FAREWELL YITI

Author's Note: This is a non-profit fanfiction based on A Song of Ice and Fire. It is part of a larger story world I plan to adapt into an original novel. All names, places, and affiliations may change in the future.

RUYAN

The summons came at dawn, carried by the Chief Eunuch himself rather than a lesser messenger—a distinction that underscored its importance. Ruyan had been preparing for her journey north, overseeing the final arrangements for the subject who would accompany her to her new home. Though she felt relief that she had successfully secured the marriage with Robb, she knew her mission was far from complete. Her father would expect a granddaughter soon enough—further confirmation of the alliance and the magical bloodline it would preserve.

As she followed the Chief Eunuch through the winding corridors of the Imperial Palace, Ruyan reflected on the rarity of private audiences with her father. Since the wedding, they had scarcely spoken outside of formal functions. This meeting would likely be their last before she departed for Westeros, a realization that stirred unexpected emotions beneath her trained serenity.

The Emperor awaited her in his private study rather than the formal throne room—another significant choice. The space was austere by imperial standards, furnished with scholars' treasures rather than displays of opulence: ancient scrolls, astronomical instruments, maps of distant lands, and a polished Go board at the center. Morning light streamed through latticed windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the still air.

Ruyan performed the formal kowtow, her forehead touching the cool stone floor in the gesture of perfect submission she had practiced since childhood. She remained perfectly still, awaiting permission to rise.

"Ruyan, my daughter," the Emperor's voice held an unfamiliar softness. "Rise."

She obeyed, keeping her eyes properly lowered until he gestured for her to sit opposite him at the Go board. His face—so often impassive during public functions—bore subtle signs of fatigue around the eyes, lines that spoke of sleepless nights and heavy decisions.

"This father of yours seems to be saddened by your impending departure," he said, the formal third-person reference only partially masking the personal sentiment beneath.

"Forgive me for bringing your heart ache, Divine One," Ruyan replied automatically, falling back on the formal language that had formed the bedrock of their relationship.

Something flickered across the Emperor's face—disappointment, perhaps. "Always so formal," he murmured, his fingertips tracing the pattern of the Go board. "You have done your duty, and still have more to do." He looked up, his eyes meeting hers directly in a way that rarely happened in ceremonial expectation. "Tell me, child, do you resent your father for letting you marry so far away?"

The question caught her off guard. Throughout her life, the Emperor had been emperor first, father second. His will was absolute, his decisions beyond question. The notion that she might resent his commands had never been acknowledged, let alone discussed.

"Divine One, I do not resent you," she answered carefully. "Serving you brings my heart peace."

A shadow crossed her father's face—an expression Ruyan couldn't fully decipher. It wasn't anger or disappointment, nothing she had been trained to recognize and respond to in the complex dance of court politics. This was something else entirely, something raw and personal. The unfamiliar vulnerability in her father's expression left her strangely unbalanced.

"I am glad," he said simply, his voice carrying undercurrents she couldn't name. "Tell me, child, is there something you want to say me before you leave?"

Ruyan paused, weighing her words carefully. "I know I must bear a daughter, a future prince consort," she began. "But I ask that I be free of that expectation for at least the first two years. I hope to establish our people first before that responsibility."

The Emperor's expression remained unreadable. The silence that followed stretched long enough for doubt to creep in.

"Reasonable," he said at last. "Understandable. I have no doubt you will do your duty when the time comes."

Relief loosened the knot in Ruyan's chest. "Thank you, Divine One."

"Father," he corrected, the word tender. "You have not called me father for a long time. Indulge me this last moment. Come, let us have tea and play Go as we used to."

Servants brought her favorite tea and sweets: jasmine, candied plums, southern bean cakes. She had never requested them. But her father had known.

They played in silence. Clicks of black and white stones marked the passing time. Their match ended, as always, in a perfect draw.

The Chief Eunuch brought a case of polished ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Inside was a sword of celestial steel—wavy-bladed, etched with swirling sigils, hilted in white ray skin and silver wire. The scabbard gleamed white and silver with phoenixes carved in relief.

This was not merely a weapon. It was a legacy.

Ruyan bowed, her forehead to the floor—not for protocol, but gratitude.

"Thank you..." she hesitated, then softly, "...Father."

He stepped forward and gently cupped her face, pressing a kiss to her forehead—a blessing she had not received since childhood.

"Never forget who you are," he said, voice low. "You are a daughter of Yi Ti. And you are my daughter."

Something cracked inside her. A wall long held. And in its place, warmth.

"I will never forget," she whispered.

A MOTHER'S FAREWELL

After leaving her father, Ruyan made her way to the Empress Palace. She would spend her second-to-last night in Yi Ti with her mother, as the Empress had requested. A curious sensation settled within her—it seemed her parents were showing more affection than ceremonial expectation dictated, as if the impending separation had shifted something fundamental in their relationship.

Dinner was laid out beside the moonlit garden, not court fare, but dishes they had once shared in private. The Empress herself placed a fried lotus shoot in Ruyan's bowl.

