you win or you die.

#just wanted to include the ending on my blog as well!#* ˖ ·ﾟ 𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐀 𝐖𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 ╱ threads ♕

“ah, he passed some moons ago now. he remains in the mother's embrace now, though. it is much better that way,” she says with a slight nod. elissa misses her father dearly, but knows he is much better off gone than having to deal with the mess that his son has created, surely. “but i appreciate your kind words,” she smiles gently.

“ah, so we are alike in that way, then,” she muses. “it's strange to think that any one of these houses here could now take the throne… isn't it? though maybe not for you, as i imagine you are quite used to a kingsmoot at this point in your life, lady harlaw.”

fromashe

yes, yerin supposed there was a cetain kindness for the older generation to avoid the mess of this kingsmoot and the chaos that would surely follow. what a nuisance that the targaryens claimed the lands a century ago to have it come to a dispute just a few generations later. "it's different when the ironborn were raised with kingsmoot as the norm. but to force the entirety of westeros to accept a supposedly barbaric custom and its results." the ruling lady of ten towers made no attempt to mince their words, gladly calling out the distain greenlanders had for those born of salt and iron. even if she, herself, hoped for a different world where trade could replace the majority of trade, yerin had no shame of her people and culture. the motivation for the future was born out of necessity to adapt.

"they'll find a way to blame us for this too, y'know? if things go wrong, and they will. you cannot gather ambition under one roof and not expect bloodshed." yerin takes a sip of her tea. "despite assumptions, i do not wish for war. it is expensive and a waste of lives lost. i pray the drowned god and whatever gods you believe in that we are spared tragedy." the loss of her child still so fresh, it mattered little who sat the ugly throne as long as there is deliverance.

from across the hall, she sees one of her sisters acting up and lets out a long, tired sigh. "i wish you a pleasant rest of your evening. i have a stain, and other matters to attend to." she tips her head respectfully before taking measured steps through the hall to intervene on behalf of whatever poor soul seora had taken to toying with.

end.

bethemouth

the room was quiet as you held him, pulling his weight flush against your own. his words did not startle you, if anything, you had expected this. you'd spent enough years beside cedric to know the shape of his anger, and it was never cold, it burned, it consumed, it demanded somewhere to go. and you knew it so because, more often than not, it mirrored your own. your eyelids dropped as you pressed your cheek to his temple, your hand tangled deep in his hair and your palm flat against his spine, holding him to the earth before the current of his grief dragged him under. "no," you told him in a low murmur. "you should not have done it." your hand grew heavy at his neck. "because they'd have taken you too." the reality of it was a sour thing on your tongue. you loathed the words, loathed how sensible they were, loathed the hard stone of their truth. you loathed that to live through the night required good men to drop their swords while the wicked thrived on their own cruelty. not a raven from lord perceon for weeks. not a word of tranquility came from oldtown, not an ounce of urgency shown when the court frayed and fevered. and those were the people the maesters vowed to tend to, to put first. the scholars of oldtown would fling themselves at the chance to test their skills under the eye of those who endorsed them most, and yet they wavered. their delayed arrival a cyvasse pawn placed on a board deliberately. you knew your mothers would never suffer him to keep his seat long. no poison was worse than a man holding a debt above your brow.

the silk on your shoulder dampened under his weeping. you drew back only a fraction to read his face, your palms resting heavy on his shoulders. he was entirely ruined by sorrow, and the sight of it cut a deep groove into your chest. "soon," you promised. "soon." you echoed the word a second time, your teeth set and your eyes burning red with unshed tears. the seams of your own heart were fraying simply from watching his break. you lifted your hands to his face, finding the wet paths on his cheeks still warm from the fire inside him. you began a most silent liturgy, brushing away the salt and drying his skin, a touch so faint it posed not a shadow, terrified of adding even a grain to the weight he already carries. you mend the leaks as they fall, letting the flood come. willing the well to dry; it must, it must. "he loved you much, you know that, right?" he held you the same way when you spoke of your brother, throwing pebbles on the shores of casterly rock. you had been testing who among you had the farthest aim, laughing into the wind before the weeping took you. the sea called to you in the eeriest of ways. it was him, you knew, willing you home. and it was death. and it was fate. and you would die by the water. you ought to die by the water. the resolve a grip as dependent and frail as the hand of a child cradled in yours; you could but you shouldn't let go. you couldn't. wouldn't. you had never meant to wail as you did then, but the name and the quietness and distant crashing of waves washed over you. it was safe to cry around cedric. "and he'd be proud of you." you'd hoped you, too, allowed him safe haven. "perceon will not warm that seat long. my mother won't have it. and then, we'll destroy him." then, quieter: "have you eaten since?"

