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@antagonistzz
⋆⊹ hear the ballad of DONNELL SWANN of STONEHELM and VAIORA REDWYNE of THE ARBOR and SEVAN REYNE of CASTAMERE and SAERA GREYJOY NÉE SALTCLIFFE of PYKE.
# ANTAGONISTZZ ⋆ for the glory of 103AC, as sung by kris (she/her).
SET IN STONE ⊹ introduction ⋆ pinterest ⋆ threads
RIPE FOR VICTORY ⊹ introduction ⋆ pinterest ⋆ threads
BENEATH STILL WATERS ⊹ introduction ⋆ pinterest ⋆ threads
WE DO NOT SOW ⊹ introduction ⋆ pinterest ⋆ threads
— Blithe Saxon, an excerpt from Because It’s Her (via lunamonchtuna)
FATED FOR ... davos swann ( * @tearsofalyssa . )
FOUND IN ... the swann rooms, the day following the feast.
fear had torn through his heart — the sting of loss still gasping within his chest, a fresh set of stitches undone. although far from their parents in their passing, his heart felt as if buried with them. a roughened palm presses against jerica's smooth head first, then anora's, don sighing only in relief when he compares the temperature against his own. they kick him from the room with a well-aimed feather down pillow, forcing the knight from their fortress with arguments against his fussing.
he cannot help it. to worry for them, even when he has no place to be any longer. gone for too long. he thinks he will find an ally in his brother, solace even in their shared distance — "i fear for them, you know."
FATED FOR ... mela redwyne ( * @toothd . )
FOUND IN ... somewhere along the path of a purposeful woman.
when one has drifted through the seven kingdoms, there is a plague of familiar faces with a distinct absence of names. a knight that's unseated him, the daughter of a lord who had shared with him a feast during his journeys. there were many donnell knew without knowing, slipping through the cracks like a sieve. still, donnell recognized the soft clink of stones as the woman moved past him, remembering that he thought them to be heralding bells in oldtown, announcing the lady. he had barely had the stones to approach her then, too conscious of himself to interrupt her when she seemed so purposed with the stern concentration of her features.
even now, there was a swiftness to her stride, one that the knight hesitated to interrupt. but bravery wells within him, matching her steps — "can i lighten your load, my lady?"
♱ OPEN STARTER : in the midst or near the end of the poison, during a rare quiet moment, after the lord has finished their tending for the night . ( status: accepting replies )
it matters not the age of the sick: all desire to be cared for. as his child had not fallen ill with the terrible plague, the shivering fevers, then mor had little to be concerned with on that front. ( but the lashing limbs, the cries for help, the blind clinging to complete strangers in a time when houses wish each other dead … their heart aches, their mind spins with the beginnings of a migraine. ) attempting to bring it down now, in a small corner, chair and table their sole companions, an empty one opposite. it is at night: quiet, almost tense in how the solace seeps in. the book is opened in their palm, spine to the crook of their thumb, and although they do read, their grey-eyed gaze flashes towards movement in the room. “ have you need of something? has another patient … ” they swallow. cannot bring themself to ask, cannot bring themself to imprint nayara's face upon those bedridden. “… god's blood. i have some water. ” there, a pitcher besides the other book, which they had been reading: old tales of westeros, more like children's folklore, but in the end, it matters not what is said, only how it is received. “ and fruit, if you can stand it. dried. ” unless you want a bedtime story.
it feels to be something of a duty to see to the sick, or at least witness their illness in their most terrible form — strange and voyeuristic, don is worried to appear. but, it feels right. that which he had not done for his own parents upon their deathbed, he could do for another. slow as he totes around what is need, careful that he doesn't knock over something important.
"no, no—" donny says quickly, shaking his head in a rapid reassurance. he hardly knew the late master of laws but his heart went to the lannister children; though, strange to refer to them as such when they were so close in age to him. donnell takes a seat next to mordhred, limbs far too long for the rickety wooden chair. it makes him feel like a kid again, hunched over so that he does not look so hulking next to the tully (something he's always been obtusely aware of, even without so much of a word his direction). "i've no appetite," the swann knight murmurs, leaning his forearms against his knees. softly, he adds, "thank you, though." dark eyes glance towards the lord, almost as if afraid to inspect any newly weathered creases upon their countenance since he last saw him. "your family is well?"
located in the sick rooms, where willas has been moping at her bedside for as long as he is allowed & fated for lady vaiora redwyne , @antagonistzz.
