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⁰¹ laenora velaryon

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a dependent blog affiliated with dragonsrot. written by ari. dni if unaffiliated with the group.
⁰¹ laenora velaryon
emmon quirked an eyebrow, “and they would be correct, my lady”. in truth he hadn’t meant to seek out lady laenora. their match at cyvasse had not lingered long in his thoughts, not for want of her talent, but simply because it was over. a game was a game. the pieces were swept from the board, victories counted, and defeats endured. the world marched on without care for either player. he had played too many matches over too many years to dwell long on matches.
emmon stood beside her, quietly watching the waves. the lingering salt in the air and crash of waves reminded him of oldtown. the thought brought an ache in his chest he could not wholly name. whether it belonged to memory, to age, or to past regrets, he could not have said. his knuckles clenched on the railing as his brows furrowed.
“your technique proved..." he frowned slightly, searching for the proper word as a pause lingered between them. "disciplined. you never chased an advantage that was not there, nor did you lose yourself when fortune turned against you." the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "though, perhaps, you afforded me a touch too much respect. cyvasse rewards boldness as readily as caution. there were moments when a risk might have unsettled me."
His fingers wandered into his beard, absently stroking through the patches of silver that had claimed it these past years.“even so, i thought you played wonderfully.” he continued, a faint smile now obvious, "had you found me on an off day, with my attention wandering, i daresay the match would have been yours.” he gave a small shrug, as though dismissing his own victory.
laenora's smile lingered for a moment, small enough that it might have disappeared entirely had he looked away. he was being kind -- perhaps even modest. she found herself suspecting the latter.
there was something almost amusing about listening to a man who had spent decades mastering the game attempt to convince her she had nearly bested him. had their positions been reversed, she doubted she would have offered the same comfort so readily. not out of cruelty, but because she had always preferred honesty over consolation, even when it stung. still, she appreciated the gesture.
"you give me rather more credit than i deserve, my lord." her gaze drifted back toward the sea, watching another wave scatter itself against the rocks below. it reminded her of the match in an odd sort of way. every movement appeared inevitable only after it had already happened. "i've replayed it often enough to know where it slipped away from me." and it happened somewhere much, much earlier than she had thought. she let the thought settle between them before continuing.
"i believed i understood what you were building." a quiet laugh escaped her then, softer than before. "what never occurred to me was that you understood precisely what i believed."
laenora folded her hands loosely before her, turning just enough to meet his gaze once more. "i appreciate your generosity all the same." there was warmth in her voice, though her smile had taken on something more thoughtful. "but i suspect had we played that match ten times over, the outcome would have favored you far more often than not."
location: on one of the many red keep's balconies, hours after the velaryon heir's loss against the ruling lord of raventree hall -- day two of the event open starter for ( 3 / 3 ) closed !
the applause had long since faded from her ears. the court had already found something else to occupy its attention, as it always did. a few matches of cyvasse were hardly enough to hold the realm's interest for more than a handful of passing conversations, particularly when the outcome had seemed almost inevitable. a ruling lord had prevailed. the velaryon heir had fallen to a player with decades more experience. there was little shame in losing. at least, that was what everyone kept insisting. whether laenora believed it herself was another matter entirely.
laenora stood upon one of the red keep's balconies overlooking the sea, the evening breeze tugging lazily at the silks gathered around her frame. somewhere below, waves broke rhythmically against the cliffs, indifferent to victories and defeats alike. she had come searching for silence. instead, she found herself replaying the match move by move. not the final checkmate, the move before it. no -- the one before that.
her fingers absently traced invisible paths across the stone balustrade, as though the weathered stone had become another cyvasse board entirely. she could still picture every piece exactly where it had stood. every sacrifice. every feint. every decision that had seemed entirely reasonable in the moment. in the end, it had not been a single brilliant move that defeated her, but the quiet accumulation of many. the realization was strangely comforting.
the sound of approaching footsteps stirred her from the endless replay unfolding within her thoughts. she did not turn immediately, allowing the silence to linger for another heartbeat before speaking with the same easy composure she had worn at the end of the match.
"if you've come to offer condolences," she said lightly, her gaze still fixed upon the darkening horizon, "i've been thoroughly reassured that there is no shame in losing."
only then did she glance over her shoulder. a faint, polite smile finding its way across her features as a stray breeze lifted the pale streak woven through the left side of her dark curls.
.ೃ࿔ king maelor offers his welcome to lady laenora velaryon, of driftmark. across the realm, they are praised as astute and charismatic, though courtly whispers insist they can also be ruthless and prideful behind closed doors. still, their allegiance is said to lie with herself and, by extension, house velaryon. their presence evokes imagery of half-forgotten letters pressed between the pages of well-worn books, pale seafoam silks dancing in the ocean wind, pearls scattered across a dressing table like forgotten stars, and the temptation of a door left slightly ajar, enough to inspire any storyteller. with so many tales in circulation, separating truth from fiction may prove no easy task.
Sugarblood, Liz Bowen
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