Olivar Arryn stood on the edge of the Red Keep's battlements, his eyes lost in the gray expanse of the sea beyond. The wind whipped through his hair, which had grown unruly and unkempt over the past year. He had always been a peculiar man, even before the tragedy that shattered him. People whispered that his mind had always been elsewhere, as though he lived half in dreams and half in the waking world. But those dreams had turned into nightmares on the night his sister, Queen Aemma Arryn, had died in childbirth.
The death of Aemma had shaken the entire realm, but none more so than Olivar. He had been close to his sister, closer than most knew. She had been the guiding star in his life, the one who had understood him when no one else did. When she was taken from him, so suddenly and violently, something inside Olivar broke. He had become a shadow of the man he once was, his peculiarities deepening into a full retreat from the world around him.
He spent his days wandering the Red Keep, speaking little and engaging even less. Servants and courtiers avoided him, their eyes filled with pity or discomfort. They did not know what to do with a man who seemed to have lost his tether to the world. Olivar himself barely noticed their absence. His thoughts were consumed by memories of his sister, her laughter, her wisdom, and the way she had always looked out for him, even when he didn't deserve it.
In the depths of his sorrow, he found little solace. The Red Keep, with its bustling activity and ceaseless intrigue, felt like a prison. He wanted nothing more than to escape, to disappear into the wilderness where no one would find him. But he couldn't. He was still an Arryn, a member of one of the most powerful families in the realm. And though he had no desire to rule, no one could afford to let him simply fade away.
It was during this time of grief and withdrawal that Olivar met Ila Martell.
Ila was unlike anyone Olivar had ever known. Born and raised in Sunspear, she had the sharp wit and warm grace characteristic of the Martells. But more than that, she had an insatiable curiosity about the world. She had spent her youth devouring the histories of Westeros and the known world, learning languages and customs, and studying the rise and fall of empires. There was a fire in her, a brightness that contrasted sharply with Olivar's shadowed existence.
Their marriage had been arranged, as most noble marriages were, but Ila approached it with the same thoughtful consideration she applied to all things. She had heard the whispers about Olivar, the rumors of his peculiarities and his grief-stricken withdrawal, but she did not shy away. Instead, she sought to understand him, to reach the man behind the sorrow.
In the early days of their marriage, Ila often found Olivar standing at the battlements or sitting in darkened corners of the castle, lost in his thoughts. She would approach him gently, never forcing conversation but simply being present. At first, he barely acknowledged her, too consumed by his own grief. But slowly, her quiet persistence began to draw him out.
Ila spoke to him of history, of the great battles and tragedies of the past, and of the people who had found the strength to carry on despite their losses. She told him stories of the Martells, of the burning sands of Dorne, and the resilience of her people. She did not try to dismiss his grief, nor did she attempt to compare it to her own experiences. Instead, she offered him a different perspective, a way to see that he was not alone in his pain.
Over time, Olivar began to speak again. His words were often disjointed, as if he were still half-asleep, but Ila listened patiently, piecing together the fragments of his thoughts. He spoke of Aemma, of their childhood in the Vale, and of the bond they had shared. He confessed his guilt, the belief that he had somehow failed her by not being there to protect her. Ila listened, offering no judgments, only understanding.
It was in these quiet conversations that Olivar found a measure of peace. He was still not the man he had been before, and perhaps he never would be. But with Ila by his side, he no longer felt completely adrift. She anchored him in a way that no one else could, giving him a reason to stay in the world even when it felt too painful to bear.
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Labour | Helaena Targaryen
FanfictionThe Dreaming Flacon is a man never fit to be Lord of the Vale. Ser Olivar Arryn will never hold the seat of his house, only the love of his sister and the love of his wife. The People's Princess is a woman who will never rule. Ila Martell is a last...