. i'll give it to the dog when the lazy lump gets up. the sooner those pups come, the better."

[hugovance]

Hugo’s gaze softened as he regarded Brianna’s sharp retort, a wry smile tugging at his lips despite the flutter of nerves in his chest. “Ah, lady Bracken,” he began, his tone low and laced with that familiar clover cadence, “ye wound me with yer words, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He stepped a bit closer, the halls of Riverrun echoing with his measured approach. “About bein’ frightened o’ the dark—I’ll have ye know it’s not fear but a proper respect for what hides within it. And if I recall rightly, ‘twas ye who had me scurryin’."

He paused, letting the familiar banter settle between them, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of mischief and something he never dared confess aloud. “I’m not lurkin’, Bri. I came here seekin’ a moment alone, away from the clamor of the feast."

He shrugged with a light chuckle, as if the weight of past jests were nothing more than gentle teasing. “Now, Brianna, don’t let old grievances cloud a fine moment. If I must be the fool to stand here with ye, then what are ye when standing alone?” The jest came easy, the constant back and forth of their nonexistent friendship drew questions in his own mind, if not friends, then what?

He tilted his head, his eyes warm despite the playful challenge in his words, “So, what say ye? Allow yer fellow clover a moment’s reprieve from the feast, or shall I take my leave and wander these halls a while longer?”

♣️

brianna hadn’t been expecting company. that much was clear from the way her shoulders stiffened at the sound of boots against stone, their steady rhythm cutting through the hush of the corridor. the warmth of the yule feast still lingered in the air, distant laughter and the occasional clatter of a cup echoing from the great hall, but here, in the cool dimness of the halls, it was just her—until now. the maester who had uttered her quiet news in the darkness of a flickering hallway had vanished, and she still found herself watching the route his robes took - as though she wished to beg him, plead with him, if he were sure.

she didn’t turn immediately, taking her time instead, fingers idly toying with the end of her sleeve as she listened to the footsteps draw closer. she knew that gait, recognised the easy, almost lazy confidence of it, and when he finally spoke, she wasn’t surprised. hughie vance. his voice carried the usual blend of mischief most of the clover obtained after a few drinks and something else—something she could never quite place. but she knew that grin in his voice, could picture it even before she turned to see it for herself.

“oh, piss off,” she said, rolling her eyes as she finally faced him, no doubt clearly misunderstanding what he was trying to do. this was the last thing she wanted as of now; some strange conversation where they were half joking and half serious - she did not have it in her to be trying to guess why it was him and ronan no longer spoke. and he was going to call her stupid again, or act like she was so beneath him. “ye still frightened o’ the dark, then? thought ye’d be past that by now.” she shot him a defensive look, folding her arms over her chest as she leaned back against the cold stone of the alcove. he looked much the same as ever, all sharp angles and that effortless sort of charm that some found endearing. brianna found it mostly irritating.

“an’ i wasn’t the one who ran screamin’ through the trees like a wee babe,” she added, raising an eyebrow. “that was you. i had t’ drag yer arse back to stone hedge before ye tripped an’ broke somethin’.” it was a lie, mostly. they’d both run like hell, neither willing to admit just how much the sight of that pale figure in the woods had shaken them. but she wasn’t about to let him have the upper hand. she tilted her head, eyeing him with something like curiosity. there was distance between them now, more than there had been when he was thick as thieves with ronan. she didn’t know why, and she wasn’t sure she cared enough to ask, but still—it was strange, seeing him now and realising how much had changed.

“what are ye doin’ lurkin’ about, anyway?” she asked, narrowing her eyes, almost suspiciously. her guard seemed to rise around hugo vance, for reasons she was not entirely sure of; perhaps because she sometimes thought him a cocky shit, or perhaps because in truth, she had still not let go of the instance where he had called her stupid so many years ago in front of many. five years ago? or was it seven? was that another instance? “shouldn’t ye be in there?"

[hugovance]

Hugo’s eyes crinkled with mirth as he regarded Elys’s teasing, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. “Ah, Elys,” he drawled warmly, his tone rich with that familiar Riverland lilt, “you never cease to keep me on me toes, do ye? I confess, I might be spending a bit more time ‘mongst my kin than a man ought, but there’s a comfort in the familiar—like the sweet taste of clover in spring.” He gave a soft chuckle at the remark, then leaned in ever so slightly, his gaze playful yet direct.

