violent delights, violent ends.

"Upon the breeze she spread her golden hair, that in a thousand gentle knots was turned, and the sweet light that burns within her eyes, shines through and makes the night of sorrow bright." rp account for dracoregnitm. laurentia lannister of casterly rock.

[draconianmuses]

⋆˙⟡ draconianmuses: a dependent mumu blog for dracoregni  —  penned  by lyra.

laurentia lannister ➝ intro. musings. threads. self-paras.

myriah martell ➝ intro. musings. threads. ask-memes.

veronna greyjoy ➝ intro. musings. threads.

adriel yronwood ➝ intro. musings. threads.

erin mormont ➝ intro. musings. threads.

[beautifulsnares]

"it is quite a spectacle. it feel as if everyone turned out for the festivities." though she knew most could not say no when a raven sent from the crownlands comes calling and expecting for them to make an appearance. "i hope our mistress of coin does not feel so stressed out with how much everything has cost. the food itself must have been a generous amount of pretty coin considering just the ingredients alone would have to be freshest to be served to our king and other high nobles." aemma said. a marriage was no simply thing and her cousin's was to be the spectacle of the current times after all the things that have occurred in the past moon cycles that was plagued with death and destruction. the young dragon looked away, breaking the eye contact she was having with her before looking back. "well what you read is not entirely a rumor. its a secret to many but very few know about my abilities. and i meant no harm not letting you know about the dragons. I kept it to myself. I did not even tell aerion, caerella, or viserys who are the ones with the eggs. I thought it would have maybe over shadow the wedding and I did not think it was to happen so soon." most of what she dreamt did not even come to flourishment and the ones that have, aemma had dreamed when she was younger. she wanted her opinion? the girl questioned in her mind. most overlooked her in the council room as they talked and she served the wine. and while at times she was bored listening to them talk, she could not help but admire the mistress of coin among the small council. in a room that deliberated what was good for westeros, stood a woman. sure her mother was a strong person as she came from the iron islands but she was more of a noble lady compared to what she had heard about her greyjoy cousins. aemma knew of the whispers that surrounded lady laurentia and her life back at the westerlands. what was said that she had done but all she could think that if it had been a lord who had done what the other did, they would have celebrated it. songs would have been made about their praises instead of some seeing it as gossip. "from what I have heard, she is a strong horse rider and there is just something about her that I really like. we had a few conversations since she arrived and I could see why aerion is so taken with her. all i can hope is that the weight of crown does not crush her but she is from the Stormlands and they are strong people." aemma happily took her arm, more than happy to walk with someone she was admiring more and more. someone who she hoped to even have a sliver of confidence like them. "of course lady laurentia. maybe with you at my side it could deter my mother from having me talk to other nobles she believes I should get to know." she was not blind to what her mother was doing and yet she knew that with so few Targaryens left available, many would do anything to make connections with her family. "but i imagine that it must be nice to see your family again. I heard your cousin and his wife had their children. not to mention more nephew or nieces are to follow with your brother's wife is also with child." she wondered if that would soon also be news for her family as well.

[draconianmuses]

laurentia’s gaze softened in a way that would have disarmed half the court and alarmed the other half, had they been close enough to witness it. she listened to the princess with an attentiveness that was not feigned, though its purpose was far from innocent. there was something almost aching in the way aemma spoke, the careful humility of someone who had learned early that wonder was safer than certainty. laurentia squeezed the girl’s arm just slightly, a gesture so subtle it could pass for courtesy, yet carried the quiet weight of reassurance.

“you needn’t worry for me, princess,” she said, her voice a low, steady thing. “coin is resilient. and so am i. feasts come and go. what matters is what they purchase in the long run.” she tilted her head, studying aemma with that patient, feline curiosity. “and tonight has bought the realm something it has been starving for. hope. distraction. a sense that the future is once again allowed to exist.”

she slowed their steps, allowing the noise of the hall to drift a little farther behind them. “as for your gift,” she continued, a faint smile touching her mouth, “it is no small thing, what you carry. most people spend their lives never realizing the difference between intuition and vision. you have both. and you were wise to keep it close.” her eyes, sharp despite their warmth, searched aemma’s face. “the world is not gentle with girls who see too clearly.”

at the mention of queen ysabel, something thoughtful crossed laurentia’s expression. “you read her well,” she murmured. “strength wears many shapes, and hers will be tested more by silence than by storms.” then, quieter, with the barest hint of something like approval: “it pleases me that you like her. your heart is an honest instrument.”

they reached the edge of the crowd, where the air felt easier to breathe, and laurentia glanced down at aemma with a small, conspiratorial smile. “your mother’s ambitions are… understandable,” she said. “but tonight is not for negotiations. tonight belongs to memory. you are allowed to enjoy it.” her thumb brushed once against the back of aemma’s hand, grounding, almost protective.

“and yes,” she added, at last, “it is good to see my family. new life has a way of reminding us that the realm is more than war and crowns.” her gaze lifted, already measuring the paths the future would take, then returned to the princess. “i have a silly question for you. indulge me for a second. if you could have any spot in the small council, what would you choose? and why?”

[draconianmuses]

veronna snorted so sharply it could’ve cut rope. “mother said a lot of things, ronan. half of them to keep you from crying, the other half to keep brom from murdering you in your sleep.” she flicked her wrist dismissively, as if batting away a fly. “handsome, though? sure. in that ‘storm-drowned scarecrow’ sort of way.” but the jab softened at the edges when she looked at him. ronan standing there, hard-set jaw, shoulders braced like he expected another wave to break over him any second. gods. he’d aged. she felt it like a tug beneath her sternum, unwelcome and familiar. she shifted her weight, arms crossing again, every line of her body bracing for the conversation she didn’t want to have. easy travels, he’d asked. nothing on the horizon. gods, if only. “the horizon was fine,” she said, voice low. “it’s everything after that’s fucked.” her throat tightened, a tiny, traitorous pulse. she hated that he could still read her so cleanly. “storms don’t bother me,” she added, gaze cutting sideways. “people do.”

ronan’s analysis of the realm made something in her chest twist. because he was right. because the peace was a rotting bandage, not a healing wound. because she could already feel the realm thrumming like a pulled bowstring, ready to snap and cut through bone. “as if the lions give a fuck about that,” she spat, pushing off the table with a sharp jerk of her chin. “none of the southeners did, really. had i died in there-- or you, or brom-- they'd been thanking their gods ironborn blood had been spilled. one less nuisance to dock at their ports. fuck them all!” the words came out hot. too hot. her anger wasn’t about laurentia or cedric or the lannister banners. it was about lysa. about helplessness. about how close the world had come to burning all of them.

she felt ronan’s gaze on her. heavy, paternal and infuriating. she hated when he looked at her like she was still the little girl he'd used to scold from time to time. “don’t look at me like that,” she snapped, but the bite lacked venom. “i didn’t maim him because i’m not a fucking idiot. killing a lannister in front of three kingdoms’ worth of mourners is a great way to get strung up beside the corpse you meant to avenge.” her fingers flexed at her side, as if closing around a dagger only she could feel. lysa’s face flickered through her mind. the way grief haunted the living. the way guilt did worse. she swallowed it down, the way she’d done every night since riverrun. “and don’t flatter yourself about wanting me in one piece,” she added quickly, reclaiming her armor with a sneer. “you weren’t anywhere near me when the mob came down. i punched and kicked my way through it. and i did a pretty good job, if i say so myself. i'm not blaiming you, aye? just don't need you acting like i'm a child.”

lady greyjoy pushed away from the table, letting her boots thud through the room as she drifted toward his desk. maps piled like wounded soldiers, quills snapped from overused frustration, a dent in the wooden edge where ronan had clearly slammed a fist. gods, she’d missed this place. missed him more than she’d ever say aloud. the south had been full of strange eyes, hungry crowds, and too many ghosts whose names she wasn’t ready to choke on. being there without her brothers had felt… wrong. like walking around with half her spine ripped out.

she dragged a fingertip across the messy desk, voice loosening. “did you hear the rumor?” she asked. “apparently one of the hidden groups had a warg among them.” she let that hang a moment, the absurdity of the tale. “not wolves, either. rats.” her lips twitched, almost impressed. “little bastard crawled out of his own skin and into vermin to save the whole fucking lot. guided them through the bolt-holes under the shipyards.” veronna turned, leaning back against his desk now, arms crossed again. “sounds like horse-shit, right?” she said, though there was no certainty in her voice, only fascination. “wargs don’t survive long down south, do they? most stories say the gift dries up the farther you get from the north. but if it’s true…” her brows rose. “then whoever did it wasn’t some soft-bellied court-brat. they had to be from home. or at least somewhere the blood still remembers what beasts feel like.” she shrugged. “i’d buy that drink for the fucker if i ever met them. that’s the kind of madness i respect.”