it has been some time since he was last held like this. maybe by a nursemaid or a nanny of some sort, back when he was just a boy. he didn't cry often, if ever at all, but when he did… it was hard to stop. like now, the tears come hot and burning down his cheeks as he weeps into her soldier. and truthfully, he's more angry than anything else at all. angry at the hightowers, at the gods, at anyone and everyone – except for her, in that moment.

“i don't care… i don't care…” he mumbles between cries, muffled into the silk of her dress. he just needs some kind of outlet, some way to make himself feel okay about all of this.

he had loved his father dearly, always following in his shadow. he wanted nothing more than to be a man just like him, as great and as honorable. and now that man was gone. with him, so goes a piece of cedric lannister as well.

when she pulls back slightly, he is looking rather pathetic. his eyes are bloodshot red, and tears continue to streak down his cheeks. eyes half lidded, he looks down at her as she holds his face in her hands. when she speaks of his father and how much he loved him, his lip wobbles slightly. he feels like a boy again. just a boy.

“he can't…” cedric says. “we must take the throne for ourselves, and we must rid him of the seat he paid for in blood… i can't stand it, maekara, i can't…” he sighs heavily, trying to regain composure. he pulls back a little, wiping his wet face with both hands.

“no... i imagine you will insist that i do then, hm?”

valarrghulis

STATUS: SEMI-OPEN (00/05)

LOCATION: the gardens of the red keep, after the antidote were administered.

the red keep’s gardens offered what the city had little, fresh air; the smell of blooming roses and hydrangeas; some beauty amidst stone and newly created city. it was impressive that the city was able to grow so fast, from the shed the conqueror built when he first landed with his dragons. maybe elyas could use their time to venture in the city and speak with its builders and stonemasons, such mastery should be brought to beautify oldtown instead. with all these nobles staying under the same roof, with emotions high after a mass poisoning, the red keep could be slightly suffocating. or mayhaps he was on edge for other reasons, for the guilt and the restlessness that came with their delayed visit. when the first ravens arrived, still on the very day lady lannister was recorded screaming for her father, maester olyvar wrote directly to elyas’ lord father and grandmaester mace confirmed before the dawn of the day. but they waited and bid their time. the longer the waited the more desperate the lord hand would become, his sister ceryse assured them and she was found correct.

after reaching the great oak tree that passed as the heathen godswood in the keep, elyas sat down on a bench and his stroll was interrupted by another person wishing to speak about the poisoning and the recovery of the ill. it had not been the first one, nor the second. others had received their coming with less grace. ❛❛ — house hightower accepts your thanks, my liege. — ❞ he nodded solemnly, a cordial and agreeable smile on his face. house hightower had established enmities but they arrived at king’s landing to cultivate allies. he feared his father’s early actions already would require some smoothing over.

the lady elissa makes her way about the keeps gardens with ease, despite not having visited them in some time. it is much more pleasant to be out here, at least, then back in there with all those who are still recovering. she knows that she should perhaps be at shiera's side, or even her brother's, yet she seems to find herself as far as possible now.

as she ventures through, she spots a familiar face – that of elyas hightower, son to the man now sitting as master of laws where her liege lord once sat. it was an awful thing, using the antidote to hang over their heads in hopes of gaining a spot on the council. though, elissa cannot deny that it was a strategic move. she wonders if she herself could have the strength to do something similar.

she offers thanks, and in turn he politely accepts. “may i sit here?” she asks softly, looking to the empty spot beside him on the bench. when he agrees, she takes the spot with ease. “i imagine you've heard many thanks since arriving,” she begins. “it is a shame… what happened, though, the loss of life. many more will think you've not done enough, even if they do not say it.”

