𝗂𝗇 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖉𝖔𝖜 𝗐𝖾 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒌 . .

𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁  𝗍𝗁𝖾  𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆  𝗈𝖿  𝗍𝗁𝖾  𝖍𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖘𝖎𝖉𝖊

[firedreamt]

# 𝑭𝑰𝑹𝑬𝑫𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑴𝑻 ♱ a close - handed study in what it means to fill the voids within the realm with wishful thinking, dreams and hallucinations in an ashen masquerade within the hymn of 103𝐚𝐜 by 𝑛𝑖𝑘𝑘𝑖 ( 25+ / they&any ) . please do not interact outside of the group .

THE REALM CALLS THE FOLLOWING ...

⁰¹. 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝑑𝑒𝑙𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑎 𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑦𝑒𝑛, forty8, ruling lady of dragonstone . ⁰². 𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒈𝒆 𝑔𝑤𝑦𝑛𝑒𝑡ℎ 𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑡ℎ𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑦, thirty2, spouse of heart's home . ⁰³. 𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑑ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑦, fifty0, lord of riverrun . ⁰⁴. 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑛 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠, thirty0, bastard of the crag .

credits.

dash icon: theluzvre . pinned header: cyriledits . pinned divider: cursed-carmine . reply divider: cursed-carmine . camila pitanga gifs: hexedhunts . yaya urassaya gifs: lerabova ; soblum ; carolcastros . arjun rampal gifs: rampldgifs ( 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 ) . rege jean page gifs: lerabova .

[bethemouth]

as she spoke so earnestly, a thought occured to you: what if the fault was not your own faithlessness? what if the fault lay with the god? it arrived so suddenly it nearly made you laugh. what if somewhere in the vastness of the world there truly was a god waiting for you to stumble across them? some divine soul sitting beyond mortal sight, tapping their foot impatiently and wondering why lady amaya arryn had not yet crossed the threshold. someone willing to listen. someone willing to answer. the idea was so ridiculous, it earned the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth. still. the thought lingered. you'd had faith shoved down your throat since girlhood. septons and septas and prayers and ceremonies. the seven pointed star woven so tightly into the fabric of the realm that, one day, you realized: it was never devotion, but a tool of governance. admittedly, it was useful. perhaps the most convenient lie mankind had ever come up with. kingdoms fall apart if people have nothing in common. they need shared ground to feel a sense of belonging. keeping seven kingdoms united under one crown required twice as much of it. you considered, briefly, telling her she need not fear punishment for such things.

after all, no house in the vale held authority above your own, and if you wanted to look the other way, she could have prayed to as much as a rock without anyone saying a word. but you shut your mouth before the reassurance came out. if you gave her an inch, she might take it as an encouragement to start lighting r'hllor's fires all over the mountains. and you couldn't have that. aunt marei would lose her mind, for one thing. for another, well, you needed your sheep to go on believing the small lies that kept your life orderly and easier. you could still offer her a quiet kindness, though. so, you simply listened. and as the silence enveloped you, you folded your hands behind your back. "no," you said softly. "i don't think so." your gaze drifted back to the flame. "i’d love to tell you that i feel completely fulfilled by my duties, my studies, and the people i love. but i don't think that kind of person actually exists." you gave a small shrug. "i don't think human beings are built to be whole. every invention starts because something is missing. every song comes because dancing needs a melody. every painting happens because someone saw something beautiful and was terrified of losing it. every bond forms because, eventually, being alone gets unbearable."

your eyes shifted back to hers. "if we were complete unto ourselves, we would create nothing. seek nothing. love no one." were you lecturing again? was that a rhetorical question? the candle flickered between you. "we spend our entire lives reaching for things. knowledge, purpose, companionship, understanding. we fill up the spaces we can, and we learn to live with the ones we can't. and i think that's just how it's supposed to be." you think, perhaps, you're wearing her thin with your speech. but once the thought is out, you simply must see it through. "so no. i don't believe there’s some hollow chamber inside me that only a god can fill. but i do think everyone carries empty places." your hands found hers beneath the candleholder, giving a brief, reassuring squeeze. "if it's his light that warms yours, then i’m glad you found it." and you meant it, too. another silence followed before your brow furrowed slightly. something finally clicked in your head. you tilted your head at her. "wait. have i imposed upon you? every time i ask something, you look a bit... cornered. do you want me to stop asking things, lady gwyneth?" you lifted both hands in a mock surrender. "because i can. though admittedly, curiosity might kill me."

