( BETWEEN TONGUE AND TASTE )

multi-muse for PROELIARP / by abby PEREGRINE PIP GARDENER. prince of thorns & heir apparent of the reach. he/him. HERAH OF MYR. red priestess of the dreadfort, blessed by the lord of light. she/her. AURION PYKE. bastard lord of the iron islands, loyal only to the tides and ax. he/him.

[bloomsred]

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐄 '𝐏𝐈𝐏' 𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑. — crown prince of the reach. wine spilling from an open, laughing mouth, the teeth and tongue stained burgundy; the kiss of an arrow to the cheek, and the drip of blood left behind;  too many rings scraping against a goblet, afternoon light cleaving through the gems like stains on the table wood.

                                                                        doc.    pinterest.    connections.

𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘𝐑. — red priestess of the dreadfort. a dark hand passing through flame, uncharred; hills of rolling green and frosted white, shot through with crimson cloaks catching in the winter’s wind; whispers in dark corners, gathering like shadows between the lamplight.                                                                           doc.    pinterest.    connections.

[althcr]

RAND’S COMFORTABLE SOFT WOOLLY SWEATER

[bloomsred]

SERANA.

it is the quietest she has been for some time, and the longest stretch of silence that will be seen by the princess’s retinue until a great deal later. travel, perhaps even moreso than sleep, rendered from serana the perpetual need for motion and noise, tucking it aside momentarily for the hungry sensation of observation and subsequent daydream. later, when she has adjusted to the scenery and grown accustomed to the sight of stone and drifts of snow (suddenly no more or less intriguing than marble pillars and meadows of green), she will bore of her surveying of the land and insist on a mare, pulling ahead from the gardener escort in order to explore ahead. but for now — for a brief moment — it is enough to simply watch through the frosted window.

until, of course, pip ruins the reverie with a grip of cold fingers.

“get off.” 

instinctual as a hare in the claws of a falcon, her struggle is immediate, arm tugging away from  peregrine with a snap. “being crown prince entitles you to father’s throne and the entire bloody kingdom, not my body heat.”

there is the carnal, deep-braided urge to push her free hand into his face, irritated as much by the disruption as the chill of his body. she stifles it only by the thinnest of gauzes.

“i told you, i told you not to take your gloves off when we left the carriage. i knew you were going to lose them.”

“i haven’t lost them,” pip insists with all the convincing of someone who has, indeed, lost their gloves and simply doesn’t want to admit it to their incredibly irritating sister who will no doubt be smug and self-righteous about it for the rest of the frankly too-long journey. and what of it? serana wasn’t his mother, and thank the seven for that. she was tucked safely away in the reach.

“i simply cannot be bothered to find them at the current moment, which is fine because i’m not actually that cold.” despite the words actively coming out of his mouth, pip’s hand still snakes over the blanket towards that strip of warm, exposed skin. will it get him slapped? quite possibly, but it would be a far better alternative to sitting in stony, frigid silence for the rest of the slow ascent.

the carriage rocks again and pip darts his fingers out. 

“don’t be a brat about it, come on. didn’t the septas ever teach you to share?”

[bloomsred]

TOMAN.

timestamp :    the  requiem /  spring ,  486  ac.    location : eyrie ,  the  vale    tagging :    @bloomsred   ( peregrine  gardener )

it  was  not  as  if  toman  storm  had  spent  nineteen  years  in  a  windowless  room  until  his  father  had  decided  to  unveil  him  unto  the  world.  he  had  grown  up  amongst  the  docks  of  the  stormlands,  a  place  where  sailors  and  laborers  lived  their  lives  and  lived  them  in  vibrant  colors  — —  perhaps  not  the  deep  jewel  tones  of  the  nobility,  nor  the  gold  threads  of  his  new  family,  if  you  could  call  them  that,  but  bright  colors  of  their  own  design.  there  was  the  blue  of  the  sky  of  course,  the  dark  shad  of  the  waves,  but  those  of  titled  birth  might  do  well  not  to  forget  the  deep  browns  of  wood  that’s  come  to  shine  with  use,  the  red  of  cheeks  flushed,  the  orange  of  fires  that  burned  the  same  color  no  matter  your  station,  or  purple  of  wine  that,  while  cheap,  serves  a  purpose.  