#* ˖ ·ﾟ 𝐂𝐄𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐂 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 ╱ dynamic ; maekara targaryen ❂

queensinchains

Marcus Rutherford & Isabella Bucceri as Perrin Aybara & Faile Bashere THE WHEEL OF TIME 3.07 | Goldeneyes

bethemouth

@faatedones

hclvedhearts

"regardless of the occasion, the arbor provides the finest wine in all of westeros. our southern neighbors may boast differently but my sister has made sure to bring enough barrels of it to convince even them." makoa replied, his expression easing into a relaxed grin. he appreciated that the lannister lord was making their exchange an easy one. no jab, no pressing questions about the kingsmoot. it was better this way as he was in no mood to lie about where his loyalties lay. nor his intentions.

"oh i have. but too much wine might prove unwise as the evening unfolds. unless of course you trust everyone in this room." caution was far from the word makoa choose to live by but even he had his limits, knew when to stop himself from playing the utter fool. drinking more than his ill in this room full of adversaries would surely count. perhaps, cedric lannister simply thought himself strong enough to best all of them. he had heard little tale however on the man's prowess in combat but then again what would a lion of the rock be without his pride.

“ah, yes, well…” he looks around. the absence of dorne is certainly loud, but then again so is that of the north. cedric shrugs lightly before taking another sip of the wine in his goblet. it really is good, even if it is not his favorite. maybe he would tell vaiora it is, just to watch her smile in response.

“trust? no, i wouldn't say that…” he chuckles. it would be silly to trust everyone, now wouldn't it? and cedric is no fool, even if he sometimes may look like one. but even that can be a good thing sometimes – let your enemies underestimate you, it is better that way.

“now, tell me, lord redwyne, who is it that you think will end up on the iron throne at the end of all this? not who you want, no, but who you genuinely think will come out on top.”

valarrghulis

addam stared at her over his shoulder, unimpressed. his father letters said nothing of his aunt receiving him. her solemn serious tone aggravated him more than anything, and in response, his acknowledgement of her came dripping in sarcasm. ❛❛ — sweet aunt. I was not expecting you. did father sent you? — ❞ was that lord alester’s idea of legitimacy, did he feel addam would be happy that he sent his westerling sister to receive him in the keep? when addam thought of family, he rarely included her; his father’s younger sister, younger than addam even, no matter how status as the de-facto lady of the crag while his father ruminated higher ambitions. for now. he was his father’s oldest son. his aunt always needed to be reminded of that. she never missed an opportunity to remind him of his perceived crimes. ❛❛ — many others. ruining father’s carefully arranged kingsmoot, that’s unfortunate. taliesin told me shiera fell ill, but she should be fine now. — ❞ he added, giving the his horse’s reins to the closest stableboy, carefree attitude that was far from what he was actually feeling. unfortunate for the disturbance in lord alester’s plan, but not for the victims. when taliesin listed the important ones, shiera was the only one who could spark any concern in addam’s heart. his aunt’s bleeding heart and empty politeness barely registered. ❛❛ — pleasant. now that is a way to put it. essos can be quite pleasant on the right circumstances. — ❞ he answered, pulling his hands behind his back, a large tall man playing in innocent word evasion, as if his travels from essos had been mere pleasure trips rich noblemen could engage at. he knew the truth. aunt elissa knew the truth. addam suspected she knew way more than him. ❛❛ — but now I am back to westeros. on father’s orders, nonetheless. he will need any help he can get. not all of us can burrow ourselves in the crag. but you would not do that, would, aunt? you are here to support father? — ❞ he wondered, he intentions were always so veiled, so clouded in the righteousness she dressed herself with as easily as if it was silk. addam would prefer to know exactly where his aunt elissa was standing before he followed his father’s ambitious claims.

she is no fool, she knows that he is clearly not thrilled by it being her that receives him, rather than his father. his fool of a father, who allowed him to be raised in such a way that he feels entitled to anything and everything. and not only that, but he behaves so brazenly.. without any sense of caution or decorum. at least in her eyes.

elissa wants to scoff at his sarcasm, but she manages to hold back. just barely.