[firedreamt]

some  may  find  lady  arryn  unnerving.  it  is  difficult  not  to,  when  rumours  lay  waste  to  her  house,  a  reputation  beseiged  with  the  constant  spiritual  hazards  of  the  septa.  and  yet  gwyn  awaits  a  kindred  spirit  in  obsession,  and  instead  finds  a  different  kind  blooming  like  a  fine  rose  before  them:  the  humanity  angle  of  it,  and  the  lack  of  rejection  towards  their  seeking  of  what  was  forbidden.  most  too  afraid  to  listen,  and  others  too  nervous  to  understand  what  is  unknown.  “  so  then  it's  a  natural  part  of  us,  seeking  someone  else?  …  you  may  be  right.  ”  a  scene  from  a  debate  comes  back  to  them,  intellectual  exchanges  over  the  table  of  small  meals  and  clear  water,  leaving  minds  clear  to  explore  the  world  around  them  as  board  games  and  other  explorations  of  the  mind  happened  around  them.  a  deep,  intrinsic  talk  of  highborn  versus  lowborn,  and  what  the  difference  really  was  when  the  word  of  derision  was  peeled  away.  the  answer:  nothing.  in  this  turn,  gwyn  hears  the  similar  rhetoric.  it  reminds  them  why  they  so  adored  her  and,  in  a  sense,  admired  her:  her  carriage,  her  perspective,  her  stubbornness  and  willpower.  how  could  any  noble  not  look  at  house  arryn  and  not  desire  to  be  upon  its  same  fortress  steps? “  no,  you  haven't,  i  …  i'm  glad  to  finally  not  have  this  be  secret  to  someone.  it's  not  of  my  spouse's  religion,  my  family's,  i  never  thought  it  could  be  anything  but  whisper  and  forsaken.  ”  the  observation  of  being  cornered  upsets  them  in  some  sense,  not  because  of  it  being  an  overstep,  but  because  it  calls  attention  to  the  slick,  poisonous  reason  gwyn  disguises  so  much  about  themself.  the  nervosa  sinks  its  teeth  deeper  into  their  stomach,  and  the  very  organs  within  them  feel  as  if  they  tremble.  “  i'm  not  sure  how  to  put  this  in  a  way  where  decorum  wins,  lady  amaya.  but  when  i've  been  questioned  before,  it's  never  just  questions.  it's  interrogations,  it's  accusations.  it's  attached  to  something  else.  ”  they  did  not  wish  to  make  the  weights  upon  her  worsen  with  details,  but  even  this  is  more  than  gwyn  has  confessed  to  most.  perhaps,  in  the  earlier  days,  dexian  understood  and  heard  the  difficulties  they  faced  upon  their  lord  father's  pressuring.  “  it  makes  me  happy  to  hear  you're  not  this  sort  of  hollow.  i  wish  i  wasn't.  ” putting  name  to  their  melancholia  hurts  them.  it  makes  them  want  to  weep  when  this  should  be  a  rather  pleasurable  and,  at  least,  excitable  discussion.  but  it  is  true.  they  wished  desperately  they  needed  not  any  of  this,  the  validation  nor  the  affection,  the  endless  sorrow  of  discovery.  “  i  like  your  curiosity.  ”  may  it  be  bold  or  whatever  it  is.  “  i'm  not  used  to  curiosity.  my  answers  have  been  chosen  for  me  and  my  place  in  heart's  home  labelled  before  i'd  a  chance  to  change  it.  it's  welcome,  even  if  i  look  …  cornered.  ”  repeating  it  back,  a  laugh  emerges.  by  the  light,  the  whole  things  feels  a  bit  ridiculous  when  saying  it  aloud,  then  realising  that  it's  meant  about  you.  “  if  not  any  god,  then  what  is  it  you  seek?  what  do  you  pray  to  if  not  something  that  needs  prayers?  ”  they  decide  to  not  stifle  their  curiosity.  besides,  amaya  has  seen  it  before  in  smaller  places,  the  vale  the  only  realm  to  exist  around  them,  the  rest  of  it  moot  and  distant.

[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.