willas's chest aches like a bruise pressed sadistically, over and over and over. it is early in the day for such misery, but he partakes willingly, drawn to her bedside like a moth to candleflame. the grey early morning light filters through the red keep's ornate shades, casting patterns across the stone floor at his knees. he quite liked the hazy half - darkness, everything not so illuminated. in the dimness, he is forced to recall each one of her features rather than gaze upon them like others must. it is easy, a game he has long been the master of. it was second nature, to willas — to think of her in a variety of manners. as a childhood friend in memory, as a companion in hastily penned correspondence, as a lover in his most private of dreams. he remains where he is, stooped over a candle placed at her bedside, knees pressed to stone. next to the puddle of its predecessor, lit too by willas's hand, the wax is still pristine. he cannot bear to look at vaiora any longer, to feel the repulsive need to be something more than he was settle in his stomach like a hot stone. like most of those who sat vigil at bedsides in the rooms nearby, he could do nothing to remedy her illness himself. unlike most, his father could. had, but on a delayed schedule.
a maester approaches from behind, willas recognizing him for what he was by the swish of his robes, the clink of his chains. " leave it, " he commands, knowing that on the platter which he carries is her allotted second dose of the antidote that had ridden along with his father's retinue from oldtown. his voice is curt. he emulates his brother. oh, but willas is not the steady - handed smith. he is the warrior, signalled by the sword that lies discarded on the floor a few feet away. vigilance, its green - tipped hilt black in the shadows of the chamber. he is the warrior, shown in the way that he spills the potent liquid down her chin as he lifts it to her lips, wiping it away with the soft pad of his thumb — too soft, for a knight's. he stares at the red droplets that stain the collar of her bedclothes. crisp and white as they once were, made golden by the candle's lame flicker, now made a pseudo - bloody mess by his foolish hand. " gods, " he exhales, picking up her hand as if it were a fragile thing, like to break. he presses his lips to her knuckles, feeling their feverish heat, and then his forehead, burying his face in the darkness of her blanketed hip.
barely awake but getting there from the sheer force of the antidote's disgusting flavour, the redwyne has no choice but to rouse from her slumber.
fist against skull, vaiora presses a knuckle into the wrinkled crease of willas' forehead, pushing his face away from the sick smell of her deathbed. he was a dog, needy for her attention even when she had no energy to give it. what she wouldn't give for a soak. "seven, willy, you act as if i'm dying—" something of a laugh in her chest, weak as it is, petering into a cough, dry and heaving, her chest feeling so small there is not a single millimetre left for air.
the antidote is like a palm against the well of her neck, the taste of it is a bitter kiss. he insists it is good for her, though she feels as if she would prefer to simply die than to suffer it again. unsweet liquorice in its blackened form, something red as blood leaving her lips stained. surely, she looks like a madwoman — hair matted with sweat, mouth dry as the brick the red keep was built with. always vain, a brush and mirror sit next to the bushel of flowers left by her betrothed, though it is too dim to make out the trace of them in the candle willas has lit for himself. it was a disgusting state to be in. she would be red in the face, mortified to be seen by someone other than the hightower. he had seen her at her worst — gums soft with a row of missing teeth, canines to premolars lost in the same youthful summer to a particularly strong apple. her shadow has always been such a mournful thing, vaiora tasked with keeping his brooding at bay with her own laughter, afraid that he may finally make good on the threat of his wet, puppy eyes welling with tears without her interference. "mix it with honey, next time," vaiora proclaims, used to the hightower following her endless demands. "or, i will refuse to drink it and then i will surely die."
“me? never!” he laughs. “i actually have no idea what you are talking about, lady redwyne,” his smirk never fades as he looks her over and continues to move them about the dance floor. despite the many pairs of eyes that remain on them, his gaze simply remains on her.
because how could it not?
for a moment, it is just them two, and everyone else has faded away. he nearly forgets the game they play, nearly forgets himself and makes a move he cannot take back. lucky enough, he has enough sense to remember where it is they are.
“fine, fine!” he chuckles. “shall we dance the night away, then?”
she rolls her eyes, any weight to it discounted by the grin on her lips.
if the night ends here, she will consider it to be perfect. any prior tiffs forgotten, any wine spills cleaned. here, with cedric, she feels as beautiful as she believes herself to look in her plum and gold. everything feels as if it should be, as if normal, as if nothing has changed and nothing ever will. tonight, she is more than happy to drink in the colour of his eyes until she finds the end of her cups.