[ofelation]

             ronan   wasn't   a   vain   man.   he   knew   where   he   stood   with   his   men   and   with   his   family.   knew   that   he   wasn't   a   savant   on   the   battlefield   or   at   the   helm.   but   he   still   held   some   pride.   to   hear   veronna's   blunt   statement   made   a   small   ,   twisted   smile   play   on   his   lips.   "you   think   so   lowly   of   me   ?"   their   mother   might've   been   a   lot   of   things   ,   but   she   wasn't   one   to   spare   anyone's   feelings.   even   if   she'd   tried   to   shelter   ronan   after   everything   that   happened   ,   their   father   would've   put   an   end   to   it   the   moment   he   saw   it   happening.   "spare   me   your   pity   ,   sister   ,   i   will   survive   without   your   vote   of   confidence   in   my   appearance."   the   shaky   love   between   the   siblings   became   fragile   once   more. at   the   mention   of   the   mob   ronan   turned   away   ,   tired   of   hearing   what   everyone   thought   he   should   and   shouldn't   have   done.   he'd   come   away   unscathed   ,   yes   ,   but   just   because   he   didn't   have   scrapes   and   injuries   to   prove   he   fought   does   not   mean   he   didn't   do   it.   his   knives   had   found   their   home   flesh   ,   just   as   the   rest   who   had   fought   on   the   streets.   but   he   needn't   prove   himself   to   brom   ,   who   only   thought   a   battle   worthy   of   mentioning   if   it   had   almost   ended   in   his   death.   veronna   might've   understood   ,   but   ronan   was   shut   off   from   explaining   it   then.   it   did   not   matter   ,   in   the   end.  there   was   a   lot   unspoken   between   the   two   of   them   ,   which   was   surprising   when   veronna's   anger   was   so   loud.   she   swore   and   fought   ,   good   enough   to   take   down   the   strongest   of   men   ,   and   didn't   pull   any   punches.   "did   i   say   you   were   ?   if   you   want   me   to   treat   you   like   an   adult   don't   lash   out   as   if   you   were   a   pup   getting   scolded   by   their   mother."   and   by   the   drowned   god   ,   if   he   didn't   feel   like   a   mother   then.   it   wasn't   one   of   his   greatest   moments   ,   he'd   have   to   admit.   "i   said   i   wanted   you   in   pyke   in   one   piece   ,   not   that   i   thought   you   were   an   impulsive   child   who   cannot   contain   her   bloodlust." the   mention   of   rats   caught   his   attention.   surely   veronna   hadn't   seen   the   maps   on   his   desk   ,   seen   greenstone   and   connected   the   dots   ?   "wargs   ?"   he   asked   curiously   ,   stroking   his   thumb   against   the   edge   of   the   map.   "they're   real   ?"   steffon   appeared   to   him   then   ,   in   his   mind   ,   and   a   small   smile   made   him   turn   away   from   veronna   so   she   wouldn't   see   it.   he'd   enjoy   the   story   ,   laugh   loudly   and   piercingly   at   the   madness   detailed.   "that   would   be   a   sight."

[draconianmuses]

end.

[momoka2049]

[tcrturedpoetx]

STATUS: closed with @draconianmuses LOCATION: the red keep, before the wedding ceremony

                                  cedric  lannister  felt  restless,  even  so  early  in  the  morning.  he  was  not  a  man  to  be  drowned  in  anxiety  for  the  future.  as  a  second  son,  his  nature  was  to  carve  his  future  and  open  possibilities,  not  to  despair  with  duties.  that  was  the  first  child's  cursed  destiny.  his  only  duty  was  to  his  family,  so  dear  to  his  heart,  and  his  house.  it  was  what  his  mother  instilled  in  him,  still  in  those  warm  days  when  he  would  sit  on  the  floor  paying  attention  more  to  her  words  .  his  wise  mother  would  be  proud  of  the  maneuvers  and  schemes  her  descendants  were  up  to  in  king's  landing.  and  those  thoughts  led  him  to  seek  laurentia  that  morning,  before  duties  called  them  both  and  appearances  would  need  to  be  met  in  preparation  for  the  royal  wedding.  as  he  entered  the  solar,  with  the  familiar  crimson  decorations  he  knew  reminded  laurentia  and  himself  of  home,  cedric  motioned  with  a  kind  equable  smile,  for  the  servants  to  leave  the  oldest  lannisters  siblings  alone.  ❛❛  —  good  morrow,  laurentia.  did  you  find  enjoyment  in  the  hunt?  I  heard  they  captured  boars  for  the  delight  of  the  king.  —  ❞  he  greeted  his  sister  with  a  smile.

                                  ❛❛  —  so...  what  is  your  little  beauty  in  maidenpool  whispering  in  your  ears?  about  my  betrothed.  I  met  her,  before  the  hunt,  the  way  I  promised  I  would.  —  ❞  his  sharp  emerald  eyes  met  her  blue  ones,  equally  perceptive.  she  had  to  be  aware  of  what  he  was  leading  their  conversation.  the  bane  of  his  existence  at  the  moment,  the  matter  of  his  betrothal.  tired  of  standing  with  his  restless  limbs,  cedric  slothed  on  the  velvet  chair,  laying  both  his  hands  on  the  desk  separating  them.  ❛❛  —  what  should  be  our  plan,  laurentia?  i  do  not  think  i  can  keep  running  off  on  a  ship  to  avoid  this  marriage  without  compromising  my  position  as  master  of  ships  here  in  king's  landing.  but.  i  do  not  want  this.  not  in  these  circumstances.  —  ❞  he  said.  the  pieces  of  the  board  were  moving  quicker  than  he  anticipated,  this  post-war  world  pushing  people  to  change  loyalties  to  survive.

                                  they  should  have  known  before.  that  king  aerion  would  not  miss  the  opportunity  of  snatching  his  painfully  obvious  obsession,  the  lady  dondarrion,  when  he  was  given  the  choice  of  a  bride.  no  betrayal  has  ever  paid  more  for  a  house,  than  of  the  dondarrions  leaving  the  baratheons  for  the  crown,  he  was  certain.  it  almost  made  him  wince  to  think  of  it.  if  any  house  in  the  westerlands  ever  attempted  to  do  the  same  to  house  lannister,  he  would  wage  war  against  them,  no  kings  consulted.  with  the  dondarrions  so  favoured  to  the  point  of  receiving  a  royal  marriage,  their  plans  for  storm's  end  and  the  baratheon  marriage  turned  into  a  liability  instead  of  an  advantage.  the  castle.  the  title.  the  wardenship  of  the  east  he  could  possibly  snatch  from  the  hands  of  the  rebel  arryns. he was nothing if not ambitious. it  would  all  be  for  nothing  if  he  still  married  alysanne  baratheon.  ❛❛  —  nor  do  I  think  it  would  be  advantageous  anymore  for  our  house.  the  king  would  not  support  it  anymore.  not  if  it  means  robbing  his  own  queen  of  her  inheritance.  —  ❞

                                  it  was  the  only  reason  he  was  bringing  these  concerns  to  her,  he  was  sure  of  that.  no  illicit  affair  would  stop  him  from  pursuing  a  good  marriage.  they  usually  shared  their  dalliances,  closer  than  most  siblings  are  on  the  quality  of  being  orphans;  they  learned  to  rely  on  each  other  before  anyone  else.  it  was  the  first  time  cedric  kept  something  from  laurentia.  and  it  maybe  made  the  secret,  the  tiny  spark  of  interest  -  so  brief,  so  ephemorous,  a  product  of  pure  lust  he  would  wager  -  he  felt  for  the  widowed  lady  cornelia  only  grow.  it  would  not  matter,  anyways.  ❛❛  —  mayhaps  we  need  to  plan  a  way  out,  sister.  —  ❞  he  said,  his  finger  tracing  the  top  of  his  lips,  the  way  he  used  to  do  since  a  child  when  he  was  particularly  concerned.  a  marriage  in  westeros  should  be  advantageous,  it  was  all  that  mattered.

[draconianmuses]

laurentia did not answer him at once. she looked at him. not with the calculating stillness she offered the court, nor the cold appraisal she reserved for men who came to bargain or threaten. she looked at cedric the way one looks at something that existed before titles, before war, before the machinery of power ever learned their names. she remembered the first time her lady mother placed him against her small arms, how catryn’s hands had never quite let go, guiding her, guarding the child even as she allowed the ritual of trust to happen. she remembered the strange gravity of that moment, the awareness that something irreversible had been placed in her keeping. his small movements, the soft insistence of life in him, the way his cries unsettled and anchored her all at once, and the smell of him. the strange, sacred certainty that he was hers now too, in some indefinable way, and always would be.

she saw the years unwind without effort. his small hands grasping at her sleeves, his laugh when she taught him to climb the outer walls, the way he insisted on following her into every misadventure even when his legs could not yet keep pace. she remembered how he wept when catryn died, how they wept together, old enough to understand and too young to survive it cleanly. how after that they had become something like each other’s anchor in a world that had learned to wound them early. cedric, who had grown into a gentler man than their world deserved. cedric, who liked soft things and beautiful company and still rode into danger without flinching. cedric, her darling boy. “and i thank you for doing so,” she said, at he mention of his talk with his betrothed. it would show others that cedric was still invested in this match, enough to court his bride-to-be. people would remember it so. but when he finished speaking, with all his restless intelligence and fear carefully dressed as strategy, something in laurentia’s chest loosened that had been clenched since before dawn.

she rose and crossed the room without ceremony. the movement came from memory rather than thought, as natural as breath, her hands finding his shoulders with a familiarity that had nothing to do with titles and nothing to do with where they were. the red keep ceased to matter. she studied him at that distance reserved only for blood, for the private arithmetic of family. when cedric smiled like that, uncertain and earnest all at once, their mother returned to him. catryn’s mouth, catryn’s gentleness, the same expression she had worn when she knelt at laurentia’s bedside long ago and told her there were no monsters waiting in the dark. but the eyes. the eyes were angos’s without question, sharp even when they softened, green with the same unwavering patience their father had once used to weigh the world. her own blue had belonged only to catryn. that, too, was an inheritance, one she carried without asking. and the hair, that ridiculous shared gold, angos’s final signature upon them both, curling loosely into a near-halo that made them look far more innocent and cherubic than people with that much blood on their hands ever should. red and gold, she thought distantly. the colors of their house.