[firedreamt]

at  long  last,  she  steps  away  long  enough  to  regain  a  sense  of  herself.  alone,  with  hands  wringing,  and  the  poisoned,  hoarse  tones  of  her  wife  still  pleading  with  her,  she  carries  this  with  her  into  the  gardens.  no  true  hope  of  solitude,  not  when  she  understands  better  by  now  —  but  still  it  is  sought.  a  deep  frown  ages  her,  fingertips  wringing,  a  newfound  habit  of  old  she  thought  she  left  behind  as  a  young  girl,  where  she  would  wring  her  hands,  aegor,  please,  just  listen  to  me.  i've  tried.  i've  tried  everything.  the  failure  looms,  and  it  mingles  with  that  failure  to  protect  her  family.  even  if  deep  within,  where  her  own  hot  poison  gnaws  at  her  insides  unrelated,  she  rues  the  day  the  reaper  truly  comes  for  them.  how  unlucky  for  it  to  come  in  the  form  of  a  hightower,  and  there  he  sits  upon  the  bench,  like  a  stark  lord  from  a  distant  or  stranger  past.  the  hightowers  embodied  the  sense  of  a  faceless  stranger,  and  now,  the  halo  of  saviour  is  a  resonant  tune  following  them  everywhere  they  go.  it  is  enough  to  make  her  wish  to  curse,  and  yet  she's  unable  to.  her  anger  must  be  swift,  yes,  but  against  those  who  deserve  it.  but  don't  they  all? “  …  my  thanks,  my  lord?  ”  innocent.  she  places  those  clasped  hands  against  her  chest  and  looks  at  the  path  behind  her,  vacant  of  other  life,  and  it  would  be  so  easy  to  —  don't  be  stupid,  delfina,  you're  nearing  your  fifth  decade.  this  is  a  time  when  reason  must  outweigh  madness.  her  own  smile  ripens  with  cordiality.  “  has  house  hightower  mastered  the  art  of  reading  other's  minds?  ”  she  dares  not  approach  the  bench  to  sit.  she  remains  before  him,  standing,  in  a  more  appropriate  blouse  and  trousers  pairing,  deep  burgundy  beneath  the  black  of  her  targaryen  cloak,  the  crest  upon  its  length.  “  you  must  have  to  show  up  at  so  wonderfully  the  right  time  when  we  so  needed  you.  ”  and  yet  the  debt  remains:  the  antidote  administered,  her  family,  her  people  even  if  they  detest  the  targaryen  throne,  and  neither  could  she  blame  them,  they  all  suffered.  “  since  you've  seen  this  before?  ”  there  were  unconfirmed,  at  this  time,  rumours  of  the  hightowers  seeing  the  same  poison  in  their  house,  and  this  would  be  her  way  of  asking.  if  she  finds  out  nothing  else,  or  if  there  is  nothing  else  to  find,  let  it  be  confirmed  or  denied.

[arcan3ly]

in   their   younger   years,   maesters   had   attempted   to   snuff   out   steffon’s   youthful   temperament.   it   was   not   befitting   of   a   liege,   they   would   tell   him,   to   wish   to   run   about   in   deep   mud,   to   catch   fish   with   their   bare   hands   in   the   shallows.   it   was   not   lordly   to   forever   wish   to   run,   to   push   away   quill   and   ink   and   instead   communicate   through   the   floating   notes   of   a   flute.   but   despite   their   trying   —   and   they   did   try,   to   an   incessant   degree   —   the   young   falcon   did   not   change,   acting   the   same   they   did   at   age   seven   even   past   their   thirtieth   name   day.   not   many   indulged.   he   knew   that   amaya   tried,   had   bought   him   the   finest   instruments   to   cradle   and   nurture   the   one   gift   the   gods   had   bestowed   upon   them,   but   it   was   not   the   same.   few   were   willing   to   truly   run   with   the   wolves,   to   depart   the   livery   and   finery   of   noble   families   in   favor   of   dirt,   grime,   something   real.   another   last   moment   swipe   of   some   sweet   breads   before   the   music   ceased.   there   was   a   charge   of   bodies,   a   cacophony   of   movement,   and   steffon’s   dark   eyes   flickered   to   their   friend   before   the   two   began   their   weaving.   steffon   was   a   slight   thing,   lithe   and   small   in   frame   and   stature   ;   it   was   effortless   to   dart   through   the   swarm,   to   emerge   into   a   corridor,   to   descend   the   nearest   staircase   giggling   like   babes   together.   soon   they   were   out   in   the   salt   air   of   king’s   landing,   cowering   away   in   the   closest   niche,   and   steffon   turned   their   pockets   inside   out   to   display   their   wares.   “a   banquet   for   a   king,”   they   tittered.   it   was   then   their   tawny   eyes   fully   met   with   gwyn’s,   focusing   properly,   drinking   in   her   countenance   and   the   way   their   features   had   sharpened   and   hardened   in   adulthood.   he   shook   the   thoughts   free,   pointing   to   one   of   her   smuggled   skewers.   “shall   we ? ” 