“she's recovering, yes,” elissa responds, trying to remind him that this is no easy feat at all. shiera had been terribly ill and though elissa herself had kept her distance, she still worried for the woman. because while she had the stain of bastardy upon her, they still shared blood. they are family. she's always kept her brother's children at arm's length, but she still cares for them.

most of them, anyway.

“i'd imagine so.” elissa herself had only been beyond the narrow sea once in her life. she had enjoyed it well enough, but essosi ways were not exactly to her tastes.

“burrow ourselves…” she begins, the expression on her face clear as day – she is infuriated that he would insinuate that she simply hid herself away. that is far from the truth, and they both know it. she scoffs and rolls her eyes.

“i am here to support house westerling, yes.” a carefully crafted response, not giving anything away. “and you, dear nephew? what have you come for?” it is not as if he has any claim to the throne, not with a name like waters. so what did he want then? a position on the new council, whoever that may be? surely whoever was chosen as king or queen would not be so foolish.

toothd

when it is harlon's voice that comes, mela's eyes flutter shut. she no longer pushes back the images that float to the forefront of her mind — not like she might have in her youth. their backs pressed together as they woke, how fat, warm, arbor raindrops on her shoulders would have once reminded her of the pads of his fingers in the same place — she lets them come in vivid technicolour, and lets them leave as well. he had sharpened her like a blade, his absence taking a whetstone to her personality. his marriage had been him twisting the knife to the right, and his wife's death had been mela's angry, youthful prayers twisting it back to the left. " i do not know. " she is reluctant to speak his name aloud. " your father's health wavers back and forth, " petulantly, mela pokes at his most tender spot, mentioning the grandmaester. a small revenge.

#* ˖ ·ﾟ 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐘𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐋 ╱ threads ✹

he swallows thickly, as his own memories decide to replay what he had long since buried. the playfulness of their youth, how they spent nearly every waking moment together for weeks at a time… all of it. harlon had loved her truly and deeply… still does, if he's honest with himself, but their time had passed. what use was dwelling on it?

when she tells him that his father's health hangs in the balance, he frowns. “and nothing you've tried thus far has helped? what is this sickness?”

toothd

located in the corridor nearby the sick rooms, after it becomes apparent that the antidote she worked on with aiysha is not very effective & fated for @firedreamt , @faatedones , @arcan3ly & @cancrorum.

mela's jaw has been clenched since the first dose of the elixir she and the lady greyjoy had mixed slipped past the throats of the sick. healing had never been what she had gravitated to when it came to practical uses of her knowledge of botany. ironically, she preferred poisons — things that would help the elderly, frail, and injured pass in peace, without pain. the weight of not knowing pressed heavily upon her now, pushing down on her shoulders as she lowers herself to perch in a nearby windowsill. how exhausting it was, to heal. how fruitless, when your efforts did not come to pass. within her skull, the backs of her eyes ache with unshed tears. was it sadness, that brought such emotion to her door? or was it frustration — anger at her inability to control the nightmare that transpired before the eyes of the court? rolling the thought over in her mind, mela cannot decide. " i have no good news to offer, " she speaks only at the sound of footsteps, insistent and echoing off of the red keep's stone walls and out into the courtyard below, the open windows carrying in a breeze that she might have found comforting, under normal circumstances. " we must wait. "

#* ˖ ·ﾟ 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐘𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐋 ╱ threads ✹

harlon is one of the lucky ones, to not have been struck down by the strange illness that suddenly sweeps the keep. neither is his kin, not that he seems to care too much about that. it is a cruel thought, but for just a moment, some part of him had hoped that it would take falyn or her twin – the only ones standing in the way of what is rightfully his. he is quick to dismiss the sick thought, for as much as he may detest them, it would be a sin to wish such an awful thing upon them.

he makes his way through the keep, wracking his brain for what he might be able to do to assist. that is when he stumbles upon her – mela redwyne. gods, it has been some time since he had last seen her. many years yet, too many in fact.

the sight of her tugs at his heart.