that  is  to  say,  it  was  only  with  particulars  that  he  was  naive  — —  he  had  arguably  seen  more  life  than  some  of  the  more  esteemed  guests  present  for  the  changing  of  guard  in  the  vale.  parties  were  parties  and  he  certainly  had  drank  too  much  before.  certainly  a  small  gathering  that  someone  had  invited  him  to  would  be  the  same  or  at  least  the  same  shape  for  him  to  navigate.  he’s  pulled  along,  curious  to  see  the  festivities  that  might  occur  despite  the  purpose  of  this  gathering.  soon  enough,  he  finds  himself  in  someone’s  apartments.  after  a  few  more  drinks,  his  usual  guard  for  the  sake  of  his  status  is  slipping  slightly,  and  without  realizing  it,  he’s  entered  conversation  with  the  resident  of  these  apartments,  the  host  of  this  party,  and  the  crown  prince  of  a  kingdom.

‘  do  you  think  they  brought  the  wine  themselves,  or  was  it  intended  for  the  funeral  feast ?  ’

let’s be clear about one thing: pip did not set out to play host this evening, nor did he intend for the scale of this gathering to slip so entirely from his grasp. but he has many names at home in highgarden, and where drink was concerned chief among them is master of revels. so, no, the turn of this evening was no conspiration of his, but he was hardly one to deny friends, acquaintances, and indeed even strangers – as most of the persons now occupying his apartments seemed to be – the pleasure of a gardener party. 

as with most of his revels, pip has placed himself not quite in the center of the room; enough that he may be carried between conversations and drinks without much effort, not so much that the burden of entertainment leans solely on his shoulders. he doesn’t recognize most of the faces immediately surrounding him, even if he ought to. 

pip is, in fact, quite drunk. he can’t be sure if the man at his side is addressing him, specifically, but deigns to answer anyway, staring down the remainder of his goblet. he seems to remember several someones filling his glass with various half-empty bottles of unknown origin. it would certainly explain the strange, although not wholly unpleasant taste to his wine. 

“in either case i can almost certainly say it’s been put to better use here. although,” he takes another sip, frowning, and finishes the rest. “i am going to have word with whomever has decided to insult me with putting arryn wine into my cup. come, lets find something that doesn’t taste like dry dirt.”

[bloomsred]

QOREN.

“SISTER,” HE GREETS, KNOWING VERY well that the woman with whom he falls into step with was once tauted to be the future mother of their very faith. qoren remembers well her first visit to the temple that had canonised him into a weapon of the lord of light, on the canal of heroes in braavos. the whispers had followed in her tracks with the constancy of shadows, or the red skirts she wore. unlike here, the whispers were spoken with reverence, and god-fearing anticipation. some spoke with jealousy ( not qoren, he was a servant of the lord built to take a sword in hand, not a holy position of office ), some with reverence. a high priestess in waiting, the older priests said, and qoren had been sure it was true. he had seen her in the flames, coils of dark hair tinged with read, eyes staring back at him with all the conviction of woman wielding great power - he had been young then, and not yet adept in the art of reading the flames. still, he was not. it was not a perfect art, but one of interpretation. 

what he had been seeing, he was more sure of these days; he was seeing his red-swathed companion into this godless land to the west. their destinies, written with the crimson ink of r’hllor, converging like canals of his temple-home. those canals had been made by man, but them, they had been made by a god. 

“i always do.” he replied cooly, eyes on the floor as he enjoyed the swirling mass of red where their robes, seas of blood made silk and cotton and fringes of wool for the colder climate of this godless land. underneath are two bodies burning with the love of the lord of light, and enclosed are two minds and hearts hell-bent on a cause. no two flames ever burn the same, he knows, and though they must appear a blur of red heresy to those whose gazes pass, in his own heart he knows not to trust completely. “cast your mind to other, more important matters — i am occupying myself serving the will of both.” he let dark eyes scour the people surrounding them. “what do you make of it, herah of myr? this place?” 