“it is already in motion,” she told him quietly, with the same certainty she had once used to promise him to never bear children of her own, the night their mother passed, when she had to be the one to tuck him into bed. that way, he wouldn't have to lose a mother figure twice. “you will not marry someone unworthy. i will not allow that to happen. ever.” there was no hesitation in her voice, only fact. she leaned her head down just enough to press a kiss to the top of his brow, brief and grounding, the kind of gesture no one in this keep ever saw and no one but her sweet little cubs were permitted. “all i need from you is this,” she went on, her hands still firm on him, anchoring him the way he had anchored her a thousand times without knowing it. “when you see me with lord mooton, you go find his wife. you talk her ears off. about ships, about silks, about the weather in lannisport, about the gods, about nothing at all. keep her busy. that is all. and make it seem genuine. do not underestimate her.”

her mouth curved, just slightly, not with amusement but with a quiet, dangerous confidence. “everything else is already moving. the board is set. you are free. trust me.” and then, softer, meant only for him: “have i ever let you down?” because she understood his unrest. once, under different circumstances, the baratheon match had been useful, even clever. the kind of union that promised future leverage if tended with patience. but that season had passed, and the door it belonged to had closed. tonight’s wedding feast would open another. all eyes would belong to the king and his new dondarrion queen. wine would blur every watchful instinct. even the guards would become careless. laurentia had already spoken with alysanne during the hunt, had named the girl’s infatuation with that godsdamned greyjoy and made it plain she would not bar the path of escape. if the little stag possessed even half the cunning she pretended to, she would run. and if she did not, laurentia would either find a way to claim damaged goods or ensure the issue did not return from maidenpool breathing. either way, cedric would be spared. he deserved better. he deserved more. he deserved a bride whose shadow stretched across kingdoms. perhaps even a dragon.

[hozina]

It was that hour of the evening, of any feast, when its leftovers and its people began to turn sour where they sat. Sleep and wine addled wits and loosened tongues alike, and merriment could be just as much a precursor to anger and misery than anything else. Nobody dared begin a fight on this grand eve of celebration, of course not, not even with the king and their new queen retired... but Osric had watched people slowly start to stumble away, hesitation on their skin, with growing discomfort. Osric was more than familiar with this part of a festivity: when those that remained behind took on a sense of camaraderie, the last standing flames keeping the night from being truly at end.

Some actions grew meaningless, then, easily assigned to inebriation. Not so words.

He passed from fellow to fellow, letting true and false stumbles mingle between themselves, letting his loosened tongue speak for him... before he stumbled to a stop before Laurentia Lannister.

Osric had seen her some, in passing, at the hunt; or at least seen the top of her head here and there, and for the most part turned and walked the opposite way so they did not clash and draw attention he did not need. This time he did not attempt to disappear out of her sight again, letting his footsteps make himself known. She turned to watch him with some wariness, if no true challenge. He supposed none of them were in any condition to fight again, even if Osric had wanted a rematch. Never let it be said that he was a sore loser, though he often was. No, no; he had no scrap with her for the moment... only a debt or two he might happily unload to the wealthiest woman in the Seven Kingdoms. She did offer coin freely enough.

"Lady Lannister! Do not stand on my account; I am liable to fall over at any moment." He let the wall catch his weight, until he was leaning on the balcony wall opposite to hers, elbow digging into its stone, and offered her a lazy, drunken smile. It would be intriguing indeed to learn if she would believe that jape twice... though if she did not, it may be of use yet. Something to consider. For the moment, he raised his cup. "I hear congratulations are in order. The word is you caught yourself a stag!. Hmm, and lost one too: a fair exchange. Fear not; I do not dare to judge you for it, when I lost one myself, once."

[draconianmuses]

laurentia did not shift her stance when he came to rest opposite her. she measured him instead, with the patience of someone long accustomed to calibrating danger in men who carried it well. osric had always been this way: compact, deliberate, built not for display but for consequence. grief had altered him, yes, but not softened him. if anything, it had refined him. the memory of their last closeness pressed at the back of her thoughts, uninvited and persistent: the echo of bone against bone in a narrow corridor, the brief disorientation of impact, the bitter discipline required to remain standing when it would have been easier to collapse into the shape of her guilt. she had not stopped him then. she had allowed the encounter to become what it needed to become, because neither of them possessed a language for loss that did not first pass through the body. lysa’s name still existed between them, not as a word but as a condition. osric’s anger was not rooted in the war. it never had been. it was rooted in the fact that it had been his sister, and laurentia understood that distinction with an intimacy she would never confess aloud. in another alignment of the world they might have stood together and achieved things the realm would still be struggling to survive. the knowledge did not comfort her. it merely explained the shape of what remained.

his mention of the stag reached her exactly as it had been intended to. not the beast itself, not the bloodied triumph of the hunt, but the second quarry of the evening, the one that had slipped every tether: alysanne. laurentia felt the recognition settle behind her eyes with the calm of a solved problem. he knows i am not grieving her flight. of course he does. osric tully had never been built for ignorance; too many corridors of the realm bent toward his listening. she caught the brief glint in his gaze and understood the measure of it at once. the provocation. the test. the invitation to admit satisfaction. she would not. there was something almost companionable in the awareness between them, not of friendship, but of likeness: two minds trained on the same dark architecture of consequence. he would have done the same in her place. she knew that without resentment. she turned her eyes from him, briefly, as if the city itself required her attention more than his insinuations. “they are prone to that, aren’t they?” she said, her gaze drifting briefly beyond the stone before returning to him with the smallest tilt of her mouth. “galloping away.”

she offered him no further illumination. he had not come to her for wine-talk or the slack theatre of post-feast civility. she knew the shape of his waiting. he was gauging whether she would step first onto the open ground. she refused him the privilege and drank again, letting the silence extend until it belonged fully to him. and in that pause, the larger pattern finished arranging itself. he knew already of alysanne’s absence, far too early for accident. lord jon mooton would only now be moving, carefully, desperately, hoping to seal the breach before it reached the crown. yet osric stood here with the information intact. so the old net remained. the one lysa had once served. the one laurentia had always suspected osric himself was part of. that made him dangerous. perhaps the most dangerous remnant his house still possessed, not because of armies or lands, but because of how cleanly he navigated the unseen.

which meant, the box had reached him the way she had intended to. of course it had. no man like osric tully remained quiet in the face of such a thing unless he had received exactly what he had been waiting for: retribution. the absence of reprisal was not forgiveness. it was acknowledgment. and yet here he stood. too near. too present. “you did not come for cheap talk,” laurentia said finally, voice even, restrained by the old discipline of command. “nor for the pleasure of remembering me.” she turned toward him then, fully, allowing him the unguarded precision of her regard. “if you intend to speak of what still breathes between us, then do so. but do not expect me to pretend we are anything other than what we have already proven ourselves to be.” she shifted her weight as she crossed her arms. “so. what is it you want?”

[threadedjade]

𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒂 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓 ( @draconianmuses ).

𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒊𝒍𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎.

it  was  undignified  for  the  king  to  accommodate  such  a  summons  but  aerion  was  a  gracious  ruler.  there'd  been  no  reason  to  stay  anyway,  his  back  sore  from  lounging  on  the  settee  he  had  claimed  as  his  bed  long  after  the  queen  had  exhausted  herself,  melting  into  her  sadness.  he'd  left  his  rooms  with  one  last  look  at  his  wife  wrapped  in  the  silk  of  his  crimson  sheets  —  trace  of  her  tears  in  the  pillowed  skin  beneath  her  lashes.  he  could  not  claim  to  be  angry  yet,  only  annoyed.  the  joy  of  his  nuptials  had  dissolved  swiftly  in  his  last  cup  of  wedding  wine.

"laurentia,"  he  greets  briskly,  the  doors  shutting  behind  him.  "if  you  were  married,  i  would  give  you  far  longer  than  a  single  night  to  enjoy  the  bliss  of  it."