[firedreamt]

in  some  regard,  it  was  lovely  to  not  have  to  speak.  the  bright-eyes  look  exchanged  and  then  a  scurrying,  and  if  gwyn  allowed  their  eyes  to  close,  they  might  be  sprinting  off  from  the  hunt  in  the  north,  white  harbour  in  full  gusto  and  leaving  the  tarries  of  the  world  behind.  it  should  not  be  permitted  of  a  liege  of  a  house  now,  of  someone  who  was  wed  and  who  held  the  lock  and  key  upon  the  tomes  and  coffers  —  it  was  girlish,  and  too  youthful,  for  a  person  of  their  third  decade  to  scuttle.  yet  scuttle  they  did  to  that  soft  niche,  and  the  red  keep  itself  feels  less  harsh.  breathless  in  a  way  that  they  have  missed  since  the  last  time  they  were  allowed  to  go  out  upon  horseback  at  the  hunt,  a  decision  they  made  without  asking  anyone  else.  they  should  do  this  more  often,  have  more  secrets  tucked  within  their  pockets,  but  for  now,  they  manifest  in  the  skewers,  which  both  of  their  quick  runs  hadn't  allowed  to  cool.  “  careful,  it's  still  warm  in  the  middle.  ”  by  way  of  warning,  before  offering  the  one  most  pelted  with  delicate  and  good  cheese.  “  if  a  king's  purpose  was  feeding  his  people,  then  kings  we  should  be  indeed.  ”  for  once,  away  from  the  rest,  themselves  being  their  own  people.  lithe  fingers  peel  at  the  fruit  to  rid  it  of  the  remaining  skin,  the  dried  sweetness  more  tart  than  anticipated.  the  air  puckers  in  their  cheeks,  a  plain  wince  of  the  flavour  upon  their  features.  “  i  would  be  king  gwyneth  of  the  bitter  peel.  ”  (  it  is  not  until  afterwards  they  realise  just  how  true  that  is.  )  “  what  of  your  title?  ” if  someone  else  was  to  overhear,  what  a  strange  conversation  would  be  witnessed.  it  may  sound  as  though  they  spoke  out  of  turn  and  wished  for  the  actual  throne,  but  in  fact,  they  wanted  another  fantasy  that  never  would  come  to  pass:  to  dream without question.

[toothd]

the taste of wine lingers on the back of willas's tongue as he surveys the board, but he does not swallow it down. mineral and steely, astringent and bitter. the haziness of wine drunkeness does not yet touch him, but his thoughts still manage to find things to stumble over on their way to forseeing taliesen's ensuing moves. he so disliked carrying a heavy heart onto the cyvasse board. the tip of a long finger rests on the back of an elephant for a pregnant moment, stalled. he drags dark eyes from its minuscule stone trunk at the sound of his companion's voice, cutting his dwelling quite short. he takes a long swig of his replenished goblet, sighing his satisfaction, imagining the swirl of tannins in his mouth to be the bite of poison. " do you think we're ever truly forgiven, taliesen? " he questions, the melodrama dripping from his words like melted butter from fresh bread, still hot from the stone. it was a worthy question, nonetheless. discussion swirled of blame, of withholding, of death and who bore responsibility for it. the gods were surely angered, surely stirred from their peace. willas wonders if he should be in the sept rather than here. he wonders if candles truly could do more than repentance of the self-flagellant kind. he moves his elephant to answer one of taliesen's light horses at the other's beckon nonetheless, sitting back in his chair. it creaks beneath his weight, adjusting to the shift.

