a gambit of gods.

ONE. FAMILY TREE (INTRO.)

001.
family tree (intro.)

—— rhaenys.
driftmark, nine years later.

✶       the steam rose from the cup like something alive, twisting and curling in the thick, drowsy air of the solar, like two lovers swaying in the dark—moving only when the world turned away.

rhaenys observed with half-lidded eyes, her hands clasped tightly around the delicate porcelain. the heat pressed fiercely into her palms, sharp and near-painful—yet not without its comfort. it was a grounding thing, tangible in a world so often unmoored, as if the burn tethered her to the present moment: still here, still tethered to this body, in this room, when so often she felt herself dissolve into the air, as though she was nothing more than that same steam, evaporating with time.

the voices of her ladies surrounded her but never touched her. their words were soft, like distant echoes rippling through a forest in the fall—beautiful, perhaps, but fleeting, fading before they could settle. lady yselde brune's laugh fluttered, light and airy, a morning bird calling for dawn, while lady isobel hayford's voice held a steady rhythm that seemed to belong to another world entirely, one that pushed her far away.

their heads bent low over embroidery hoops, fingers moving in delicate, practiced motions, but their hands held threads she could not grasp. they spoke of the festival to come, of the year turning once again, but it all felt so far away—another world she had not been invited to.

out of her five ladies-in-waiting, only yselde and isobel remained. the others had long since left, as was their way, stepping into lives filled with husbands, children, and grandchildren—lives rhaenys had once arranged, sent off with blessings, watched as they moved on. but these two—stubborn, loyal—had refused every offer, staying behind. she had tried to marry them off, as any dutiful princess should, but they rejected the pacts, remaining at her side.

friends, perhaps—rhaenys was comfortable enough to name them so. but as her hair turned whiter with each passing day, and the weight of years pressed heavier on her shoulders, she longed for solitude. she longed to be alone with her thoughts, with the silence of rooms emptied of voices, of faces that had watched her grow old but had not followed her into it.

"the gowns need finishing by the week's end," isobel muttered, her attention fixed on the needle in her hand. it caught the light briefly before disappearing into the fabric. "they're sending new gold trims from lannisport. excessive, really."

yselde, sitting across from her, let out a low chuckle, but there was a touch of irony in it. "gold? from lannisport? for a new year's festival? you'd think we were dressing for a coronation."

"the king's whims are as fickle as the wind," isobel replied with a smirk. "he tires of the queen's and princess's adornments, so now the rest of us are expected to glitter. as if we haven't enough of pretense already."

their words floated through the air, light as autumn leaves, beautiful but inconsequential, filling the room only to settle in corners where they would be forgotten. the mention of the king and his indulgences sparked something in rhaenys—disgust, at the very least. she sat there, distant, as if viewing the world from behind a veil, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of her cup. the tea had gone tepid, but she hadn't thought to drink it. it was there for formalities.

how many more of these charades must she endure? pretending to care, pretending to find joy in empty celebrations. it had become exhausting, the forced laughter, the pointless gatherings. if it were in her power, she would refuse the king's request entirely, lock the doors, and let the night pass without a single candle lit in her halls.