“mela,” he speaks her name plainly, no trace of formality in his tone. “do you think they will recover?”

balonstrong

who: elissa westerling @faatedones where: the red keep when: the pestilence

The day was bursting overhead, a scorching sun baking the crimson city. Within the walls of Maegor's great fortress, Balon wandered, hands clasped behind his back. It was a relief to find himself in the shade, following his all-too brief venture to the decidedly disappointing godswood.

An oak is no weirwood, he thought. It was a useless thought. The godswood was what it was, and no oak could replace the mystic tree, even if it did bear a carved face. The place was no godswood, not really: it was but a garden, and pleasant enough. Soothing breezes washed over the spot from its overlook upon the Blackwater. It was small enough, growing dragon's breath, with smokeberry tumbling through the high branches, yet crammed with chestnuts and elms, alder and black cottonwood encircling the oaken statue. It was the fashion in the Reach, he'd been informed, something about the ancient Oakenseat of the Gardener kings. Balon knew little of the Reach.

For all that the so-called godswood was very pretty, he hadn't been disappointed to cut the visit short after offering a few whispered prayers for the wellbeing of his niece. Whatever their position, she was his blood, still. The blazing sun, however, had other ideas as to how one might best spend the day, and the truth was there were no gods in that wood. No, it had been a relief to escape into the shade of the edifice, sure enough.

And, it seemed, the gods were pleased enough. No sooner did he come inside, then he spied Elissa Westerling in the corridor. "My liege," greeted Balon, eagerly. "How do you fare? These are troubled times, I fear..."

the lady of the crag has been trying to busy herself since the sickness set in. she had been lucky enough to remain unscathed by what they would later find out is poison. she's unsure how, because if it was in the wine, she had her fair share of it – not too much, of course, but enough that it probably should've struck her down as well. so perhaps it wasn't the wine, then… but what was it?

with some of her own family sick, she had to wonder, of course.

she wanders about the keep, trying to make herself useful in some way. there had to be something she could do in all this chaos, right? just as she's about to make her way out into the garden to hopefully clear her head, she is stopped by a familiar face.

“lord strong,” elissa bows her head respectfully. “i am well, thank the gods. and you? are any of your house among the sick? please accept my condolences if so, and i do hope they recover…”

valarrghulis

STATUS: SEMI-OPEN (02/04) LOCATION: the courtyard of the red keep; after the arrival of the hightowers with the antidote

after returning to westeros, addam's plan was to delay his arrival by at least a fortnight. lay low before the kingsmoot as all the nobles rejoiced and reunited, and then slip inside to join the hand's retinue as if nothing had happened. most of them would not be aware of anything. and those who would, his aunt, his siblings, the lannisters would be otherwise preoccupied. for over seven days he stayed at a tavern in the heart of the city, not his mother's; never his mother's. he had never stepped a foot over that threshold ever since his father's guards, dressed in fine cloaks displaying shells. plenty a decade had passed but addam still recorded noticing how he had never seen clean shells before, for their cream color to be immortalized as an westerling crest. therefore, not in his mother's tavern, but a more respectable one, deep in the heart of the city. alas, circumstances had changed. at first he did not believe, taking the story to be a mere fisherman's tale, they were prone to delusions and mirages, it was known. but then his father's letter arrived, not dictated by a maester, but with urgent fervor, and he could not delay his entrance to the red keep no more.

as he arrived ahorse late in the morning, he smirked at the astonished eyes of the guards and servants that crossed his way. they recognized him and that made them even warier of his coming at such conturbed times. addam stayed at the courtyard, where his father informed him they were to meet. the emptiness was unfamiliar. no sounds of knights training, noblemen and women promenading, nor servants scurrying around. it was slightly unsettling to see the red keep so silent, it was hiding its daggers away. ❛❛ — never a dull moment in king's landing, for sure. — ❞ he drawled once he noticed steps sounding on the cobblestones, derision in the undertones of his voice. his father's letter now crumbles in the pockets of his doublet, he turned to the person to satisfy his morbid curiosity. ❛❛ — from the tales they are spreading at the harbour, one would think the entire keep was found dead at the hour of the wolf, and krakens reigned over us. you seem well, my liege. — ❞ he stated, unimpressed.