.

herah had long fostered an affection for the red swords. unconventional, perhaps, but even their gruff company she preferred to the cruelty of her sisters, in those early temple days. by the time her and qoren’s red threads had crossed she’d become something sharper, a rough-cut ruby hewn in darkness. but the affection remained. other priestesses sought their morning meditations among gentle flames or soft breeze; herah’s was at the edge of a courtyard, the silence cleaved where steel met iron and wood. but there was a grace to the swordplay of red priests, a glory to it. always and only in the pursuit of his design, and all the more beautiful for it. the weapons hanging at hips around them now bore no true blessings. 

what did she make of the vale of arryn? herah had spent enough time staring at stone and sky that her gaze only drifted to the planes of qoren’s profile as she contemplated her true answer. the westerosi had earned nothing more than riddles and clever deceptions of the tongue, but qoren – for a brother, she would not allow a false word. 

“cold,” she decided. “empty. even without the stench of death, there is no true life here. the fires burn and the voices buzz, but there is no warmth of them to be felt.” her fingers tightened into the fabric of qoren’s robes. the lords and ladies gave her a wide berth, enough to cast her mind from the desolate shell of a home they wandered. but with nothing to distract her, the great open maw of this barren land pressed in. “the boltons can take us as far south as they like, that will not change.”

herah drew up straighter and released her grip on qoren’s sleeve with a slow exhale. “if i can make one request of you before we leave this forsaken mountain, please do not get yourself sent through the moon door. i need you by my side, for this long night and the next.” a beat. “he’s been further away from me since we left the north. his true intentions harder to grasp, harder still to hold. have you felt this?”

[bloomsred]

location: the eyrie, evening in the hall of house arryn status: for @rootboned 

pip has been waiting for this since the gardener party’s arrival. the evening, certainly, when spirits could lighten with the torches, condolences given and received in the daylight. but, more importantly: the wine. there wasn’t much to be said for vineyards of the vale; hardy sort, from what he’s heard, like its people. earthy, despite the absence of it amongst the eyrie’s crags and cliffs. at this point, pip would drink ash if it would take the edge off. 

unfortunately, the sense of propriety ground into him over the last decade wins out. he can imagine only too well what his father would say at the sight of him, the first hand to reach for a goblet at a stranger’s funeral. it would certainly be within his character, if not obscenely impolite. but, no. pip stays his hand, harnessing the only ounce of self-control in him and resigns to watching the table of corked wines with all the longing of a young boy left with a wooden imitation of his brother’s steel sword. not that pip would know that particular slight. 

he’s there, then, pouting with an empty hand in the corner when he catches the profile of a stranger. the septas were quite strict this time of ensuring pip, as head of house, didn’t spectacularly embarrass the family, so he was quite sure of his banners and portraits. they didn’t fit in any he could recall – barring, of course, his brief lapse with the butterwells. but as far as pip knows, only he was witness to that particular faux pas. 

“i don’t mean to be rude.” it is, pip has learned, rather impolite to creep up on strangers. so he ensures his footsteps echo with his voice as he comes up to the stranger’s side, vacant hands clasped behind him. the perfect image of propriety, or as close enough to it as pip could be expected of. “but i would hazard against approaching any of the frey ladies,” he nods towards their retinue, “without permission from their escorts. their father can be ... prickly about strangers, and since i have never seen you before under a great banner, i would also hazard to say you are one?”

[bloomsred]

location: the vale of arryn, en route to the eyrie  status: for @roseblcod​

it’s bloody fucking freezing. the gardener banners have only just begun their ascent to the eyrie, and already wind is rattling at the carriage windows, drafts sharp as a blade snaking through for stabs at any skin left unattended. pip pulls his cloak ever tighter, though he’s been doing much the same since they passed under the bloody gate, no change to the glacial state of what once might have been called his fingers.

he thought he understood what a bone-deep cold was when winter had its teeth in the frozen earth of the reach. now, pip isn’t so sure. his teeth have started to ache from all the rattling and his sisters must have noticed by now. though, he if were them, he would’ve likely dismissed himself for melodramatics – which, well, wouldn’t be entirely unfair. he’s fairly certain all the septas in highgarden have done the same. 

another draft, and pip is cursing every arryn he knows under his breath, up to and including the most recently deceased. this is, after all, entirely his fault. if the old crone hadn’t croaked so quickly they’d all be back home, enjoying spring in the gentle sun instead of this grey stone. he reaches for the blanket across his and serana’s lap, as if it’ll do anything more than offer the illusion of warmth. he reaches, and catches her petal-soft skin instead.