“As for me dear mother,” Hugo continued, a wry glint in his eyes, “she didn’t so much join me on my travels as guide me from afar. I carry her counsel like a well-worn cloak, even when she’s not shoulder to shoulder with me in these ventures, her shrill voice keeps me going.” His voice softened for a moment, respectful yet laced with his trademark dry humor. A laugh left him as he took another drink.

Hugo’s gaze swept over the festive throng before returning to Elys. "I daresay, your penchant for keeping your wits about you is as remarkable as your skill with smoke and mirrors, and it’s one of the many things I admire about ye.”

He raised his goblet in a quiet toast, eyes sparkling with unspoken camaraderie. “So, let us drink to old friends and enduring truths. May the night’s merriment outshine our past squabbles, and may we always find laughter even in the most trying of debates. To you, Elys—ever the trickster, yet never without a heart of gold.”

elys took a slow sip of his wine, letting the rich, aged flavour linger on his tongue. whilst he still doubted the claims of its vintage, it was a decent drink regardless, and so, he made no further taunts towards the merchant. instead, his gaze flickered to hugo, looking at him with his trademark curiosity, but with none of the sharpness that was usually there.

he laughed at hugo's words, shaking his head briefly. "you've been spending too much time around riverlanders, hugo. i'd like to keep at least some of my wits about me." elys would indulge in the drink, would let himself enjoy the evening, but never to excess. he did not like the feeling of not being in control of much of anything, never mind his own body. "besides, we've far too much to catch up on to lose ourselves to a cask of wine."

with anybody else, it would be a trick, drawing them in with one hand and preparing to stab them in the back with the other. elys dealt in smoke and mirrors, in trickery and illusion. it was not so with hugo. he was a man of virtue in a world of vice, and elys admire that about him. "you realise, of course, i brought you here to keep me entertained," he smirked, delivering the words solemnly despite the fact he was teasing. "i expect you won't let me down, my friend."

on the surface of it, the two of them should have had little in common, and yet, they had managed to form a friendship anyway, solid, even if it was unlikely. there had been others he had called friend, and yet most had come and gone when his use for them had waned - but not hugo. even when their kingdoms had butted heads with one another, they had never found themselves at odds.

and yet, the westerlands and the riverlands once again found themselves in a state of disagreement, this time, over the crowning of iona tully. had it been anybody else, elys would have pressed the matter, but it seemed best to side step it entirely now. "tell me, did your mother join you on your travels?" he enquired. he would not hve tolerated the sort of relationship they had with his own mother, but to each their own.

[hugovance]

Hugo’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Lord Blackwood, his tone measured yet laced with a thin veneer of disdain. “Lord Blackwood,” he began, his cadence steady and cool, “do not mistake my firm adherence to the law for bias. The Queen’s decree is impartial—her law spares no man for his station or his temper. If you cannae afford these fines, then I suggest you keep your sword sheathed.” His words, crisp and unyielding, left little room for misinterpretation.

He paused, allowing the weight of his declaration to settle over the tense silence between them. “We are not savages, Lord Blackwood. We’re Rivermen. We cut from harder stuff.” His voice, though calm, carried a cold certainty that bordered on arrogance. “If a man truly believes he’s been wronged, let him cross blades and settle the matter in earnest. Otherwise, live with the hatred and bear it, for I see no place for half-measures in a realm governed by honor and duty.”

Hugo’s gaze did not waver as he continued, the lecture flowing like the currents of a resolute river. “This is no mere squabble over coin or petty pride. It is a matter of law and order—of accountability. I shall not indulge grievances born from idle temper or the desire to see one’s own reflection exalted above the rest. Your claim that I have taken sides is as baseless as it is unbecoming of a lord of your stature.”

He leaned forward slightly, his tone softening only to underscore his final point. “Lord Blackwood, do not make this personal, for personal affronts have no place in the service of our Crown. I suggest you calm yourself, or we shall step out into the pitch where we can settle our differences away from these hallowed halls.”

ben halted his pacing as he listened to hugo, coming to rest behind the chair he had risen from and gripping the back of it, seemingly not noticing the fact his knuckles had turned white. he knew exactly what hugo was doing - trying to stand firm, trying to wield the authority the queen had given him. his chest rose and fell with breaths that rang with ben's anger, his temper clearly only worsening.

the issue was, now, that hugo was speaking to ben in a way that made him feel like a child. a muscle in his jaw jumped, and he leaned forward across the chair that served as a barrier between them, the look in his eyes dark and unflinching.