the lady of the crag is lucky to have thus remain unscathed by the sudden illness that strikes the keep. soon, they would learn that this was no regular illness – but poison at work. she is in complete shock, though it quickly kicks her mind into gear. she tries her hardest to investigate, to get to the root of the issue. who caused this? who wished for the deaths of these people?

when she receives word that her nephew has come to finally show face, she sighs. it does not surprise her that he comes now. he arrives like some bad omen.

elissa makes her way into the courtyard to receive him. not only this, but gods, does she need some fresh air. the keep, filled with so many still ill, has become stuffy and suffocating. lifting her skirts, she descends the stairs just as the gates are opening for his arrival. elissa scowls at the sight of him.

she is quick to wipe the expression from her features, though.

“luckily, i am. many others were not so fortunate.” her tone is solemn, and serious. unlike his. “and how have you fared, nephew? i trust your… travels were pleasant.”

#* ˖ ·ﾟ 𝐂𝐄𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐂 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 ╱ threads ❂#just wanted to include the ending on my blog as well!

ah, but of course. it is no suprise to him that his sister has already struck a deal to see that she have a place at the table should delfina take her place on the throne. and of course, vice versa if it were a lannister who ascends. he cannot help but to wonder, what if that were me? what if i were to be named king? he's never been especially power hungry until now, but with the throne so attainable… it's hard not to be.

with the backing of the dragons, he easily could be.

“that sounds like quite the deal,” he chuckles slightly, nodding his head. “but it is smart, for us to remain as close allies. i think this is the beginning of something beautiful, princess.”

he is honestly shocked to hear that his father had been surprised by the proposal. considering their houses closeness, it shouldn't be all that shocking that the dragons would propose some kind of alliance.

“i would never do such a thing,” he even laughs at the idea of it. “i think maekara and i will make quite the team.”

he takes the goblet and holds it upwards, to clink against her own, before bringing it back down to his lips. he sips on it, smirking around the rim. “i am honored, princess, truly… i look forward to raising the matter with maekara herself, as well.”

firedreamt

these things would never stay so easy, but they could be relished in for now. it feels no longer as nerve-wracking to face down the rest of the feast, and whatever it might be that it has to offer. delfina can picture them at each other's side, with those same expressions and duress of how the world around them falls, and cedric would not force duties, so she believes. the moves would stay on the side of calculated, instead of impulsive — at least, she would continue to hope that. “ to the beginning of something beautiful, ” she echoes. goblet in an own lift, then sipping afterwards. the ambitious gleam in his eye stirs the same in hers, and it is this common ground that helped there be an agreement in the first place. “ i've no doubt she'll take the first chance to get away from it all. ” with you resounds as the implication. “ for now, i must make friendly with the ironborn… even if it won't improve any of their moods nor thirsts, yes? ” she sets the goblet down upon the empty tray for such drinks as it passes by them. “ these things are so entirely superficial. but i look forward to seeing you with our meaningful arrangement. ” even giving a slight, downward nod of her head, which for any of the targaryens and their pride, might as well be full - on bending the knee. and for the time being, when she greets others throughout the night, her smile is genuine.

𝒆𝒏𝒅.

bethemouth

closed starter for: cedric lannister (@faatedones) location: at the maidenvault, in the red keep. after lord cerion lannister's death

grief was a noose, tightening against your neck with every step you took through the keep, threatening to snap if you dared slip into the void. no mercy was shown to the weak, they said, so you kept your feet steady. the kingsmoot had ground to a halt, of course, and suspicion was rotting every corner of the court. and somewhere in the middle of it all, lord cerion lannister was dead. your chest felt tight just thinking about it. you had spent two weeks in a state of pure terror, watching the sickness run through the halls, your mother and sister losing their strength to the fever. the ravens from oldtown had never come. you had been out of your mind with rage and desperation until lord hightower finally arrived with his maesters and the antidote, naming the pestilence for what it was: poison. but it was funny how long he had taken to share it. long enough for the seat of master of laws to fall empty, just waiting for his claws to dig in. house targaryen was safe for now, the shadow had passed, but relief would not come. you just kept thinking of cedric, his father murdered for a piece of leverage. you remembered lady harlaw's warning at the feast: if a brother could fight a brother for the seastone seat, the great houses would not hesitate to spill blood for the iron one. the floodgates were open, she had said, and time would tell who sank or swam. she had been right, and that realization hardened your stride. you knew where he was. you knew the corners a person looked for when nothing else offered solace. it took very little effort to find him.