[draconianmuses]

laurentia did not answer him at once. she closed the door the rest of the way behind him with deliberate care, then turned and regarded him with the quiet scrutiny of a woman who had known the measure of him long before crowns and councils complicated the arithmetic. for someone who slept in silk and down, his majesty looked distinctly unrested; not the languid disarray of a man who had passed the night in pleasure, but the brittle edge of one who had not found comfort in his own bed. his hair was imperfect in a way she had seen only when his thoughts were elsewhere, his posture a fraction too rigid, his temper only loosely reined. and he had called her laurentia. not lady. not mistress of coin. not lannister. just her name, as if the years had folded themselves politely and allowed the boy she once hunted and reveled with to stand briefly in the place of the king. when she finally spoke, her tone carried a familiar edge, dry and intimate, something old between them. “had you truly enjoyed the bliss of it,” she said evenly, “you would not be here this early. you would have found a thousand excuses to postpone me.” her mouth curved upwards faintly, before she moved past him toward the council table. “and yet, here you are.” lady lannister continued, inclining her head. “come, please. sit.” she sat down at her usual chair, one leg crossed over the other. “your grace, i'll be frank. alysanne baratheon is missing.” the words were placed with precision, as if laid on a map. “she did not return to her chambers last night. nor was she seen at dawn. my informants have confirmed her absence and the agitation of house mooton's servants. lord jon is attempting to contain it, quietly. he means to find her before you are made aware.”

her eyes lifted to aerion’s, unflinching. “i thought it wiser you hear it at once, before the maester of whispers finds a way to fold the truth into something more convenient for himself.” and in her mind, unbidden, the echo: how silly of me, maester of whispers! you know everything. a thin, inward smile. do you, now, lord mooton? do you know everything? “this is not a matter of abduction. every indication points to departure by her own will.” she leaned back, expression sharpening. she pictured lord mooton then, so measured, so certain, weighing her across the table as if she were merely another position on a board, mistaking her quiet fury over that wretched match for weakness. did you know your precious ward was already dreaming of eloping with a lover? did you know how effortless it was to seed your household with my own eyes and ears? “you will recall that i advised, long before your coronation, when your father reigned, that placing the daughter of a fallen lord paramount with a minor house was a risk. house mooton is loyal, yes, but ill-equipped for such a charge. if the keeper of whispers cannot keep his own ward accounted for, it will be… difficult for him to justify that failure now.” you know everything. the words echoed now with a quiet, exquisite irony. almost poetic. she wondered, not without a trace of amusement, whether he had sensed even then that she was laughing at him. “ask him where she is. ask him how it happened. and then, your grace, decide whether this is carelessness… or something worse.”

[draconianmuses]

closed starter: @hozina to: osric tully. when: at the end of the wedding feast.

the feast had collapsed into its own aftermath. not silence, exactly, but a thinning. laughter dulled to murmurs. bodies slumped into corners like abandoned costumes. servants moved with the tired precision of people already rehearsing tomorrow’s cleanup in their heads. laurentia stood near one of the open balconies, shoulder to stone, a cup of red in her hand and a sugared almond pinched between her fingers. the sweet cracked softly between her teeth. wine followed. she savored both, unhurried, indulgent in the rare pleasure of a night that had not demanded anything further of her. the musicians were gone. the worst of the nobles too. what remained were drunks, ghosts, and consequences waiting patiently for morning.

rumors drifted like ash. alysanne baratheon gone. lord brom greyjoy vanished with her. whispers already sharpening into theories. elopement. abduction. ironborn filth. laurentia almost smiled into her cup. good riddance. the match had been a rotting thing from the start, arranged by a dead king with a talent for cruelty and no patience for dissent. she had swallowed it then, grieving, exhausted, loyal to a fault. later she had hated it. then weighed it. then reshaped it into something useful. stormlands unrest. baratheon blood as leverage. a future bought in installments of resentment. all of it undone now by the cerimonial binding of fire and storm. but cedric was free. blessedly, finally free. and the stormlands could choke on their nostalgia. the realm had chosen its winners. the dondarrions wore the prize. dragons crowned it in fire. the rest was noise.

she took another sip and leaned her head back against the cool stone, eyes half-lidded, thoughts drifting where they pleased. aerion had been insufferable tonight. radiant, sharp-tongued, too pleased with himself. she trusted him. mostly. she remembered the hunts. the taverns. the way he used flirtation brazzenly, especially with mielle, sometimes-- especially when he wanted to get under laurentia’s skin. bastard. friend. king. all true at once. complicated things survived on contradiction. she accepted that. most of the time.

movement at the edge of her vision tightened something low in her gut. she did not need to look to know. the weight of it announced itself. the way some presences always did. she exhaled slowly through her nose. of course. seven hells. here he comes. lord osric tully stepped into the thinning light like a memory that had not finished bleeding. sturdier than she remembered, or perhaps just harder. grief had a way of sharpening people into weapons. the last time they had stood this close had ended in fists and blood and woeful cries she still heard when the nights went too quiet. lannisport. the riot. lysa's death. the feel of osric’s knuckles cracking against her jaw and her own answering in kind. grief colliding with guilt and anger and betrayal until something had to give.

she had let him hit her. she had hit back. she had gone after the ones who took lysa's life and ended them with the efficiency of a woman who knew exactly how much violence the world would tolerate in public and how much it required in private. eight heads in a box. proof. apology. confession. boundary. he had not written back. nor should he have. she had told herself that was the end of it. that it deserved to be.

laurentia straightened slightly, setting her cup on the balustrade, fingers resting against the stone. her pulse did not quicken, but it changed rhythm. calculating. braced. what does he want? a word? a fist? absolution? another reckoning? she rolled her shoulders once, subtle, settling herself back into her body. if he struck her now, it would be a scandal. if he spoke, it would be worse. she turned at last, meeting him without flinch, expression composed into something neutral and sharp-edged. lioness at rest, not unaware. “lord tully,” she said, voice even, unadorned. neither warmth nor challenge in it. just truth. the night held its breath around them, and laurentia waited to see which past he had come to drag into the present.

[bybloods]

ysabel  knew  little  of  aerion's  council  beyond  their  names.  he  had  answered  her  menial  queries  of  their  origins,  of  their  titles  and  qualifications.  what  she  wished  to  know  of  their  dispositions,  she  would  have  to  glean  on  her  own.  if  she  could  have  selected  which  council  member  to  speak  to  whilst  warmed  from  without  by  dornish  spiced  wine,  it  would  likely  have  not  been  the  mistress  of  coin.  nevertheless,  beggars  could  not  be  choosers,  and  ysabel  replasters  a  smile  onto  her  face  which  is  identical  to  the  one  she'd  offered  lord  rosby,  and  lord  bar  emmon,  and  all  of  the  nobles  who  had  trapped  her  in  conversations  that  felt  more  like  self  aggrandizing  advertisement  than  any  kind  of  true  dialogue.  "  for  a  moment,  i  was  unsure  whether  or  not  i  had  unknowingly  perished  and  slipped  quietly  into  the  seven  hells.  "  she  jests,  though  her  smile  remains  demure,  untouched  by  true  mirth.

ysabel  knows  not  what  to  say  of  the  hatchling.  when  she  had  turned  from  her  picked  over  meal  to  find  it  burst  from  its  egg,  breathing  and  chirping  and  casting  its  lizard  -  like  eyes  about  the  room,  she  had  felt  only  fear.  the  feeling  had  crawled  over  every  one  of  her  organs  like  an  arachnoid  creature,  leaving  no  part  of  her  guts  untouched.  would  her  children  crest  the  backs  of  dragons?  would  they  fly  off  to  war  atop  the  monsters,  never  to  return?  would  aerion?  it  is  a  novel  horror,  and  it  presses  as  heavily  upon  her  chest  as  the  heft  of  a  grown  man  clad  in  a  full  suit  of  armour  might.

"  the  gods  are  wont  to  smile  on  house  targaryen,  "  ysabel  nods.  there  is  little  more  to  be  said.  the  blood  of  the  dragon  ran  thick  and  enduring.  they  had  commanded  the  realm  for  centuries,  the  might  of  their  house  cannibalizing  all  who  were  born  to  it.  every  first  born  doomed  to  the  throne,  every  second  born  shackled  within  the  eldest's  shadow,  the  rest  forgotten  to  history,  without  even  names  unique  to  them  and  only  them.  viserra  and  caerella  would  be  expected  to  act  only  as  wombs  to  provide  insurance  for  the  targaryen  line,  their  children  replacements  should  ysabel's  own  fall  victim  to  their  own  madness,  to  the  madness  of  their  subjects,  to  the  madness  of  war.  the  allegiance  of  the  gods  very  rarely  looked  like  favour.  those  moments  were  merely  what  the  realm  chose  to  remember.

she  accepts  laurentia's  proffered  arm,  grateful  to  be  seen  as  engaged  in  conversation  rather  than  open  to  be  bombarded  by  the  various  nobles  that  circled  her  as  if  she  were  prey.  "  thank  you,  "  she  breathes.  politeness  did  not  evade  her,  even  as  she  had  already  dipped  her  toes  in  her  cups.  ysabel  elaborates  no  further  on  her  enjoyment  of  the  feast  thus  far.  it  was  no  business  of  the  mistress  of  coin,  nor  the  perked  ears  of  those  that  surround  them  as  they  walk,  whether  or  not  ysabel  was  enjoying  her  first  evening  as  queen.

ysabel  listens  intently  to  laurentia's  anamnesis,  head  tilted  slightly  to  catch  the  words  over  the  still  fading  din  of  merriment.  she  thinks  of  aerion  as  he  had  been  when  he  had  visited  storm's  end,  ten  and  seven  and  not  yet  grown  into  the  crown  that  hung  over  his  head  like  the  razor  -  sharp  blade  of  a  headsman.  "  i  knew  him  then,  as  well.  though  it  may  as  well  have  been  in  a  past  life,  now,  "  she  admits,  the  ghost  of  a  smile  on  her  lips.  "  we  hardly  spoke.  "  a  result  born  of  her  desire  to  avoid  him  and  nothing  else.  "  i  should  like  to  hear  your  stories,  lady  lannister.  i  would  ask  that  you  begin  with  the  ones  he  is  most  likely  to  abhor  the  thought  of  me  bring  privy  to.  "  it  almost  constituted  a  strategic  boon  to  be  offered  stories  from  the  annals  of  the  king's  adolescence.  despite  his  efforts  to  be  close  to  her  in  proximity,  he  still  remained  shrouded  in  mystery.  "  i  am  not  so  easily  scandalized.  "

[draconianmuses]

laurentia’s mouth curved, slow and knowing, as ysabel accepted the invitation so neatly laid at her feet. not triumph. not quite amusement. something closer to recognition. good, then, she thought. the girl has teeth, even if she keeps them sheathed. she guided the queen a few measured steps farther from the press of bodies, to where the sound softened into a low tide rather than a crashing wave. only then did she speak again, her tone slipping into something almost conversational, almost fond.