“seven devils – how are you so warm?” without hesitation, pip slips his fingers around his sister’s slim wrist, drinking in the blessed warmth from just this exposed sliver. “give me some of that.”

[bloomsred]

location: eyrie, an overlook on the side of the mountain status: for @synkvervx​ ( sigyn kvitravn )

the wind today has teeth, and herah finds herself glad for it. with her eyes closed it almost reminds her of home, atop the great dome of her temple. though time has curled at the edges of memory, the docks and sprawling skylines of myr are no less a comfort for it in the face of shale walls and stone faces. herah’s own iron skin braces against the foul weather and people, but even so the scrape has begun to wear her down. she is already eager for a blessed hearth, and perhaps a few steps without seeing that damned pointed star.

there is no warmth offered in the silhouette of the wilding, only the vaguest comfort of familiarity. on days like this, herah takes even that with a silent prayer of thanks she’ll seal with flame tonight, alone in her rooms. r’hllor forbid sigyn ever catch wind of it.

“i don’t suppose you’ve come out here for some quiet reflection, or to enjoy the view.” 

[ephiiphanies]

Why is the rose certain she can defend herself? She has four thorns.

@rosesandcrowns | @roseblcod | @bloodiedroses | @bloomsred​

[bloomsred]

location: eyrie, the great hall status: for @guidedminds​​ ( elayna martell )

herah knew, of course, that the martells would send their own retinue to pay respects, and it would likely include the ruling princess’s own family. but she had not, until now, allowed herself to hope. had not let the lark in her heart out of its cage, lest it leap from her grasp into the open air. if elayna would be there. if they might have a chance to speak. if she even remembered, or cared for the red priestess of her childhood – all thoughts too dangerous to let linger. welcomed for a moment to her mindspace and sent away, left to vanish like paper curling in a flame. 

and what did she remember, the toddler who played at herah’s red skirts in the shadow of her fledgling temple? who listened in the garden, girlhood blossoming in the hollows of her cheeks and set of her shoulders, to stories from across the narrow sea? who wasn’t so old, really, when dorne became a crooked skyline at herah’s back, obscured by dust and carriages. herah’s own memories come unbidden, of a women who’s face is always obscured, who’s voice never quite makes the right words.

but no –– elayna was far older than herah’s own memories when she left dorne. there’s little harm, even of the diplomatic sort, in saying hello. 

“i’m sure you are very tired of hearing this from the other lords and ladies,” herah starts, coming up at elayna’s side with little more than a whisper of her robes. she doesn’t mean to startle the girl, nor catch her off guard, simply to seize a brief moment at which they might speak openly with one another, free of the hawks circling overhead. “but indulge me for a moment, please.” 

only now does herah allow herself to look fully at elayna martell, to take her in with the slightest tilt of her own head, a knowing curve to her lips. “how much you’ve grown.”

[bloomsred]

location: eyrie, the hall of house arryn status: for @nightcomes​ ( qoren sand )

if herah gave mind to every whisper passed her way, every glance that lingered or set of teeth bared in her direction, she would have gone mad by twenty. eighteen if she’d included their curses, too. these westerosi think themselves so refined – unique, even; coveted – but as she saunters the strange, rough-hewn halls of this strange, mountainous home, herah can only find the sameness. different window dressings, but the bones remain. there is only one face of hatred, and she knows it well. today, she rides the wake of someone else’s. 

“brother.” a pleasant, practiced smile secured, herah slips her arm through the crook of qoren’s to link them, binding him close. she knows well the ease he could shake her off, and hopes the whispers of heresy haven’t scraped in him too deep yet. the last thing either of them need is violence, even the smell of it. wolves and wild beasts, sea monsters and ancient unearthly things pace around them, teeth at the ready. their lord is beating heavy in her chest, but it will do little to save any mortal flesh. 