for a moment you didn't move. you knew your heart was a heavy weight, but you imagined his felt worse. your eyes fell on him and saw only the squires you used to be, messing around with blunted swords when your families visited each other, and the camaraderie you shared. your mother and his father had a bond that outlived a lot of strife, and you carried that same loyalty into the lists, never begrudging him a victory if you fell short. those days were sweet; the present was bitter. you stepped across the stones and wrapped your arms around him before he could put up his guard. one hand locked behind his neck, fingers sinking into his hair, holding his head against your shoulder as if you could barricade him against this cruelty. you held him steady. "i'm here," you breathed out, simple and fixed. your hand moved once through his hair. "you do not have to say anything." there were no words in any tongue that could patch over what had been done. your hold tightened. "fuck the hightowers. fuck the redwynes. the westerlings. fuck them all. we will make them pay." you whisper just for his ears, as the two of you stand there in the maidenvault, letting the seconds pass. then, what comes out is barely an echo: "i am so sorry, cedric." the noose tightened. the void sang a song to lull you in; you listened.

it all happens so fast. one moment, he had been celebrating, dancing the night away with a beautiful woman. the next, all seven hells had broke loose and people in the keep begsn dropping like flies. one moment they'd all held their goblets high, toasting to the old king and to new alliances forged in the wake of his death. the next, so many were falling ill – including his own father. cedric had been spared the actual sickness, but had worried himself half to death over all that had come crumbling down around him.

he is the shell of a man when the help from oldtown finally arrives, much too late. his father dies and the greedy lord hightower is quick to take his seat. the lord lannister has half a mind to retrieve his blade and cut the man down then and there. let the consequences be what they may, he does not care.

but he doesn't.

now he wanders the keep like a ghost, eyes dull and lacking signs of the liveliness that he had always been known for. he finds himself in the maidenvault, honestly unsure of how he even got there. he doesn't even notice the other presence in the room.

not until her arms are wrapped tight around him, too tight for him to break free. he wants to, at first. he wants to push her back and yell and scream and curse. but he doesn't and before he knows it, there are tears rushing down his cheeks as he nearly crumbles in her embrace.

“i… i should have killed him.” lord hightower, that is.

#* ˖ ·ﾟ 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐘𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐋 ╱ intro ✹#103:intro

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ( tyrell a , gabriel luna , thirty - seven , cis man , he / him ) the hand of the late king welcomes harlon tyrell, the lord of highgarden, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be loyal and strong - willed, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their stoic and aggressive tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of a watchful gaze cast over the courtyard of highgarden, many a night spent staying up until the hour of the wolf or beyond, a rare stormy night passing through the keep. they themselves dream of house tyrell on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.

antagonistzz

she rolls her eyes in a modest show of it, laughing as she moves again to him like the shore. "you are too pleased with yourself!" pulled away, then back again. the redwyne had needed such laughter this evening, gathering small memories of breathless joy — hoarding them like her precious collection of seaglass. "you know your own charm."

cedric had plenty — his laughter, his smile, the easiness to their choreography. his eyes were the perfect shade of water. the kind that could tempt a sailor to drown in its depths. in her cerulean reflection, vaiora could imagine herself as one of the countless women who had seen themselves mirrored within them.

"i shall task you in reminding him," vaiora declares pointedly, dancing above her irritation. "though i wish not to speak of the brute any longer! it is a waste of breath, and ruins the mood to have him come between a perfect dance."

#maybe wrap it up soon?#* ˖ ·ﾟ 𝐂𝐄𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐂 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 ╱ threads ❂

“me? never!” he laughs. “i actually have no idea what you are talking about, lady redwyne,” his smirk never fades as he looks her over and continues to move them about the dance floor. despite the many pairs of eyes that remain on them, his gaze simply remains on her.

because how could it not?

for a moment, it is just them two, and everyone else has faded away. he nearly forgets the game they play, nearly forgets himself and makes a move he cannot take back. lucky enough, he has enough sense to remember where it is they are.