"i understand you perfectly, my lord vance. contrary to what you might think, i am not a fucking idiot."

it were the calm before the storm. it was all ben could do to retrain himself from drawing back his boot and kicking the leg of the table hugo sat at. as it was, the more he spoke, the more his voice rose. "this the queen's peace then, is it?" he said with a bitter laugh. "one lord gets to make a move against the other, and the one who has been wronged has to pay for defending what's his. that a fair law to you?"

his finger raised, jabbing in hugo's direction. "how about the fact you've basically told the bracken cunts they can strut around doing as they please, so long as they have the coin to pay you for the pleasure. that seem fair to you, vance?"

he eyed hugo with suspicion then, the wheels turning in his head. it were clear what he was thinking - that hugo had taken sides. it was what he had feared the moment the queen had pinned the badge of the hand upon ronan bracken's chest. "if bracken's men cannot keep their sword sheathed, that is not my problem to pay for. especially when i am yet to see anything that indicates you have any intention of making him pay at all."

[hugovance]

Hugo Vance made his way through the festive crowd, his black tunic embroidered with subtle golden patterns at the cuffs and neckline catching the light with every movement. His golden mantle hung loosely over his shoulders, clasped with a dragon-shaped brooch, the deep shade of the fabric contrasting sharply with the golden lanterns glowing warmly around him. His eyes, always watchful, scanned the busy scene, but it was a familiar voice that soon broke through the noise, calling his name.

"Elys Brax," Hugo said, his grin wide as he caught sight of his friend. "Now there’s a happy sight, indeed."

He strode toward him, his step light, and when he arrived, Elys clapped him on the shoulder in his usual boisterous manner. Hugo gave a laugh and raised an eyebrow at the merchant’s display, his hands clasping together as he tilted his head. "A cask aged since the coronation of Maegor the Cruel? Bold claims indeed. Boldness and honesty, as you well know, are very distant cousins. In some cases, they’re a branch on entirely trees."

Hugo’s smile only widened as the merchant scrambled to fulfill his orders. He watched the man hurry about with amusement before taking the cup that was pressed into his hands. Raising it high, he said, “To the little prince. May the gods bless him with a long and prosperous life.”

His eyes twinkled as he turned to Elys, his voice filled with warmth and camaraderie. “And to us, old friend. Let us drink until we forget the purpose of feet.”

closed starter for @hugovance setting : flashback to lann's day festival context : name a more unlikely friendship than elys brax and hugo vance

the streets were alive with merriment, the lann's day festival in full swing. lanterns of gold and crimson hung from every corner, their warm glow illuminating the night, and for a change, elys brax was in a good mood, allowing the festivities to lift his own spirits. music drifted from the nearby performers, a lively tune competing with the laughter and chatter of the crowd. stalls lined the streets, selling everything from hot spiced meats to jewellery, but it was the mine merchant's stand that elys found himself leaning against, swirling his drink in his goblet.

it gave him a good vantage point of the festival, just slightly apart from the busiest part of the crowd. he was unmasked, not having arrived wearing one, his sharp attire immaculate even in the middle of the chaos. at his collar was a unicorn pin, silver filigree and inlaid with amythests, that glistened when he turned his head, watching the debauchery with amusement, and it was that he caught sight of a figure both familiar and welcome to him.

"hugo vance," his voice boomed as he raised a glove hand to catch hugo's attention and beckon him over. "now there's a happy sight." once hugo had reached his side, he clapped his shoulder in greeting, before gesturing toward the stall with a faint smirk. "this good fellow here claims to have a cask he'll open just for me, aged since the coronation of maegor the cruel. a bold claim, wouldn't you agree, to hold on to a vintage so fine? though boldness and honesty are often distant cousins, in my experience." the look he gave the merchant was pointed, as though daring him to challenge the fact elys was all but naming him a liar.