"In Winterfell, eat what you enjoy," her mother said. "The cooks I chose will remember your tastes."

The intimacy of that gesture struck deep, but Ruyan only inclined her head in thanks. She felt the warmth of it. She simply did not know how to return it.

They spoke of practical matters—cooking, seasons, silks suitable for the North—but something warmer flowed beneath. A thread of memory, weaving connection through the quiet.

After tea, the Empress surprised her daughter by brushing her hair herself. The strokes were steady, patient, unhurried. Ruyan sat stiffly at first, uncertain how to receive the affection. She could not remember the last time her mother had done this. Perhaps before her first recitation of court etiquette, when she had still been allowed to cry.

"You were always the quiet one," the Empress said. "Even when you cried, you did it without sound. I hated that. It meant I never knew when you were hurting."

The brush paused.

"When they told me you were the perfect one, I should have known it would cost you something."

Ruyan stared ahead. She wanted to speak, to ask what it had cost her, but the words turned to stone in her mouth.

Later, they lay side by side in the imperial bed. The Empress held her. Ruyan lay still, her muscles taut beneath the softness of the touch. And yet, she leaned in. Not by will, but by instinct.

"Once, when you were five," her mother whispered, "you asked if I would ever stop loving you if you failed. I told you no. But I said it too quickly. You didn't believe me."

Ruyan closed her eyes. She remembered the question. She could not remember the comfort.

Her mother kissed her brow and held her tighter.

She slept, and her sleep was deep and strange. When she woke, her mother was already watching her. No words were spoken.

Dressed in silence, they shared breakfast in companionable quiet. When the moment of departure came, the Empress embraced her—a full-bodied, trembling hold. A single tear slid down her cheek.

"Live well," she whispered. "And if you forget how to feel, remember this night."

Ruyan bowed.

And as she walked away, she carried not only duty, but the ache of a warmth she had not known how to hold.

She had felt her mother's arms around her. She had heard the words. And though she could not give them back, she would carry them anyway.

Dawn painted the imperial harbor in shades of gold and crimson as the fleet prepared for departure. The massive vessels with their distinctive crimson sails stood ready, loaded with supplies, personnel, and the hopes of an empire's grand ambition. Ruyan stood at the marble pier, her hands clasped before her as protocol demanded, even in this final moment of farewell.

After nearly two years of preparations, the day of departure had finally arrived. She had said her formal goodbyes to the court the previous day—an elaborate ceremony with rituals dating back thousands of years. But this morning was for family alone, a rare concession granted by her father. Robb had already boarded the flagship, giving her this time with her siblings without his presence. She could see him watching from the deck, a distant figure observing what must seem to him an alien ritual of parting.

Ruolan approached first, nearly sixteen now and blossoming into a young woman of remarkable beauty. The years of Ruyan's mission had transformed her younger sister; the child she had left behind had grown taller, her features maturing into a graceful echo of their mother's. Yet despite the physical changes, Ruolan's eyes still held the same open expressiveness that had always distinguished her from her more reserved siblings.

Protocol dictated a formal bow between imperial siblings, particularly in a public setting like the harbor. But Ruolan disregarded all propriety, flinging herself into Ruyan's arms with a sob that seemed pulled from the depths of her being.

"Two years wasn't enough," Ruolan cried, her arms tightening around Ruyan's waist. "Now you're leaving forever! We've barely had time together since you returned."

The accusation carried truth that Ruyan couldn't deny. Her time since returning with Robb had been consumed with preparations for their journey west—diplomatic arrangements, selecting the citizens who would accompany them, overseeing the supplies and logistics for the long western voyage. The precious moments with her siblings had been far too few.

"You know my duty," Ruyan said, the familiar words of response feeling suddenly hollow on her tongue. The tightness in her chest surprised her—an uncomfortable pressure that made breathing suddenly more difficult than it should be.

Ruolan pressed desperate kisses to her cheeks, a display of affection that would have earned her a stern correction from their tutors. But here, at the edge of separation, such rules seemed meaningless. Ruyan found herself returning the embrace without the careful restraint she normally employed, her arms encircling her sister with genuine warmth.

"Write to me," Ruolan begged, her voice breaking despite her efforts to display the dignity expected of an imperial princess who had nearly reached marriageable age. "Tell me everything about the North—about your life there."

"I will," Ruyan promised, the words emerging before she could consider their practicality. Ships between Yi Ti and Westeros would be infrequent at best, but in this moment, such practical concerns seemed unimportant.

Ruolan pulled back just enough to reach for a small carved box. "I've had everything you like prepared," she said through her tears. "Sweet bean cakes preserved in honey, dried lychee with cinnamon, your favorite tea..." She pressed the container into Ruyan's hands. "So you won't forget the taste of home."

The simple gesture struck Ruyan with unexpected force. Her throat tightened, a physical reaction she couldn't control. Without conscious thought, she found herself cupping her sister's face between her palms—a mirror of the gesture her father had used with her during their final meeting. The parallel wasn't lost on Ruyan, but where her father's touch had been a rare gift, hers felt like a necessary connection.