“you are making quite the first impression i hear.” she doesn’t look at him, eyes trained on the peculiar faces that swivel as they pass. a nod here, the hint of a not-quite-smile there. deference, always. like a child bending to her elder, but here the respect is unearned, a survival instinct only. it grates on her with every step, like a fresh brand on still raw skin. “i don’t think i need to remind you that we are on this mountain under the bolton banner and to serve the red king’s will, not our own.”

[bloomsred]

THALIA.

timestamp: the  requiem  /  spring ,  486  ac .  ·  location:   eyrie  ,  the  vale  of  arryn.  ·  tagging: @bloomsred​

once upon a time, so many years ago now — so many in fact, she’s lived longer without than with, she had been betrothed. her father’s planning and her mother’s begrudging acceptance had placed thalia butterwell’s hand into peregrine gardener’s. a second son to be married to an only daughter, all of the assets of an entire family placed dangling above the shoulders of peregrine, all before thalia could quite understand what her father was giving away with a flourished letter and gifts of wine. 

they had been slated to meet the season that peregrine lost his brother. she remembers the day the letter came from the reach, the way her father had stormed through whitewalls and slammed his study door shut. she’d heard it a thousand times since then, but none to loud as that day. the crown prince of the reach was dead, peregrine was to take his brother’s position, and their match was no longer suitable for a king. their betrothal was broken. she had no mother to turn to, to ask questions. though it likely made no difference in his life, she’d written him a letter expressing her sorrow for his loss and that should he need anything she would help as she could.

it’s strange to stand here now and see him. ten years has changed him significantly, as it had likely done to her as well. she had grown into herself, no longer the gangly child that was set to meet him in a few months time. she had only seen him once before, when she was very young, but there was no mistaking a gardener. a glass of something is handed to her when she finds herself meeting his eyes,   “ peregrine. ” the name leaves her before she can begin with formalities, surprise widening her eyes just slightly. it had been ten years, perhaps it made sense, but she knew what the loss of a loved one felt like and still ached with it. he just had a bigger job to do. 

in a different world, on a different westeros, a butterwell became a gardener. not a love match – not even pip, in any life, is foolish enough to hope for that – but something that might, someday, come close. a partnership. a friendship, sealed with the silk about their wrists. the wedding is at once too much and not enough, all pomp and circumstance, pressed doublets and delicate gems cleaved with sunlight. flowers everywhere, in her hair, in his. in this country, the king of the reach marries his brother and the bride on the dais, and – eventually – pip might have become something close to happy.

but not in this world, not on this westeros. not here, where brothers die and second sons don’t marry only daughters from middling houses. here there are no flowers, only thorns; brief words exchanged by raven and an unread letter tossed on smoldering embers. 

it would be a lie to say peregrine gardener hadn’t thought of his betrothed since the engagement was broken, but a kind one. the truth is that he did, often, but with only a swelling sense of relief when finally the smothering grief of his situation gave way. no, he hadn’t wanted to marry the girl – hadn’t even met her. and who were the butterwells, anyway? pip had never even heard of them until his mother came with the announcement, and the septas had taught him of all the important houses.

( he was, quite fortuitously, given explicit instructions not to say this before his future bride, in the meeting that never happened )

but in all the scenarios that prepared him for the vale – if their wine was any good, or their ale, if absolutely necessary; how exactly likely it was for one to accidentally fall through the moon door; the likelihood there would be selections of said wine or ale ahead of the coronation, and that pip might be welcome to them; the ease with which a stranger might fall with him into bed –  none, of course, included a chance meeting with thalia butterwell, daughter of whitewalls, formerly betrothed. 

not that pip would recognize her, even if there was. 

“i’m sorry.” he’s not, but he’s been told it’s the polite thing to say in these situations, where a stranger has referred to him by name rather than title. “have we met?”

[holyisthenameofmyruthlessaxe]

The Seven Ages, ‘Saint Joan’ by Louise Glück

[ID: I kept being alive / when I should have been burning: / I was Joan, I was Lazarus.]

[althcr]

RAND AL’THOR

[ecnmatic]