"well go on then, man. what are you waiting for? open the cask, my friend here looks thirsty." he barked his orders, and the merchant hurried to comply. elys finished his first cup, just in time for the second to be pressed into his hand. once both he and hugo were holding a cup of the wine, he raised the cup. "to the little prince," he said. "my great nephew. may the gods favour him. and to us, my friend. it's been too long."

[hugovance]

who: @briannabrackens what: a bit of banter happens between hughie vance and lady brianna bracken when: after yule where: in the halls of riverrun

Hugo Vance’s boots echoed softly against the stone floor as he wandered through the halls of Riverrun. The bustle of the feast was still distant, the hum of voices and laughter reaching him from the great hall, but it was the quiet of the corridors that caught his attention now.

And there she was—alone, standing in a shadowed alcove, as beautiful as ever. Brianna Bracken. Her striking presence filled the space, though her gaze was elsewhere. It wasn’t often he saw her seemingly unguarded, and for a moment, he allowed himself to drink in the sight of her. Hugo’s breath hitched, the familiar flutter of nerves rising in his chest as he straightened up, fighting the impulse to retreat back into the crowd. Instead, he forced himself to step forward, though the nervousness didn’t quite leave his shoulders.

A flash of a grin appeared on his face as he drew closer, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Ah, Lady Brianna,” he called, his voice thick with the lilt of the Riverlands, the warmth of his accent giving the words a softness they might not have carried otherwise. “Tell me—are ye leadin’ more lords astray today, makin’ fools of ‘em so they’re taken by the ghosts of the forests again? Or are ye just enjoying some peace, for once?”

The jest hung in the air, a lighthearted jab aimed at a long-past encounter between them. Hugo took a breath, his usual confidence flickering despite his light tone. “Seems yer talents for mischief haven’t waned,” he added, his grin turning a little more uncertain, as if unsure how far he could push their familiar banter today.

Despite the years that had passed, his admiration for her hadn’t dimmed in the least. It made every word harder to speak—but none more so than the next.

[hugovance]

Hugo chuckled softly at her words, a warmth in his expression as he looked across at Fiadh. "Ah, steal away, then," he said with a wink. "I’ll be expectin’ to hear it pop up in one o’ yer stories soon enough. No doubt ye’ll make it sound a sight better than I ever could." His voice was warm, teasing, as he leaned back in his chair, the familiar comfort of their shared company easing his usual nerves.

When she squeezed his forearm, he let out a small, quiet laugh, the small gesture reminding him of how long they’d been at each other’s sides through everything. “Foolish or not,” he said with a grin, “I’d rather be foolish with ye than alone. There’s worse things than hopin’ for somethin’ better, eh?” His accent rolled with affection, the gentle teasing tone carrying the unspoken bond between them.

His eyes flicked around the room, the cluttered shelves filled with books and papers, the beginnings of something far greater than the sum of its parts. “Aye, this library’s a fine thing, Fiadh. More worthwhile than any marriage contract I’ve seen. It’s a legacy, that’s what it is. Something for the future, something for those who come after us to look back on, and remember that we mattered. Even if it’s just in stories.” His gaze softened as he looked at her, the firelight flickering across her face.

Hugo’s lips twisted into a thoughtful smile. “It might not fix all the messes, but it’s a start, aye?” He shook his head, his expression becoming slightly more serious as he looked back to her. “A start worth fightin’ for.”

When she spoke about the man from Harrenhal, Hugo grinned again, his eyes glinting with mischief. “No doubt ye’ll have his secrets soon enough,” he said, the words infused with quiet confidence in his sister’s determination. “You’ve always had a way with gettin’ people to spill their stories. Maybe ye’ll get him to trade in the dark secrets o’ the past for a story worth tellin’. But no matter how ye do it, I know ye’ll get there.”

At her explanation of her "order," he tilted his head, his lips curling up at the corners. "Order, eh?" he asked, his voice playful. "I suppose I’ll take yer word for it. But there’s somethin’ beautiful about the chaos too. If nothin’ else, it’s kept us both entertained for years." He raised an eyebrow as he added with mock seriousness, “Just don’t let that tea spill, Fiadh. We can’t afford to lose any more of that, now can we?”