[firedreamt]

upon  his  question,  their  eyes  closed  slowly.  fortunately  to  the  chivalrous  flower  knight,  or  so  he  secretly  hoped,  it  would  appear  as  though  taliesin  simply  weighs  their  options  in  moves  against  the  light  horse.  so  much  for  the  fucking  trebuchet.  whether  intentional  or  not,  willas  did  well  to  ignore  most  bluffs,  and  increases  the  waters'  concentration  upon  the  game  at  large.  the  question  tickles  them  despite  their  best  annoyance,  and  the  sigh  comes  from  their  nostrils  like  a  mocking  dragon.  “  ah.  wonderful.  forgiveness.  i  should  no  longer  be  surprised.  do  you  get  high  on  your  towers  before  you  ask  for  it  from  the  gods?  or  do  you  crawl  on  your  bellies?  i  simply  must  know.  ”  another  stillness,  and  then  first  the  move  emerges:  readying  a  crossbowman  to  take  on  an  elephant  opposite.  more  silence.  a  ticking  clock  somewhere.  a  guard  shifting  and  coughing.  “  …  it  depends  on  what  you're  asking  to  forgive,  my  friend.  have  you  any  example?  ”  part  of  them  hopes  he  does,  and  that  he  expounds  upon  it.  the  other  part  of  them  hopes  he  really,  really  doesn't,  and  that  the  question  remains  rhetorical.  it's  no  wonder  these  games  are  long.  it's  a  wonder  taliesin  hasn't  gotten  up  from  one  before  it's  meant  to  end,  but  …  this  has  continued  with  the  same  board  over  the  course  of  many  months,  despite  separation.  somehow,  it  counts  for  something.

[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. "

[firedreamt]

softened-soled  boots  are  the  only  answer  for  the  moment.  the  tully  stoops  to  enter  the  door,  hand  clasping  to  the  rock  outside  of  it  as  though  to  keep  them  stable.  gaze  travels  over  the  endless  beds  thus  cleared,  as  though  their  patients  needed  better  care  elsewhere.  mordhred  then  stares  at  the  spine  of  the  redwyne  girl,  and  how  it  has  not  bent  nor  broken  beneath  its  weight,  not  where  they  could  see.  not  yet.  the  breaking  will  come  another  night,  as  it  is  bound  to  do,  and  for  now,  she  holds  herself  up.  a  tightness  surrounds  their  heart.  a  tightness  which  seethes,  and  a  bitter  seed  licks  at  the  base  of  their  spine,  but  they  smite  it  with  a  grunt.  “  i  hardly  expect  good  news  on  a  night  like  this,  my  lady  redwyne.  see  the  moon  and  its  crescent?  ”  rarely  do  they  succumb  to  superstitions  in  the  stories  of  old,  but  the  shape  of  the  moon  remains  evidence  enough.  they  wonder  if  she  will  even  wish  to  see  them  after  the  last  time  was,  once  more,  with  a  sick  curtain  between  them;  they  push  forwards  anyways.  “  the  tides  are  off.  the  wait  will  sadly  be  long.  ”  in  a  sense,  they  hope  it  to  comfort  her. “ how is she? your sister. ” vaiora hadn't remembered the story mor read to her. she might not even remember they had come.

[balonstrong]

"No, my liege," replied Balon, softly, half-wearily. "Nothing of the kind, thank the gods."

In truth, Balon did not know what had brought him here. Only a need, perhaps, not to be alone. He was drained, tired down to the marrow of his bones. His own niece had taken ill, and Balon was haunted by creeping dread. It was so that the fires of resentment were stoked against the girl, yet it was not her doing. It was his sister's. It was they who had -- whether by intention or not -- pitted uncle against niece. Evidently, Balon was not viewed as a worthy heir to Harrenhal -- his bastard niece held up for the role she did not wish, a fact which served only to further perturb Balon. Was the outcome of his inheritance so harrowing that the girl must be thrust into a role for which she had no inclination, and precious little preparation? He felt guilty for such ruminations, often, it was true. But he felt no more guilty than now, as she trembled in the Stranger's wheedling caress.