“very well,” laurentia murmured. “i shall begin with the one he would most dearly wish entombed beneath the red keep itself.” her gaze flicked, almost lazily, toward the king, radiant and remote amid laughter that skimmed him without ever quite landing. she had known him before that distance set in. before crowns calcified boys into symbols. “you must understand,” she continued, voice low and unhurried, “that his grace has always possessed a reckless fondness for spectacle, particularly when wine is involved.”

she let the memory unspool. “we were scarcely more than youths, flushed with the sort of invincibility only those untouched by consequence can afford. lyonel was there, one of his cousins, myself. the prince had acquired a quantity of dornish red he insisted was educational.” a pause, precise. “by the time education concluded, he had decided the royal hounds were profoundly misunderstood creatures and deserved companionship.” her mouth twitched. “we were discovered at dawn asleep in the kennels, tangled in cloaks and dog hair, smelling so thoroughly of wet fur that the king’s guards refused to let us pass without inspection. his grace insisted it was an act of solidarity. i believe he was sincere.”

the next memory followed easily, like a second card laid atop the first. “another time,” laurentia went on, “he commissioned matching doublets for us all. red, naturally. trimmed with little bells.” she inclined her head, a queen of understatement. “he declared us the order of the infidels and demanded we attend court dressed as such. we jingled when we walked.” she glanced at queen ysabel, dry and unrepentant. “the ridiculousness of it-- can you even imagine?” she allowed herself a moment’s silence, long enough to let the absurdity settle, then softened, subtly. “but those are the stories one tells to amuse,” she said. “not the one that matters.” her fingers flexed once at her side, a rare tell. “this one,” she added, “he does not know how to tell himself.”

laurentia’s voice dropped, not in volume but in weight. “i was seventeen. newly knighted. old enough to be remarked upon, young enough to still be wounded by it.” she did not look at ysabel now; this was not a story that required witnesses so much as presence. “i had always dressed for ease. for movement. so naturally, i felt more comfortable in masculine attire. my father allowed it. my mother attempted to correct it until her strength failed, the poor woman.” a breath, measured. “after my knighting, the murmurs changed. no, not changed, incresed. perhaps not from outrage, but merely curiosity sharpened into cruelty. does she wish to be a man? does she even remember how to be a woman?”

her mouth curved, humorless. “one voice suggested i hid myself because i could not bear to be seen.” she lifted a shoulder. “i decided to disprove them. disastrously.” she described the gown without indulgence. the weight of borrowed hair braided into her own. the stays negotiating with her breath. the way the room seemed to demand stillness of her body and submission of her spine. “i lasted through the dance,” she said. “and fled to a balcony afterward, to remember how air worked.” then, at last, she looked at ysabel again. “that was when your royal husband found me.”

the memory softened her, just enough to be dangerous. “he stared. said nothing. then informed me, quite sincerely, that i looked dastardly in a gown and asked why i could not dress like a normal person.” a quiet laugh escaped her. “i laughed until my chest hurt. it was not kindness. it was honesty. his own way of being friendly, i suppose,” she went on. “we talked a while. and i told him how i hated my hair. how heavy it felt. my governess had allowed me to cut it at shoulder length because of my training, but no shorter than that,” her fingers brushed the short fall at her nape, unconscious. “then the next morning, he took me with him to have his cut. no one questioned a crown prince’s request. that was the first time my hair was shorn like this.” a pause, reverent without sentimentality. “i have never worn it long again.”

laurentia inclined her head, the story complete. “that is the aerion you married,” she said quietly. “sharp, infuriating, careless with ceremony, occasionally careless with hearts. but capable, in rare moments, of seeing exactly what someone needs and handing it to them without flourish.” a beat. “he will loathe that you know this.” her mouth curved, finally, into something like warmth. “which,” she added, conspiratorial and precise, “i strongly recommend you remember.”

[bybloods]

it  had  been  so  long  since  ysabel  had  felt  the  innocent  warmth  of  friendship.  it  was  a  pathetic  thought,  knowing  that  she  could  not  be  sure  of  myriah's  intentions  in  proclaiming  amity  between  them.  the  sensation  is  present  nonetheless,  framed  by  her  ribcage  and  nestled  alongside  her  heart.  it  conjures  images  of  storm's  end,  of  running  horses  through  the  rainwood,  the  sounds  of  alysanne  and  tanselle's  laughter  ricocheting  off  of  the  passing  trees  such  that  ysabel  couldn't  pinpoint  their  exact  locations,  just  that  they  were  nearby.  staring  down  at  her  hands,  ysabel  chews  on  the  inside  of  her  cheek  preoccupiedly.  she  thinks  of  sharing  baths  with  alysanne  as  girls,  each  of  them  sat  at  opposite  ends  of  the  copper  tub.  she  recalls  them  making  a  girlhood  pact  to  remain  pure  until  marriage  —  one  that  she  would  go  back  on  a  mere  few  years  later  under  the  roof  of  alysanne's  own  keep.  the  budding  feeling  of  cordiality  her  conversation  with  myriah  had  brought  on  sours,  burning  far  too  hot  before  it  is  gone  altogether.  ysabel  tries  to  hold  onto  it  as  it  goes,  but  it  slips  through  her  desperate  fingers  like  grains  of  sand.

"  as  long  as  you'll  allow  me  to  send  them  back  to  their  home  once  they've  imparted  their  knowledge  on  the  red  keep's  gardeners,  "  ysabel  insists.  she  would  not  facilitate  the  separation  of  a  dornishman  from  their  own  friends.  their  own  family.  all  so  that  she  could  eat  fine  lemons  and  pretend  that  she  had  gained  the  dornish  princess's  favour  in  the  span  of  just  a  few  spare  moments  of  one  afternoon.  myriah's  next  words  bring  the  smile  back  to  her  face,  small  and  reluctant.  the  dondarrion  lady  is  helpless  to  stop  it.  for  so  long,  she  had  haunted  the  halls  of  blackhaven  and  feigned  at  ambivalence.  she  had  pretended  that  she  enjoyed  isolation,  that  she  wasn't  forcing  it  upon  herself  like  some  kind  of  penance.  in  truth,  her  time  spent  miserable  and  alone  in  her  ancestral  keep  was  a  secessional  form  of  self  flagellation.  "  i  will  know  that  you  are  feigning  at  poor  penmanship,  "  she  mumbles,  head  tilting  ever  so  slightly,  dark  curls  falling  over  her  shoulder,  "  it  will  be  merely  conspiratorial  ugliness.  "

"  you  are  kind,  princess  myriah.  i  hope  to  find  others  such  as  yourself  now  that  i  am  to  live  here  at  the  red  keep.  "  ysabel  hoped  to  keep  ladies  in  waiting  who  she  truly  enjoyed  the  company  of.  it  had  become  obvious  to  her,  however,  that  she  had  less  say  in  the  selection  of  her  own  ladies  than  one  may  have  presumed.  in  any  case,  she  found  herself  unsure  of  what  kind  of  person's  company  she  might  enjoy  if  it  could  not  be  alysanne,  floris,  or  tanselle's.

myriah  steers  the  conversation  back  to  the  king,  and  ysabel  wets  her  lips  with  her  tongue.  the  kiss  she  had  bestowed  upon  him  mere  hours  earlier  seemed  to  her  like  half  a  dream  —  in  the  wake  of  it,  she  had  felt  rather  unlike  herself,  even  as  it  had  merely  been  a  pressing  of  closed  lips  to  closed  lips,  dry  and  perfectly  innocent.  she  wipes  at  her  lower  lip  with  the  pad  of  her  thumb,  erasing  the  feeling  of  it.  "  his  grace  is  more  .  .  .  practical  than  people  may  imagine,  "  she  admits.  "  perhaps  his  proposal  was  not  terribly  romantic  like  one  you  might  read  of  in  a  ladies'  novel,  but  he  has  treated  me  quite  sweetly  since.  "

[draconianmuses]

myriah let ysabel’s words settle without haste, as one allows dust to fall before deciding what shape remains beneath it. practical, she repeated inwardly, turning the notion over with a curiosity that was not unkind. there were men who wielded practicality like a blade, and others who wore it like a promise. she wondered, briefly, which sort the king was when the doors were closed and the crown set aside. the thought did not sour her smile; it only deepened it, made it less ornamental. there was a strange comfort in knowing that not every bond needed to announce itself with thunder. some things were chosen in quieter rooms, by steadier hands.