as he spoke, fiadh absently pulled a bit of scrap paper and a quill toward her, jotting down his words upon it. "i'm stealing that line," she shot him a crooked grin. "the bit about the cartwheel and the twine. no idea where i'll use it, but i'll find a way." she blew on the page until the ink was dry, or at least, drier, and then lent forward, elbows upon the table and her chin in her hand. "i don't know," her expression was thoughtful. "whenever they brackens and the blackwoods are getting along, it's usually a sign there's a much bigger problem to deal with, like the lyseni. their feud is the way it's always been. when they're in the same room and not focused on insulting each other, that's when you've got an issue, i reckon."

her gaze softened as she turned her head to look at him, fondness evident in the way her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled. "if hope is the mark of a fool, then let the pair of us remain foolish." her hand darted out, giving his forearm a gentle squeeze.

her feet lifted off the ground, and she tucked them beneath her, arranging her skirts around her. "this library, though. i think there's more hope in that than in wedding bands." she saw it when she stood up at feasts, when she picked up her lute to sing. it was in the way she had made easy friendships across the continent, bound by nothing but a love of stories, the good and the grim. there was something in it, even if it was just a distraction. "and we've made a fine start already," she gestured to the room, the walls covered in shelves with row after row of tomes, piles on every available surface.

"i'll find out his name before i write," she nodded. it was more polite that way. "and if he won't part with harrenhal's secrets willingly at first, i'll keep writing until he does." of everyone, hugo knew she could be persistent when she put her mind to something. the problem was more one of keeping her mind focused on it.

"hmm?" confusion briefly crossed her face, until she noticed that he was gesturing to her teacup. she let out a laugh, arranging the chaos that was her desk until there was a free surface to move the cup on to. "i'll have you know there's an order to this chaos. it all makes sense if you don't try and think about it too hard."

[hugovance]

Hugo listened quietly, his expression unreadable as Ben’s temper flared. The Blackwood lord’s voice grew sharper, his words like thunder echoing off the stone walls, but Hugo did not rise to meet the anger. He simply stood there, hands clasped in front of him, allowing Ben's outburst to unfold.

When the room fell silent again, Hugo’s wry smile softened, though there was no humor in it now. His green eyes held steady, never leaving Ben’s face. "Ah, Lord Blackwood," he said, his voice steady and measured, though his thick Riverlands accent carried a weight of both authority and familiarity. "It seems we’ve a bit o' misunderstanding, don’t we?"

He took a slow step forward, his boots silent on the stone floor, and leaned just slightly toward the table, as if the proximity might ease the tension. "I’ll tell ye this plainly, so there’s no mistakin’ my words: I don’t take kindly to men causin’ trouble, no matter their banner. Bracken’s lot started this, aye, but I’ve yet to hear one of yer own men tell me that they weren’t involved, just as much as the rest. You ask a Blackwood and they blame a Bracken, you ask a Bracken and it were you lot."

"The law’s simple, my lord," Hugo continued, his tone sharpening ever so slightly, but still carrying that lilt that made it hard to take offense. "I cannae make exceptions, no matter how much I might like to. A merchant’s dead. Men are bruised and bleedin'. And our Queen is new to her reign."

Hugo straightened, taking a step back, his smile returning, though it was faint and serious. "As for the toll, aye, I’ll be seeing Lord Bracken as well. But until then, the law stands. No one’s above it—not even ye, my lord."

there was a moment where ben was listening to hugo, his expression polite, if not particularly interested in the topic of conversation. so blackwoods and brackens had clashed - it was hardly news. they fought each other all the time. but the more hugo vance spoke, the more ben saw red, the polite smile wiped from his face and a storm brewing in his dark eyes.

"so let me get this straight," his grip tightened on the leather of the armrest, his voice low, but hard as iron. "bracken's lot sweep in and start it, and you expect my men to pay the price? have i actually heard you right there, lord vance?" he paused for a moment, the fire crackling the only sound in the room. he were giving hugo the opportunity to tell him he had heard wrong, that he was utterly mistaken, but it did not come.