It was distraction he sought, in truth, and Balon was grateful for the invitation. He sank into the seat opposite his liege, letting out a breath he hardly knew he'd been holding. "Thank you," he said gently, taking some small sampling of what was offering. He had not thought to eat in some time, but now his niece was asleep, he found he was hungrier than he had realized. The dried fruit was tart-sweet on his tongue as he bit down. His curious eyes ran over the other contents of the table, coming with interest upon the tales. He nodded to the book. "Which tales were you perusing tonight, my liege?"

[firedreamt]

“  ah,  lord  balon.  i  think  you've  looked  better.  ”  thus  emerged  the  classic  case  of  kettle  calling  a  chamberpot  the  same  shade  of  black,  for  mor  must  resemble  the  same  kind  of  fatigue.  balon  sounds  the  kind  of  tone  that  they  feel  internally,  a  raking  across  the  coals  of  what  nearly  happened  to  their  houses,  a  surprise  in  kind  when  none  were  struck  from  their  numbers,  yet  the  losses  remained.  “  eat  more  than  me,  before  your  family  thinks  i've  starved  you.  ”  a  grunt.  their  own  family's  words  echoing  in  their  ear,  have  you  eaten  as  of  late?  are  you  thirsty,  uncle  mor?  and  the  grunts  which  followed.  they  never  would  dream  of  giving  an  actual  command  to  the  house  upon  which  they  were  vassalled,  and  yet  the  idea  of  nurturing  never  quite  leaves  them.  “  stuff  and  nonsense.  faerie  tales  not  even  i  can  make  sound  lovely.  despite  compliments.  ”  the  sickest  had  complimented  their  voice;  they  understood  it  not,  not  even  a  smidgen.  in  their  mind,  their  throat  was  dry,  as  if  they  had  licked  a  pumice  stone  before  a  raising  of  tone.  but  mor  also  places  less  stock  in  the  opinions  of  others,  regardless  of  well-meaning,  than  he  once  did.  “  i  want  to  give  them  something  to  forget.  to  be  transported  away  to  another  land  where  they  don't  look  over  their  shoulders  and  wonder  if  their  brothers  poisoned  them.  ”  a  sigh.  there  emerges  the  weariness,  two  like  oxen  pulling  the  same  carriage  of  burden.  “  a  sign  of  strength,  or  a  sign  of  folly,  my  lord?  we're  supposed  to  come  out  stronger  for  these  blasted  things  on  the  other  side,  and  instead,  it  weakens  our  defence.  ” it  weakens  mine,  although  mor  refuses  to  make  it  about  them.  the  realm  needs  not  be  an  echo  of  what  their  life  could  have  looked  like,  very  differently.

[aiyshas]

it gladdens her to see gwyn elated – their features haven't always shown as such during the voyages to the keep of the corbray, and aiysha has often felt whatever was the opposite of envy as she saw such a handsome and rich liege, so trapped in a place they do not become. it is different in here, in the red keep, however, and aiysha's finger traces one of the line of their palm. "no need for me to guess, then? i can not tell if that disappoints or gladdens me." she offers the other a smile, one of the softest of her arsenal. "i supposes that saves me a full assessment. i would so loathe to ask you to drop your silks so i can look for new scars." the lowborn winks at her liege, and does not release their hand just yet even as they pull back to sit in more comfort at their spot. "it was uneventful, as i knew the drowned god would not fail us. a pity, in a way. we could have arrived with more of a scene, that could benefit our wishes within this kingsmoot."

[firedreamt]

their own smile softens. the mention of the drowned god flutters their pulse, an antithesis to the warmth of r'hllor, but perhaps the depths of the ocean holds the same warmth for aiysha. goosebumps alight when their palm is traced, as though another vision has settled upon them both, awaiting the sharing. gwyn dare not ask, it's so touchy to have such things happen. “ oh, please. anything to save us time when already it is limited. even if it might be well-spent in each other's company, no matter what. ” how unfortunate that the kingsmoot hangs heavily over them both, an arrogant shadow of wishful thinking. they sigh, glancing away as their hand rests upon aiysha's lap. their dimpled smile begins to fade out. “ hm. a scene. yes, i do fear we've already caused one. gods forbid salt and lesser vale wish to see this place. ” how they so desired to be loved, exalted as more. aiysha did this in her own way. and so it devastates them when she, too, is reduced.