"let us then," she grins, cheeks pink and appled, letting the music swell around them once more.
end.
steffon’s lip curled back, and he almost sneered. not another one, he thought — his short and painful betrothal to jocelyn baratheon had been enough pretending, he did not need vaoira’s compliments on his pallid and sickly complexion. “as long as i remain on land, i am happy to go anywhere. away from here. somewhere quiet. i despise it, all of this fakery.” the forced smiles, the pretending, the allegiances and vendettas pushed to one side for the sake of saving face. those around him may have thought steffon arryn strange, but they were simply honest ; it was one thing most of the lords and ladies within the keep had not yet learned. turning towards vaoira, their muddy eyes were aflame. “okay,” they agreed sincerely, “if we find a pen and paper, you will be my scribe. i will send a strongly worded complaint to house hightower. i will tell them exactly how i feel and will not scrub clean my words.” he had never learned to read nor write. it had been a disappointment to amaya, the sister that so often brushed shoulders with maesters and great men. he sighed, then, defeated, and took another sip, “they might not think it serious.”
she has stepped on something sticky, but she is not quite sure what — even with the implication spelled so neatly for her. vaiora is earnest. deadly so. "your wish is my command," she declares, smile easy as ever. it is easier to dodge accusations of dishonesty, for she often toes the line of hyperbole. and, even with the best designs at heart, vaiora is allergic to her own word, often forgetting to fulfil every promise she makes. she makes so many, after all.
"do not fear, i will explain that we are gravely serious, liege steffon." willy will be sure to convey their plight well against his father. vaiora, with a weighted gravity matching that which steffon sets in the tone, declares, "i will fetch some parchment from my rooms!" then, sorting through the muddle of her mind, she recalls the additional instruction. "as well as a quill." really, she would like to relieve herself too. that could occur on the way. the redwyne holds out her little finger, every intention of fulfilling the request, "i will be back before you can say flea bottom. slowly, though. very, very slowly."
she's almost made it to the relative safety of a secluded corner , when an overly enticing cadence is all it takes to have her glancing their way. with freedom so close she could almost taste it , in the end , all she had to blame was her own flagrant disregard of the most important rule of going unnoticed in crowds unknown ⸻ you simply never make eye contact , you utter ninny. but with their gazes meeting over the talked up wine , and syrenna stuck with no options that wouldn't have her rumoured as the rudest lady in all the realm … ❝ i have no doubt that the arbour's wines flow the finest in all the kingdoms , my lady. ❞ even if they were not her favoured choice in drink , she could attest to the quality of it any time it chanced across her tongue. ❝ nearly a hundred barrels. wow. how … incredible ? ❞ the words came out stiffer than she'd intended , but at least it proved her attentive to the words being shared. ❝ you certainly won't have trouble emptying every last one , even without my participation. ❞
it is like a sixth sense, of sorts — vaiora's uncanny ability to spot someone who hopes to hide, tugging them into the spotlight that seems to follow her at every corner. the lady dressed in her black and golds reminds her much of the baratheon trio she had spied from across their benches, sat neatly amongst the stormlanders during their meal. the triplets she did not yet know, though she was fascinated with the concept. three in one go! wow! no problem with ignoring propriety, the redwyne loops her arm through the baratheon's, a welcome warmth against the bare of her shoulders — "well, how does one disagree with the truth?" then, a giggle. conspiratorially, she adds, "admittedly, i am biased. i was weened on arbor gold." at this point, the wine has gone past her head and into the clouds. her words move swiftly like the swift stream of a river's current, "i will not force you, of course, though, i do find that the night passes swifter with a bit of liquid to wet your whistle. again! i will not force you. although, as you said," her smile is pleased, wide and gummy as she recites dutifully, "it is the finest in all the kingdoms."
"I shall promise then for the next time you will get your own mode of transportation, something fitting for my favorite sibling." He joked with Vaoira. He loved all his siblings but it was easy to see how much alike they were to one another even when separated by time apart whenever he was away to the Crownlands and she was with their uncle.
"At least you have the luxury of not having to hear his words as much as i do. I swear it feels as if it his mission in life to speak like that so someone fall alseep in the council meeting or maybe it is my hope someone throw something at him in hopes of quieting the lord hand." Desmond said. Being the youngest in the small council was sometjing he wnjoyed but sometimes it makes him hope for one of them to lose their position soon so another his age can join. "If its something you can help with, I appreciate it."
she gasps, mouth falling into a round 'o' — "my very own ship!" though, as fun as it sounds, she does not take the offer for anything true. it would not be hard to have her own boat, but the thought of responsibility is enough to give her a rash. "brother, you spoil me!" vaiora had simply commandeered her favourite captain of their fleet, employing them to follow the needle of her heart.