"no." he said, flatly. "my men will be paying no fines for this, lord vance. if bracken's dogs can't keep their hands off our carts, then the blood's on them. you will not punish us for defending what's ours." suspicion clouded his expression as he sat forward, his whole body taut like a bowstring ready to snap. had a fine really been issued to both sides, or was hugo saying that to placate him? was he allowing ronan to do as he pleased, because he wore the hands pin, while demanding ben pay reparations for it? "you want coin for a dead merchant? send your riders to stone hedge. bracken started this. if there's a toll to pay, he can pay it in full."

ben's jaw was tensed. it was clear he was trying to control his temper, but succeeding horribly in that task. he rose to his feet, chair legs making a horrible screeching sound as they scraped against the stone floor, and began to pace, hands gesturing wildly as he spoke. "i'll not be setting a precedent that blackwood men stand by and let bracken take what he pleases from us without answer. and i'll not have you," he jabbed a finger at hugo, "lumping them in with the bastards that struck first. bracken's fine is fair. mine is not."

he let out a huff of air, a deep, exasperated sound. hugo sat there, grinning at him like he was trying to patronise ben into lying down and showing him his belly, and talked of not making exceptions as though he could not see how unfair this was.

[hugovance]

who: @opheliafowler what: in a flashback thread hugo is trying to take initiative and search for a wife, unfortunately for him he does not realize he is about to have an awkward conversation with another man's wife. context: hugo makes mistakes and he is sorry.

Hugo Vance stood at the edge of the garden, his bright green eyes flicking nervously over the array of guests scattered amongst the rose-filled hedges and marble fountains. He was acutely aware of every rustle of fabric, every low murmur of conversation, but he had one singular goal in mind: to finally take initiative in the matter his mother had so often raised. His hands trembled slightly, the fine fabric of his tunic itching at his wrist as he fiddled with the cuff again.

He was dressed in a rich, deep green woolen tunic, embroidered with intricate silver thread that depicted twisting vines along the edges of his sleeves and collar, symbolizing his ties to the Riverlands.

Initiative, he thought to himself. Initiative.

This was supposed to be the moment. Yet, as he stood there, his mind remained clouded with self-doubt. It was difficult to ignore the swirling doubts about whether he was ready to make such a step. His mother would insist, of course, that it was the right time. She had always been right.

And then he saw her.

Whatever her name was.

Her deep raven hair cascading over her shoulders in soft waves, moved with the grace of a lioness. She looked if she were woven from the very heat of Dorne itself.

Swallowing nervously, Hugo steeled himself and took a few hesitant steps forward. He cleared his throat, trying to steady his nerves, before speaking. "My lady," he began, his voice betraying a tremor, thick with the unmistakable lilt of the Riverlands own rhythm. "Aye, forgive me for...interruptin' yer enjoyin' th' garden." He hesitated, his hands twitching at his sides, as if uncertain what to do with them. "It’s a...lovely day, is it nae?" he added, his words heavy with an unshakable awkwardness. He gave a practiced, smile. "Temperate, even...for a garden luncheon, aye?"

His gaze darted away for a moment, heart hammering in his chest, the slight strain in his tone betraying his nerves.

It was time for Hugo Vance to find a bride.

[hugovance]

who @benblvckwood what: lord vance speaks with lord blackwood about some issues on the roads.

The council chamber was quiet now, save for the crackle of the hearth at the far end of the room. Most of the lords had already departed, leaving the faint scent of wine and ink in their wake. The chamber itself was simple yet dignified—a long table of polished oak stretched the length of the room, surrounded by chairs marked with the sigils of their respective houses. The stone walls were adorned with tapestries of rivers and willows, their muted colors soft in the firelight.

Hugo Vance lingered near the table’s head, his posture relaxed but his attention keen. He was dressed in a dark green tunic embroidered with intricate golden patterns at the cuffs and neckline, a subtle nod to his house’s wealth and taste. A black dragon-shaped brooch clasped his crimson mantle at the shoulder, and a thin leather belt held a small knife at his side.

He turned toward Ben with a small, wry smile, though his blue eyes carried the weight of the subject at hand. “Ah, Lord Blackwood,” he began, his words rolling with a lilt that softened the edge of his formality. “Seems th’Fairmarket road’s grown a mite too lively these days, aye? Yer lads an’ Bracken’s clashed again—this time o’er, what was it now? A cart o’ timber, if I’ve heard true. Left a merchant stone dead, three o’ mine bruised an’ bleedin’, an’ th’poor travelers skittish as hares.”

Hugo stepped closer to the table, his hands resting lightly on the smooth wood as he leaned forward, the firelight catching the gold trim on his sleeves. “Now, as ye’d expect, I’ve gone an’ issued fines t’both sides. Bracken’s lot fer their rashness, an’ yer own fer stirrin’ the pot, so t’speak. The law’s the law, my lord, an’ it makes no exceptions—not even fer the likes o’ Bracken or Blackwood.”