“there is something reassuring in that,” she said softly, her voice neither bright nor solemn, but resting somewhere honest between the two. her fingers paused on the edge of her needlework, not fidgeting, simply still. “i think sweetness that survives does so because it is practiced. daily. without witnesses.” she glanced toward ysabel again, eyes warm with an unguarded sort of curiosity. “gestures fade. words thin. but care… care leaves marks that don’t wash out so easily.” it was not advice, not quite. more a recognition, offered gently, as one woman to another.

after a moment, she added, quieter still, “i hope you felt chosen.” not as queen, not as peace offering, not as the neat answer to a realm’s unease. the thought remained unspoken, but it shaped her gaze. “chosen as yourself.” a faint, almost self-conscious smile curved her mouth. “romance is a slippery thing. it rarely looks the way the songs promise. sometimes it arrives without spectacle, and only later do we realize it has been sitting beside us all along.” she dipped her head, as if acknowledging the irony of her own words, and let the moment breathe.

and yet, beneath the warmth she offered, guilt pressed like a second pulse. had floris been there, she would have been sulking at the edge of the circle, snapping thread too tight, stabbing the linen as if it had offended her personally-- at the very least. yet, instead, the baratheon ward of hourse martell sat alone behind a locked door, nursing a grief that had no patience for ceremonies or omens. myriah did not look toward the doorway. she kept her eyes on the work, on ysabel’s hands, on the careful future being assembled in plain sight. ally, she reminded herself. queen. friend, if the gods allowed it. loving floris did not absolve her of the world she lived in. it only complicated it.

[violetamaisonx]

status: open to everyone! location: the feast after the hatching

Viserys Targaryen has been present for everything, from the festivities to the wedding, and of course, the unexpected hatching. To say that he was envious of his cousin, Caerella’s dragon egg hatching, would be an understatement of the century. He was just as dedicated to his studies and held his house’s traditions close to heart. Unbeknownst to the damned, suffocating high septon, Viserys was not even a true believer in the seven. secretly a follower of the old gods of Valyria and the drowned god, both honoring his father’s house and his mother’s beliefs. Aside from his obvious jealousy, the prince couldn’t be happier for Caerella–that and dragons are back, just as it should be. One of his calloused hands held onto the stunning jeweled goblet filled with wine as he decided to make conversation with the closest attendee. “A blessed day, is it not? It is as if the gods have blessed this wedding, 'tis a sign,” by which gods who is to say. “I wonder if more dragons shall hatch now?” the last bit mainly to himself than to anyone in particular.

[draconianmuses]

ser mormont had learned to recognize envy without judgment. it carried a certain tension to it, a tightness at the edges of a person, the way hunger does when it has been forced to sit politely at table. she saw it in the prince easily enough, in the way his attention kept drifting back to his cousin’s triumph, in the careful balance between pride and want that sat behind his words. she did not begrudge him for it. gods knew she had wanted things herself, once, with the same quiet ferocity. she remained where she was, broad frame at ease, white cloak heavy and familiar against her shoulders, eyes doing their habitual work of counting distance, bodies, exits. even miracles needed guarding.

“blessed,” erin repeated, not mocking, not reverent either. the word landed solidly, like a stone set down to see if it would wobble. “i suppose it depends which gods you ask.” her gaze slid, briefly, to the dragon, then back to viserys, steady and unflinching. “it’s a sign, all the same. whether of favor or warning tends to come clear later.” there was no sermon in her tone. just the plain truth as she saw it, shaped by battlefields rather than septs.

she shifted her stance, weight redistributing through long-used muscles, and for a moment the ghost of her old brightness stirred, dry and restrained. “as for more hatching,” erin went on, “maybe they will. maybe it's too soon to tell,” a pause, then, softer, more human. “i’m glad for the princess. joy’s been rare enough that i won’t argue with it when it shows up.” her mouth curved, faintly. “if more eggs decide to crack, we’ll deal with that too. preferably one at a time.” her eyes flicked, briefly, toward the hatchling and back. “what do you think she'll name it?”

[themoonthestarsandkeegan]

Who: Open to everyone! Where: The feast, right after the dragons hatched

Keegan was relieved that the Hunt and following Ceremony commenced without a hitch. Regarding the last few events that have transpired Keegan almost expected to attend another funeral instead of a feast. Then the comet came and the dragon hatched, what a lucky day indeed! Though, the presence of a tiny, firebreathing beast did make The Hand nervous that King's Landing would go up in flames if it got away from the Princess. Hopefully one of the maesters had a dusty old text somewhere on dragon taming that could be lent out. Keegan did not want another problem that was his responsibility to manage.

"For once I am optimistic that the realm's state is improving instead of deteriorating" The months after the war had been full of tensions. The dragons would bring peace and protection to the realm and staunch the chaos that was brewing in some of the more unruly regions of Westeros. "A true show of strength for House Targaryen indeed".

[draconianmuses]

ser erin had learned, over the course of too many feasts and too many near-disasters, that relief was a treacherous thing. it loosened men. made them careless with their thoughts, their tongues, their faith in outcomes not yet earned. she felt it ripple through the hall now, not as sound or scent but as posture: shoulders easing, hands unclenching, the subtle way bodies leaned toward one another again instead of toward exits. the dragon’s hatching had rearranged the room without moving a single chair.

she turned toward the hand as he spoke, white cloak settling against her back with the familiar weight of responsibility. there was a time she would have answered him with a grin, something quick and irreverent. the thought still surfaced, uninvited. she let it pass. what remained curved her mouth into something wry, almost apologetic. “i’ll take improving over deteriorating any day of the week, my lord,” she said, simply. the corner of her mouth twitched, the movement pulling faintly at the old scars along her cheek. the woman she used to be would have followed the quip with a grin and a flourish. this time, the smile stalled halfway, settled into something drier.

her eyes tracked the princess and the dragon once more before returning to lord keegan, posture easy but alert. she measured the room without thinking. she always did. a second nature. “i’ll stay close,” ser erin said, nodding once. “to both of them.” her cloak lay clean against her shoulders, her red braid a bright slash through the white. a corner of her mouth lifted. the humor came late, but it came. “you’re glowing, my lord. turns out surviving a mad king agrees with you. with all of us.”

[prophxtics]

the great hall during the festivities with lady laurentia lannister — @draconianmuses

Agatha had not planned to dance with her. or rather, she had planned for every outcome except this one. the music had swelled, the hall had shifted, and somehow laurentia was there, close enough that agatha could feel the weight of her presence even before a word was spoken. now they moved together beneath the chandeliers, the crowd blurring at the edges as if the world itself had decided to give them a margin of privacy it rarely afforded either of them. agatha’s hand rested lightly where it had been placed, careful not to grip, careful not to tremble. she kept her posture perfect, chin lifted, shoulders relaxed, every lesson drilled into her since girlhood rising instinctively to the surface. only the faint hitch of her breath betrayed her. dancing had always felt like standing on a threshold to her, beautiful, dangerous, full of expectations she never quite knew how to meet.

she did not look at laurentia at first. instead, her gaze traced the polished floor between their steps, the hem of her gown catching candlelight with every measured turn. when she finally spoke, her voice was soft, pitched just for the space between them. “i didn’t expect this,” she admitted, not quite an apology, not quite a confession. a small pause followed, as though she weighed whether she had already said too much. “the hall feels… louder than before.” a gentle, almost self-conscious breath escaped her. “but i suppose that’s to be expected. after a wedding like this.” her eyes lifted then, briefly, meeting her sister’s before darting away again. there was warmth there, unmistakable, threaded with nerves she made no attempt to hide. “thank you,” she added quietly, the words simple but heavy with meaning she did not dare unpack aloud.

[draconianmuses]

laurentia’s hand held agatha with the same measured certainty she used when sealing a decree: firm enough to guide, gentle enough not to bruise. she did not dance as a woman who sought delight. she danced as a woman who understood rooms, understood currents, understood what it meant to be watched. and yet the moment agatha thanked her, the thank you that wasn’t really for the dance at all, something in laurentia’s expression shifted by a hair’s breadth, as if a door inside her had been tested and found not entirely locked. her gaze dipped to agatha’s averted eyes, then lingered, quiet and precise, taking in the carefulness, the effort, the way her sister’s body moved like it was trying not to take up too much air.