"he is not so bad," vaiora says with a laugh, champion of the downtrodden. she much preferred shiera's company versus her father's, but she found that he wasn't as bad as the realm thought. "the speeches thus far have been rather funny, though the quality may soon decline. you ought to find the court fool to twirl in circles before lord westerling gets the impression that a pause in the music is lull enough to speak again." a drunken sod, he may be, but there were enough old men in the arbor who were cut of the same cloth — many of which had formed vaiora's easy humour.
"still! consider me your right hand, brother," she smiles sweetly as she walks away, off to do their future king's bidding.
end.
lyanna liked that she could scandalise people. no matter what she did , there was always someone questioning her behaviour. the only one who never batted an eye was her other half. everyone else were wide-eyed and befuddled at the scenes she caused. vaiora had somehow ended up somewhere in between — lead mostly by amusement than anything else. “if i tell you i’ll lose the moment of surprise ,” lyanna replied with a dangerous glint in her eyes. “but if you ever need me to , i would be up for the task.” daemian might’ve protected her brother when she couldn’t , but that was the only thing thawing her otherwise frosty feelings for him. the distaste in vaiora’s voice made lyanna hide her laughter behind her hands. “you sound like i did , at the thought of marriage. i can’t ease your worries , i’m afraid. marriage did not agree with me.” however , vaiora’s kind words eased her features into something softer. it once again reminded her that she'd been her one solace during her time in oldtown. “thank you , vaiora. i feel born anew , now that i’ve been home for a while.”
"well!" she laughs again, more settled in her heart with it. "i should hope that you would never need it against me!" though, she felt that lyanna would never — even with the wild in her eyes. an untameable heart, yes, but loyal in the depths of it. vaiora smelled it on her like a destrier the first they had met, knew it in every word she spoke of their sibling. "though, if i find myself at odds with a foe, you will be the first name i shout for help." a palm finds the sweet swell of lyanna's fair cheek, liking how well vaiora's own tan has developed. "i did not think it would be so terrible, for i am so very agreeable, but not even wed and we are at a standstill!" her hand falls with a sigh, done with the thought of the celtigar. like all her problems, it rolls off her back like a lost drop of water. "he does not deserve another second of my night. enough of him! truly." returning to a wide smile, she brings her chalice to the arryn's once more, clicking cups once more before downing the whole of it. "i will drink to that, my darling! though, we are together once again in the splendour of the red keep, and we shall be remiss if we do not take advantage of such fortunes." she meets her with her own maniac, wide in her grin, "we shall dance!"
closed. for vaiora redwyne, @antagonistzz. location. red keep sickrooms.
chaos had erupted and daemian was not the least bit shocked, there was only one thing westerosi were good for and it was that. he had retired early that night even, unable to deal with the fallout of what had transpired throughout the evening and it was only in the rush of shouts and screams did he emerge to find the noble houses of westeros in a panic. it did not concern him really, whatever had happened they could figure it out or die trying, who was he to truly care? he did not wish to be here in the first place and if someone had truly poisoned them, then he had hoped they would do a better job next time. it only makes him panic at the mention of vaiora through the halls. she could not truly have fallen ill? she was... she was strong and daemian had always known that of her. part of him, the sick part, had wished she would perish, so he could be free of their arrangement. then the other part, the one with a heart that still beat inside of his chest realized that whatever cruelty he had was not to be given to vaiora, but who had forced them into this and it made something seize inside of his chest. something he could only admit was fear at the idea it would take her, so he had done the only logical thing he could think of — march to the sickrooms and demand (threaten) they keep her alive. "you shall do all that you can, do you understand me?" his voice is low, raw, and animalistic as he speaks, "you save her life come hell or high water," gravelly, evil, as a hand tightens upon the sword at his side while they ushered him away from the sickrooms, "and to be clear, i am the hell and the high water." the dead of night strikes a week later, unable to sleep and all he could think about was his betrothed. without thinking or even a care for his own safety, he had snuck past the knights during their rotation and entered the chamber in which vaiora had been in. to see her there, upon a bed that was not made of the finest linens and silks that daemian had known she liked, made something clench inside of him. the flowers that he had brought, a peace offering from their last conversation at the feast were settled into a vase with water before he was pulling up a chair next to her bedside. a hand, calloused and rough, runs through the sweat soaked locks of her hair, brushing them away from her face. seeing her like this made bile rise up in his throat, fear staking it's claim against his heart for as much as he wished to be rid of her as his wife, he had never wished to be rid of her completely. "oh, vai," daemian says gently, continuing the strokes against her hair, "perhaps you should have slowed down on that wine you love so much, sweetling, and you could be awake now to yell at me for even coming near you." a laugh is let out, something soft and so unlike him. "if you die on me, i will never forgive you, you know? i know you hate to listen to my voice, but if it has wiggled it's way into your dreams, i am letting you know i will dabble in the dark arts from my valyrian ancestry to revive you and kill you myself."