She pressed her lips to Ruolan's forehead, her eyes closing briefly against a stinging sensation she refused to acknowledge. "I could never forget," she whispered, the words meant only for her sister's ears.

The gesture only made Ruolan cry harder, but behind the tears lay something else—a recognition of the unprecedented nature of Ruyan's display of affection. In all their years together, Ruyan had accepted her sister's demonstrations of love but rarely initiated them herself. This departure from pattern seemed to affect Ruolan more deeply than any words of comfort could have.

Prince Jian approached next, he enveloped her in a bear hug that lifted her slightly off her feet, a familiarity that would have scandalized the court had any officials witnessed it.

"I will come to you whenever you need me," he promised, his voice low and fierce against her ear. "One word from you, and I'll be on the first ship to Westeros, diplomatic mission or no."

Ruyan felt the corner of her mouth curve upward slightly—not quite a smile, but acknowledgment of the oath behind his words. "The Emperor might have something to say about that," she replied, though the thought of Jian battling bureaucracy and imperial decree for her sake warmed something inside her that had begun to grow cold with the reality of departure.

"Let him try to stop me," Jian said with a flash of his usual defiance, though the set of his jaw conveyed absolute seriousness. He pressed something into her hand—a jade pendant carved with protective symbols. "For luck and safe passage. May it guard you across the far ocean."

Ruyan closed her fingers around the token, the smooth stone warm against her palm. Unlike Ruolan's gift, which carried memories of home, Jian's offered protection for what lay ahead—a characteristic difference between her siblings that suddenly seemed precious in ways she had never fully appreciated before.

Crown Prince Xian approached last, his formal imperial regalia a stark reminder of the hierarchies that would continue long after her departure. At twenty-three, he carried the full weight of his position as heir, his eyes reflecting the calculated consideration of a future emperor. Yet as he reached for her, his movements held none of the careful distance usually maintained between imperial siblings.

He embraced her tightly, one hand cradling the back of her head in a protective gesture that seemed almost paternal despite their modest age difference. When he pulled back, his eyes held a weight of understanding that needed no words—he alone among her siblings fully comprehended the magnitude of what their father had asked of her, the sacrifice hidden beneath the imperial decree.

"I will always be here for you," he said, his voice carrying the quiet authority that made him their father's chosen successor. Then, with startling intimacy, he kissed her forehead and added, "Live well, Ruru."

The childhood nickname—abandoned years ago as they assumed their formal roles within the imperial hierarchy—caused something to shift inside Ruyan's chest. Her eyebrows furrowed slightly at the unfamiliar sensation. It wasn't pain exactly, but a hollow ache that expanded with each breath.

"Your son," Ruyan said quietly, meeting Xian's eyes directly. "When the time comes, treat my daughter well."

Xian nodded, understanding the layers beneath her simple request—concern for a child not yet conceived, for the alliance, for the bloodlines they sought to join. "As my own," he promised.

With the final farewells complete, Ruolan made one last desperate attempt to prolong the moment, clinging to Ruyan with renewed intensity. Prince Jian gently pried their sister away, his own eyes suspiciously bright as he led the sobbing princess back toward their imperial escorts.

As Ruyan turned toward the ship, she forced her breathing to remain steady, her steps measured and unhurried despite the tide and wind favoring immediate departure. The hollow sensation in her chest expanded, threatening to overwhelm the rigid discipline she had maintained throughout her life. She ascended the gangplank with perfect grace, focusing on each step to avoid thinking about what—who—she was leaving behind.

Only when she reached the deck did she permit herself one last glance toward the harbor, where her siblings stood watching—three figures gradually diminishing with distance, but carrying parts of her that neither ocean nor duty could ever fully sever.

For the first time in her memory, Ruyan found herself fighting against an unfamiliar pressure behind her eyes, a burning sensation that seemed determined to manifest as something she had not allowed herself since early childhood. But she did not cry—not here, not yet. She blinked rapidly, attributing the reaction to the salt spray and wind rather than acknowledging the emotion threatening to overwhelm her carefully constructed hardened mask.

Robb stood nearby, watching her with those perceptive blue eyes that seemed to see more than she wished to reveal. These past two years had changed him as much as it had changed her siblings—the boy who had been taken from White Harbor had become a man, his frame filling out, his features hardening into the sharp planes of adulthood. But it was not his physical changes that concerned her now; it was the growing perceptiveness in his gaze.

As the ships pulled away from the harbor, Ruyan maintained her position at the rail until the imperial city disappeared over the horizon. Only then did she turn away, moving toward the stern where Robb waited. Though her face remained composed, she felt the hollow inside her change shape. Not smaller. Not healed. Just clearer—drawn with the edges of everything she had left behind.

She had fulfilled her duty by securing the alliance. She had pleased her father by obeying his command. She had taken the first step toward fulfilling the imperial vision that had shaped her entire existence. Yet as Yi Ti faded into the distance behind her, Ruyan found herself facing not just a new horizon but a profound question she had never allowed herself to consider.

If duty had been fulfilled, why did the hollow space felt sharper now, as if absence had a shape?