“it is louder,” laurentia agreed, voice low enough to live only in the narrow space between them. “these halls always grow deafening when people feel permitted to celebrate. they mistake noise for safety.” a slow turn, her steps unhurried, a lioness choosing her own pace while the music tried to command it. “you needn’t apologize for being startled. i did not… announce my intent.” the faintest curve touched her mouth, not quite amusement, not quite softness. “and i suspect you have spent a lifetime preparing for every outcome except the ones you want.”

laurentia let the turn complete before she spoke again, allowing the music to carry them through a slow arc, her hand firm at agatha’s back, her other guiding with practiced ease. she did not rush the moment. conversations of consequence, she believed, should never be sprung like traps. “which brings me,” she said at last, tone still even, still intimate, “to the matters i intended to speak to you about.” her gaze drifted, not aimlessly, but deliberately, across the hall. faces, banners, alliances in silk and flesh. “you are aware that since our father’s passing, the responsibility of your future has… settled with me.” no pause for drama. simply fact. “do not startle. i am not in haste. there are members of this house, older than you, yet unspoken for. time, for once, is not our enemy.”

another step, another measured sway. “but look around you, agatha. here, in this hall, amid crowns and songs and borrowed loyalties, walks your future.” her voice softened, curious rather than sharp. “tell me. what is it you fancy? men, women… both?” the faintest hint of amusement surfaced. “both would be a blessing. it doubles my options.” then, gently but unmistakably: “this is something you must begin to consider. you are a lady-in-waiting not merely to observe, but to be observed. to form bonds. you move through these corridors like a mouse, when you were born a lioness.”

she guided agatha into a small turn then, a graceful twirl that brought her back close, laurentia’s fingers lifting briefly to tilt her sister’s chin upward. not possession. reminder. “i will trust you with a task,” she said quietly. “from now on, you will walk with your future in mind. you deserve more than to orbit other women’s lives. you deserve your own seat, your own name spoken with consequence.” her eyes held agatha’s, steady and unflinching. “you are a lannister of casterly rock. before the dragons, before the conquest, you would have been a princess of the west. do not forget that.” a beat. “do you know how many matches father refused on your behalf? countless. she's too young, he said. they are unworthy, he said. and he was right.”

her voice lowered further, a vow folded into instruction. “i will grant you more freedom than tradition requires. you may look. you may choose. you may bring me a name.” a pause, precise as a coin set on a scale. “but i will have the final word. no houses that stood against the crown. not now. not ever. we will not be used to polish rebel banners, nor will i place you where you could be bartered or held.” her mouth curved, fond but unyielding. “we do not need them. they need us.”

the music swelled; laurentia kept them perfectly in time. “be clever,” she murmured near agatha’s ear. “find someone who meets you as an equal. do not insult me with a meek proposal. bring the thought to me, and i will hear it.” another turn, a breath. “i reserve the right to deny, or redirect you toward something better.” her gaze softened, just enough to matter. “but i will listen first. that is my promise to you. now… lift your chin. that’s it. walk like the lion you are.”

[threadedjade]

kaela  settles  back  into  the  plush  cushion  of  the  settee,  hands  too  full  with  her  snacks  to  resume  her  needle.  "forgive  me  then,  lord  yronwood,"  she  gives  an  incline  of  her  neck,  a  small  respect  to  the  dornish  man.  she  should  have  guessed  as  much.  there  was  a  healthy  glow  to  the  lord's  features,  more  radiant  than  the  pale  of  northern  features.  sun-kissed,  she  thinks  the  word  is.  her  knowledge  of  dorne  is  limited,  but  she  does  recall  that  one  of  the  kingsguard  seven  is  a  yronwood.  her  heart  tightens,  feeling  a  sudden  kinship  fill  her.  had  his  sister  taken  her  vows  as  gravely  as  her  brother?  "what  a  pair  we  make.  let  us  eat  cake  while  those  fierce  white  cloaks  follow  at  the  king's  heel,  mhm?"

"you  must  be  fierce  as  the  last  hearth,  but  i  am  no  fighter,"  kaela  answers  with  a  shake  of  her  head,  a  soft  laugh  in  her  exhale.  "my  history  with  a  blade  ends  once  it  leaves  the  forge."  she  thinks  of  the  old  man  who'd  taken  her  under  his  wing,  teaching  her  how  hammer  a  blade.  he'd  long  passed  but  his  affect  on  her  remains,  a  ripple  in  the  water  still  echoing.  "smithing  is  a  hobby  of  mine.  not  particularly  of  the  norm,  so  i  do  not  typically  lead  with  such  things."  a  shrug  finds  her.  "i  struggle  with  this  all,  in  any  case.  the  flowery  words,  the  compliments.  you  are  very  generous  to  keep  my  company,  my  lord."

[draconianmuses]

the bloodroyal watched her with a softened attention, the sort he reserved for people who surprised him by accident. the mention of smithing stirred a genuine, unguarded interest; his brows lifted, not theatrically this time, but with real curiosity. “forging,” he repeated, savoring the word. “then we are kindred spirits, in a way. you coax iron into obedience; i coax quieter things.” his fingers gestured faintly to the hoop, to the bird half-born beneath the thread. “both require patience. both punish arrogance.” a pause, thoughtful rather than strategic. “and both are rarely appreciated by those who only admire the finished edge.” he smiled then, warmer, less barbed. “you sell yourself short, lady umber. there is nothing ordinary about shaping fire and metal into purpose.”

adriel reached again for the plate, abandoning ceremony in favor of appetite, and took a bite as though conducting a private experiment. his eyes narrowed, then softened, pleasure blooming unashamed across his face. “gods,” he said quietly, already reaching for another piece. “this is dangerous.” crumbs were brushed away with the back of his thumb, a small, domestic gesture that suited him more than he liked. “i have a weakness for anything made with care. food included.” he ate again, thoughtful now, and as he chewed he spoke, almost absently, as though confiding a secret he rarely bothered to defend. “i also make jewelry, when time allows. from scratch, mind you. melting, shaping, setting. porcelain as well. vases, plates, teacups. i learned the craft from a maester who had studied in yi ti. he was meant to teach my sister tanselle, but then... i took a liking to it.”

he gave it another bite, eyes distant with memory. then, as if a thread finally caught, he looked back to her with renewed focus. “umber,” he said, testing the name. “we have one in the kingsguard. lord darian. the lord commander.” his tone was mild, curious rather than probing. “you do not seem so far apart in years. i would wager he is your brother.” a faint smile, something gentler beneath it. “my younger sister serves the kingsguard as well. has, for near a decade now.” the words settled between them, heavy with understanding, but not sorrow. “it seems the white cloak has a habit of claiming our families.”

[draconianmuses]

the princess did not answer him at once. silence gathered around her, not dramatic, not staged, but dense with the kind of thought that presses inward rather than spilling out. so this is it, she thought, not with anger but with a weary clarity that felt almost adult. the shape of the world had been decided elsewhere, by hands that did not bleed when they closed. heir. hostage. future. the words sat in her like stones. she had known, somewhere beneath the hope, that this would be his answer. still, knowing did not blunt the cut. she turned her gaze inward, already rehearsing the ruin to come. what do i tell her now? floris would not hear nuance, not tonight, not ever. she would hear only abandonment. she would think herself foolish for believing tenderness could survive in a predicament such as theirs. she will hate me, myriah thought, and the idea hurt more than maron’s refusal. she will think i played at love only to drop it when it became inconvenient. she will never look at me again.

she lifted her eyes to him then, and there was no accusation in them, only grief refined into something quieter. “you speak as though healing were guaranteed,” she said softly, as if careful not to disturb something already brittle. “as though affection were a well one can simply return to and draw from again.” her voice did not waver, but her hands curled faintly at her sides. “but i learned long ago that some losses do not circle back. some mercies arrive once and do not repeat themselves.” she did not say floris’s name again. she did not need to. it lived in the space between her ribs now, constant and unignorable. and then came the word sensible from his lips. it stung like a wasp sting. “alright,” she continued, quieter still. a small cutsey followed. “if that's what you wish, my prince. forgive me for overstepping the boundary of my duty.”

as she rose, the ache behind her sternum sharpened, but she kept her posture gentle, contained. “i understand your burden,” she said, because she did. she always had. when jynessa and nymos died in the same year, and aron was away, they only had each other in their grief. the only two people who truly understood, at least in that moment. “i understand what the crown would ask, what dorne would whisper, what future you fear to fracture.” she inhaled, steadying herself. “but do not ask me to belittle my feelings for her just because you deem them weightless. that i won't do.”

she stepped closer then, and at last she reached for him, resting her hand on his shoulder with a familiarity earned over lifetimes. the touch was warm, deliberate, affectionate in a way that did not ask permission. “i wish you so many descendants, maron,” she said, her voice soft, almost fond, “that they stretch across the horizon like water, endless and loud and impossible to count. i wish them so numerous that when you look for me among your kin, your eyes never find me at all.” her thumb pressed lightly, a benediction edged with longing. “only then will i be free from the shackles of your shortcomings.” she drew her hand back slowly. “i plead that you marry. i plead that you love your bride. and more than that, i plead the gods grant you happiness when it finds you.” a pause, barely a breath. “because i fear i have just been told i must let mine go.” and with that, the princess started walking away.

[hozina]

Maron had not felt in years that it was possible to regain hope, or love, or the sense of things lost. But he had seen the permanence of loss, when it came in the Stranger's form; when it came with war and bloodshed on its doorstep. They might seek solace in the Gods, but the Gods did not make promises. The future remained a gaping void, bleak and uncertain, offering only that which he must do, not that which he would. For his own part, Maron had accepted that he would never again find what he had lost; not the companionship, not the comfort, not the simple joy in the everyday that Jynessa had taken with her. He was resigned to it; it was nothing more than fact.