she had stayed at the feast for far too long, though vaiora always had a talent for stretching out the night. from her addled memories, the redwyne vaguely recalls sitting with the lord hand — sipping her wine while drinking in his words, which chronicled his great and exponential love for crownlander women.
what happens after that is a disastrous blur. it is her, stumbling into the arbor's accommodation — nose sharp and stinging when she wakes in the sickrooms, having banged her nose when falling to the floor before the hearth. drink, drink, drink. it made the night all the more bearable — forcing down nerves, dulling her siblings’ nagging, forgetting yet another terrible conversation with daemian that went no where but circles. she supposed, had she denied herself one less goblet, perhaps she would not have fallen so sick in the first place. though, perhaps she was with the stranger in her first sip.
the days and hours blur into one motionless haze. it is so much like being at sea — losing track of how much time passes, if it does at all.
vai — daemian says, his mouth curved into a brilliant smile, lit against the bright crack of fire. she smiles back in turn — proud of herself for coaxing a laugh from the brute. she’s cycled through her entire life at this point, dreams and waking hours stuffed full of reveries. her head lulls to the side, the trace of fingers sear against her skin, nuzzling against the comfort of something human. she was not made for her lonesome, something made for pairs, and trios, and quartets.
russett eyes crack open, fluttering once, twice, and then finally finding violet eyes in the dark. strangely… it is not so terrible to wake up to him by her side. but, surely, this must still be a dream. the only love he bore her had been left somewhere long ago across the narrow sea, before their marriage had been brought to the foreground. "daemian," she manages to say, slowly, lips stretching into a tired smile. the voice that comes from her sounds nothing like herself — frail, and weak. "don't be silly... you don't know the first thing about the dark arts."
FATED FOR … mela redwyne ( * @toothd . )
FOUND IN … the sick rooms.
the lady of redwyne had died long ago, but these days, her presence seemed to be stuck to her youngest daughter like a shadow seamed to her spine. her voice soft against her ear, a hand pressed to her head — sela was with her, sitting there on the stool next to her bed, eyes warm in a way that mela never looked at her. her head turns, slowly, like retreating prey on low haunches; backing away from the stranger's beckon. she cannot say for certain if the mela she looks at now is real, or if she as has conjured her too. but it is easier to look at someone she knows is still breathing.
"sister..." vaiora says, heart feeling very small in her chest, always disliking to ask her sister for anything at all, "can you hold my hand, please?"
shiera waters, enclosed in a sickroom with vaiora redwyne @antagonistzz in the ailing halls of the red keep, late, the night after the harvest feast.
Discomfort enveloped her like a mother's embrace. The sheets were too warm and the night was too cold; sweat dried cold upon her brow and when she rubbed it away it was replaced again, as though she was standing in the rain. When she looked up, moonlight scattered across the beading strain, like pearls or other jewels placed gently upon her brow. Her eyes misted. A cold wind burst in, sharp as knives. Shiera groped blindly for something to hold and tried to sit upright so she might shutter the windows. Who had left them ajar? Uprightness did not suit her, and she fell back down. "Why is there—" she began, and her voice faltered, stuck, throat dry as dust. Had she been running around in the dust? Had she gone too close to the Reeking Lane where sawdust filled the air and made breathing a pain, but none of the other children ran?
"Water," she cried, and this time her voice came clear. “Is there... water? Why is there—a fire, please, I am so cold.”
when she wakes, vaiora is home again, back sweaty in the island heat. the voice feels like half a dream — her mother calling out to her, frail in her final state. "water?" vaiora echoes in turn, feeling the dry, hoarse rub of her voice against the chords. as she had, time and time again, the redwyne pulls herself from her blankets. yes, mama — she would mumble through her grogginess. fingers wrap against the pitcher's handle, sure and real, as she pours into a brass cup. a seat against the edge of the bed, palm finding the lady's forehead glistening in the moonlight, so wet that her thick hair is slick against the heat of her fever. "here," she says softly, bringing the cup to her lips. "drink this."