Straightening again, he clasped his hands loosely in front of him, his smile faint but present. Though his voice carried warmth, there was no mistaking the seriousness beneath it. The cadence of his words may have sounded effortless, but his tone made it clear that Hugo was a man who expected the law to be upheld.

[hugovance]

Hugo leaned back in his chair, the faintest hint of a smirk curling his lips as he spoke, his words thick with the rolling cadence of his accent. “Ah, ye’ve the right of it, sure enough,” he began, his green eyes glinting with humor. “The Blackwoods and the Brackens are as old a feud as the hills themselves, older than the stones of Harrenhal, I’d wager. Tryin’ to bind ‘em together with a weddin’ band’d be like tryin’ to fix a broken cartwheel with a bit o’ twine—looks well enough ‘til ye try to roll it down the road.” He chuckled low, shaking his head. “Aye, it was a fool’s thought, I’ll grant ye, but mayhap I’ve still a speck of hope left that some troubles can be mended with good sense and goodwill.”

He reached for his tea and took a sip, his expression unbothered by the chill of it, before settin’ the cup down with deliberate care. His gaze flicked to her own cup teeterin’ on a pile of books, but he said nothin’. Best not to meddle in Fiadh’s ways—it was her chaos, and it seemed to work for her well enough.

“As for Harrenhal,” he went on, his tone a touch more serious, “the name slips my mind. Though whether the man’s the sort to know what treasures lie buried in them cursed halls, or if he’d part with ‘em even if he did, well, that’s another matter. But if anyone can wheedle the truth out of him, it’s yerself. Write to the man, by all means. If we’re to build this great library o’ yours, let it be filled with truths, not just fair tales and fancy.”

His smile softened as he looked back at her. “It’s a grand vision ye’ve got, Fiadh, and a fine one for the Riverlands. Somethin’ worth leavin’ behind for the folk who’ll come after us. Mayhap it won’t end old grudges, but it might remind ‘em all of what we share—a bloody, messy history, aye, but ours all the same.”

His tone turned wry as he added, with a nod to her cup, “And speakin’ of bloody messes, try not to let that tea of yours topple. It’s the only thing here not already part o’ the cluttered masterpiece ye call a system.”

there were many things fiadh admired about her little brother, but not least the way his mind always sought to find a solution. her head tilted, lips curving into a fond smile. "perhaps you're right. i'd still like to get my hands on the original documents, though, translate them myself. who is harrenhal's castellan, these days? perhaps i ought to write to them." if there was an original copy to be found, it would be there. "if we're going to record the histories, we should make sure it's accurate." and therein was the skill of fiadh vance, the way she sought to weave the truth into art, rather than refusing to let it get in the way of a good story.

"we could do it," in another, it might have sounded arrogant, and perhaps it was, but there was no cockiness in fiadh's voice, just enthusiasm and hope. "i'd like to think that between the two of us, we can build something useful here. for the riverlands, not just house vance." the reach had the citadel, the north the wall. why could the vances not give the riverlands their own hub of knowledge, of histories? fiadh did not know if anything she did, any of her writings or stories would stand the test of time, but she liked the idea of leaving an echo of herself somewhere, that should she have grandchildren or great-granchildren, there would be something or somewhere to wave at them from the past.

and though hugo's ideas were often noble ones, ones fiadh found herself in agreement with, his notion of marrying a bracken to a blackwood had a flicker of something like disapproval crossing her features, unable to hide the fact she didn't like the idea very much. the brackens were few in number. hugo's suggestion meant that either bloody ben would take brianna to wife, or ronan to take the lady agnes blackwood. she did not much like the idea of either. "you're right. they would run you through." she kept her tone light, taking another sip of her long-cold tea. "besides, it's been done. more than once. and it's never actually worked."

she set the cup down on a pile of books, and it wobbled precariously, but held firm. fiadh didn't seem to notice. "i know you want to do what's best for the riverlands. that's why you're the sentinel, after all. but i can't help thinking forcing unity where it doesn't exist will backfire in the end. if it were that easy, the blackwoods and the brackens would have been singing love songs to each other centuries ago, and calling each other kin now."

[hugovance]

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