“fine, fine!” he chuckles. “shall we dance the night away, then?”

fromashe

so many competing houses. one had to wonder where the hand of the king falls with his loyalties. placing his own house on the throne would be a possible path but it takes more than one man to hold a throne, it takes a united front. yerin did not doubt the former hand had a network of relationships, though how many he could call allies when the king has died would likely be a good many less.

lord alester was hardly a popular man, wildly thought incapable and short sighted. if there was anyone to consider, it would be the young woman before her. "i pray your father be in good health. it is never easy taking on responsibility of one's house and family. the crag is lucky to have your leadership."

"i've been here a few times before, not in very many years though."

“ah, he passed some moons ago now. he remains in the mother's embrace now, though. it is much better that way,” she says with a slight nod. elissa misses her father dearly, but knows he is much better off gone than having to deal with the mess that his son has created, surely. “but i appreciate your kind words,” she smiles gently.

“ah, so we are alike in that way, then,” she muses. “it's strange to think that any one of these houses here could now take the throne… isn't it? though maybe not for you, as i imagine you are quite used to a kingsmoot at this point in your life, lady harlaw.”

firedreamt

elation sparkles across the princess's face. nothing is ever a done deal, considering the risks of making it down the aisle in the first place, but the first obstacle of acceptance seems overcome. delfina purses her lips, a hum of satisfaction to follow, and clear in how her shoulders relax that no longer is she as concerned towards blurring a line or burning an alliance. “ she's made interest in a seat at the table known if the targaryens ascend the throne, ” and then a quick laugh. “ of course, that's not guaranteed. but even if i don't … and the lannisters did, the agreement is the same. i'd willingly sit upon the seat at your or her council that is promised to her from me. ” hand wafts through the air, the hum turning dissatisfied for a moment. politics, politics. puppet strings and attempting to snip them. the most she could do was ensure the results were comfortable. the smirk plays upon his lips, and delfina's resolve refuses to stutter. no; for too long was she abashed to make such decisions in the face of aegor being alive. her charities sequestered, her opinions overridden. if she errs and it is fatal to her, then so be it, at least the error would be entirely her own. “ lord cerion was surprised, ” she allows, “ but willing, so long as you were. ” the master of laws would have his seat promised either way, and so of course there was little to quarrel with, even if the ties of history threatened to make it complex. then again, what isn't? “ and maekara has told me many times she's willing to do what it takes. we both understand this is greater than even us. so long as you're honest and don't lock her away like a wretch in a tower … ” the shrug says the rest. “ but i shan't speak for her. gods forbid. ” she takes two filled goblets of wine and lifts them in a toast before providing the fuller one to cedric. “ friendship is the beginning of many a good wedding, lord cedric. let's toast to this one not being so cruel. you were, in fact, the first i thought of. ” lions nor dragons prefer to be chained, and especially not to each other. the shock which would ripple through the rest of the houses in the kingsmoot alights a wider smirk upon her own lips. if nothing else, the message would be sent, and loudly received; a strong movement upon the cyvasse board as an opening play. even if the throne is taken from us both, we will be a force to be reckoned with.

ah, but of course. it is no suprise to him that his sister has already struck a deal to see that she have a place at the table should delfina take her place on the throne. and of course, vice versa if it were a lannister who ascends. he cannot help but to wonder, what if that were me? what if i were to be named king? he's never been especially power hungry until now, but with the throne so attainable… it's hard not to be.

with the backing of the dragons, he easily could be.

“that sounds like quite the deal,” he chuckles slightly, nodding his head. “but it is smart, for us to remain as close allies. i think this is the beginning of something beautiful, princess.”

he is honestly shocked to hear that his father had been surprised by the proposal. considering their houses closeness, it shouldn't be all that shocking that the dragons would propose some kind of alliance.

“i would never do such a thing,” he even laughs at the idea of it. “i think maekara and i will make quite the team.”

he takes the goblet and holds it upwards, to clink against her own, before bringing it back down to his lips. he sips on it, smirking around the rim. “i am honored, princess, truly… i look forward to raising the matter with maekara herself, as well.”