But Myriah? He could not imagine that her hope was dead, had died with her son. She was young yet. Nymos' loss may remain a wound forever, but she may have other children; may love, and find happiness. He had not anticipated—but that was a moot point, now. What was done was done. Yet that prince was an injury in itself, when he had never once been her prince before he had been her brother. Were he but one or the other—but Maron must always be both. It is only because she feels so deeply, he told himself. She would not aim to cut if she did not. "I am your brother," he said, making his spine yield so he did not look upon her from too distant a height. “And, yes, your prince. It is why I tell you this, Myriah, for your sake.”

But she knew this: knew that were it a stranger, some lordling, any other man or woman in Dorne, Maron would not have cared to offer explanation. But then, were it a stranger, or any other man or woman in Dorne, Maron may not have needed to deny. Perhaps she would be happier if he were only her prince. What had the Martells seen, of late, but loss?

This injury, this latest impossible—affection—would heal in time, until she would think no more of it than any other passing fancy. He watched her, waiting for something more than this gentle remonstrance, this unkind well wish. He had no wish for his own happiness, to taste the sort of joy he had lost again, with the knowledge that he could not share it with those he had lost. If the gods told him he would have not a drop of it again, he would not blink for lack of surprise—he would not see the same pressed upon her. "I have no wish to tell you what to feel. I only bid you not insist upon your own unhappiness. That is the last thing I wish, Myriah." But Myriah only turned, her own piece said, unwilling to hear, or listen, or both. "Myriah," he called to her retreating back, once... but she did not turn.

The graves kept him company for a long time yet. Maron found himself imagining the future of his line as she spoke of it, and all but recoiling at the thought of others in this mausoleum that took their name from him. Maron moved until he was not before Nymos, who would only have teared up for seeing his mother's sorrow... but Jynessa's. He rested a cold palm against it. Its walls were as unyielding to the living as to the dead. "Do you think she will see, in time?" he asked her softly. He dared not ask if he had been right. She would have offered her own remonstrances, he thought, as to his manner; would have softened the blow, had she been there to see it done. Or perhaps she would not. Perhaps she would have told him to let Myriah have what they—had.

The tomb was, as expected, silent. Tired, Maron rose, and left.

end.

[ghostlydrifts]

Courage was nothing to coaching this boy on what a proper bird should look like. Perhaps Adriel should have completed a sampler before hand to practice his form before attempting to stitch it on a Queen's cloak. "Yronwood or not, you should be more careful in how you present your designs" Once more she did not say this out of snark, only out of fact.

A backhanded complement if Cymbeline had ever seen one. She did not even give Adriel the satisfaction of a recoil, only the disappointed look of someone that has heard it all before. Brutes, pirates, sealfolk. "So? Thread is nothing more than a thinly braided rope" Another sip of her wine "I do not mean to insult or fight," Cymbeline watched as Adrial reworked his bird. "Frankly, I am disappointed in you, young man. You should know how to talk to a older Lady more politely"

She nodded at his newly completed work. Cymbeline offered the Yronwood a slight smile in approval. "Much more noble. And proud too" Short and to the point, as most of Cymebline's conversations go.

[draconianmuses]

adriel absorbed her disappointment with the reflex of someone who had learned, very young, how to stand still beneath judgment. it settled over him not as offense, but as recognition. that tone, measured and corrective, the expectation folded neatly inside it. his mother’s voice rose unbidden in its wake. straighter. again. no, not like that. he felt the old, instinctive pull tighten in his chest, the familiar urge to amend, to perfect, to offer something better in hopes that this time it might be enough. “of course,” he said quietly, the words slipping out before he could weigh them. “you are right.” always right. it was the answer that had kept the peace in yronwood’s halls, the answer that had earned him a nod instead of silence. his fingers returned to the thread with almost devotional care, undoing and remaking, undoing and remaking, as if diligence itself might redeem him.

he worked in silence a moment longer than was necessary, breath measured, posture immaculate, the compliant son resurfacing in the bloodroyal’s bones. lady noelle had wanted excellence sharpened to a blade. she had demanded it of him in steel and sweat and bruised knuckles, and he had given it, good enough to survive, good enough to return from war alive, never quite good enough to eclipse. the irony was bitter and almost laughable: that his truest mastery lived in fragile things. porcelain thinned to translucence. metal coaxed into beauty. thread persuaded into flight. “i appreciate correction,” he said at last, voice even, almost serene. “it keeps one improving.” the old lie, polished smooth. then, softer, betraying more than he intended, “i have had… extensive practice receiving it.”

when he finally presented the reworked bird again, it was not with pride but with quiet hope, the same hope he had carried into every lesson yard and council chamber of his youth. “apologies for the jest, i meant not to offend, lady cymbeline,” he added, eyes lowered briefly, not in submission, but in habit. “i haven't been in court since the war. i'm a bit rusty,” and perhaps that was the truest thing he had said all evening.

[bybloods]

orielle  is  unused  to  such  theatrics  from  a  person  that  was  not  herself.  the  slow  turn  of  the  lord's  head  nearly  makes  her  laugh,  but  she  remains  stoic,  polite.  "  have  you  never  had  the  misfortune  of  being  attacked  by  one?  "  she  questions,  brows  furrowed  in  disbelief.  "  perhaps  not  a  bluebird,  but.  i  once  was  swooped  upon  by  a  mockingbird  whilst  in  the  gardens  at  lannisport.  it  was  positively  harrowing.  it  managed  to  ruin  my  hair  before  i'd  stolen  away  to  safety.  "  she  turns  back  to  her  embroidery,  completing  merely  one  stitch  before  she  feels  the  need  to  speak  again,  dropping  her  needle  unceremoniously  upon  the  alabaster  fabric.  "  perhaps  her  grace  will  not  notice?  i  assume  birds  can be quite scarce  in  the  stormlands.  if  i  were  a  bird,  i  would  not  wish  to  live  in  a  place  in  which  rain  was  always  mercilessly  pelting  down  upon  my  wings.  "

she  huffs  quietly,  satisfied  with  his  concessions.  "  you  are  welcome,  my  lord,  "  orielle nods as she speaks,  orating in  a  matter  of  fact  way  that  suggests  that  she  had  expected  thanks  all  along.  heat  pools  in  her  cheeks  at  the  compliment,  as  polite  as  she  knows  that  it  is.  "  oh,  do  not  speak  of  my  hyacinths,  "  she  pleads,  covering  her  half  -  imagined  blooms  with  the  flat  of  her  palm. they were positively shameful! to be out stitched by someone working a mere foot or so away is mortifying, by her standards.  "  it  would  serve  you  better  to  concentrate  on  your  own  work,  i  should  think.  "

[draconianmuses]

adriel’s mouth curved with quiet delight, the sort that belonged to men who enjoyed being contradicted. “a mockingbird?” he echoed, mock solemnity settling over his features. “then i retract my earlier skepticism. i bow before your lived scholarship in avian cruelty.” his needle paused, then resumed, lighter now, as though the bird beneath his fingers had learned something new about mischief. “i concede the point. any creature with wings and spite enough to ruin a coiffure is to be respected, if not trusted.” he inclined his head a fraction, eyes glinting. “still, i maintain that stormland rain would teach even the boldest bird a certain humility. endless drizzle does dreadful things to morale.”

at her protest, he obeyed in the most disobedient way possible, giving his bluebird one last, indulgent glance before returning his focus to the cloth. “very well,” he said, mild and obedient in tone alone. “i shall restrain myself from admiring your hyacinths aloud.” he waited a moment before continuing, then, softer, almost conspiratorial, he added: “though i refuse to pretend they are shameful. imperfect, perhaps. but then again, so is anything worth tending.” the needle slipped through fabric with a surgeon’s care. “do not worry, lady orielle. if you are to be outstitched today, it may as well be by someone who understands the offense.”

it struck him then, with a faint start of belated curiosity, that this was the first time he had ever seen her set so openly within the machinery of court. he had known lord felyx well enough by reputation and by correspondence, had seen him often in halls like these, loud with confidence and consequence. but lady orielle had existed, until now, only as a name carried on parchment, a possibility he had not bothered to imagine. he remembered, almost ruefully, the list a servant had murmured to him days before, the roll of ladies expected at the circle, and how her name had lingered longer than the others in his mind. a lannister unintroduced was a rare thing indeed.

he had missed her debut, he realized, likely buried somewhere in the riotous splendor of lannisport’s recent festivities, the masquerade he had declined with a courteous lie and a generous chest of gifts sent by raven instead. illness, he had claimed. indolence, in truth. now he damned himself for it, even as he acknowledged the small mercy of having avoided the smallfolk’s unrest and bloodied streets. his gaze drifted, unguarded, to the careful braid of her red hair, the quiet intelligence in her manner. “tell me,” he said at last, lightly, as if the question were incidental, “why hyacinths?” the needle paused, reverent. “are they a favorite of yours… or merely a challenge you felt inclined to conquer?”