[valarrghulis]

                                    he  was  more  than  glad  to  recognize  the  voice  of  his  younger  brother,  the  youngest  of  the  hand's  bastard,  and  mayhaps  one  of  the  only  ones  that  would  be  glad  in  return  to  see  him.  taliesin  carried  himself  with  the  innate  confidence  and  grace  of  the  unbroken,  a  trait  addam  could  only  admire;  he  was  always  all  too  aware  of  the  furious  nature  brewing  inside  himself  to  be  so  carefree.  for  a  second,  addam  suspected  his  father  had  sent  taliesin  here  to  retrieve  him,  but  it  became  quickly  clear  that  he  was  acting  the  free  agent  once  more.  ❛❛ —  I  see  your  good  humour  never  left  you.  never  a  dull  moment  with  you.  —  ❞  addam  smiled  and  welcomed  his  brother's  touch,  also  wrapping  his  hands  around  the  other's  forearms  and  returning  the  slight  shake,  deciding  then  to  further  hug  his  brother,  wrapping  his  arms  around  the  shoulders  of  the  slightly  shorter  man.  it  was  easier  when  taliesin  was  significantly  shorter  than  himself,  when  they  were  children.  now,  there  were  less  inches  between  them.  they  have  not  seen  each  other  in  while,  he  would  forgive  his  sentimentality.  the  past  few  months  of  addam's  lives  consisted  mostly  of  jumping  from  one  place  to  another,  escaping  the  consequences  of  his  actions  and  the  suspicions  of  powerful  lords  with  a  grudge  and  the  law's  power  behind  them.  from  king's  landing  to  highgarden  to  the  crag  to  essos.  last  time  he  saw  taliesin  he  had  been  hurriedly  packing  his  belongings  to  catch  the  next  ship  to  essos  before  the  king  changed  his  minds  to  be  lenient  to  him  once  again.  ❛❛ — they  already  say  we  are  a  curse  to  the  house  and  to  our  father  as  if  westerlings  had  been  anything  but  bootlickers  and  lion's  consorts  in  the  past  century.  —  ❞  he  jested,  instinctively.  still  a  long  way  from  the  cobbler's  square,  and  the  thought  was  as  bitter  as  sour  leaves  in  his  mouth.

                                    before  addam  could  add  a  snarky  comment  regarding  the  ironborn,  he  found  himself  slightly  startled  by  taliesin's  question.  he  frowned,  blue-green  eyes  almost  disappearing  under  his  heavy  brow.  did  anything  happen  to  shiera?  was  she  lying  dead  in  the  corner  of  the  hand's  tower  because  they  would  not  treat  her  the  same  as  the  other  noblewomen?  his  father  had  not  informed  him  of  anything.  ❛❛ —  actually...  no.  has  shiera  fallen  ill?  what  are  the  reports  on  her  condition?  father's  letters  only  mentioned  the  mass  poisoning  and  that  something  happened  in  the  family.  I  am  here  waiting  for  him.  but  tell  me  everything,  brother.  —  ❞  curse  his  father's  foolishness.  addam  had  informed  him  days  ago  where  he  would  be  staying  while  the  caravans  arrived  and  the  harvest  feast  concluded,  he  should  have  sent  for  him  immediately  when  the  poisoned  started  falling  ill.  and  now  to  be  vague  in  letters  in  fear  of  spies  reading  his  letters,  foolishness;  it  would  only  be  the  words  of  a  concerned  father  to  his  eldest  son.  ❛❛ —  they  hate  the  hand  and  the  hand's  sins  paraded  in  the  keep,  taliesin.  never  underestimate  how  willing  they  are  to  get  rid  of  us.  if  I  am  to  be  honest,  I  am  more  worried  about  them  finding  a  way  to  blame  us.  —  ❞  addam  sighed,  he  did  not  share  his  brother's  lack  of  imagination;  he  had  felt  in  his  skin  since  he  was  a  child  that  most  of  them  could  conjecture  multiple  reasons  for  targeting  the  waters.  they  were  bastards.  they  were  expendable.  but,  oh,  it  was  always  delightful  to  prove  them  right.  to  make  them  taste  his  own  form  of  wretchedness.  ❛❛ —  they  tried  with  me,  shipped  to  the  rock,  shipped  to  essos.  but  I  must  admit  it  is  mostly  my  fault.  they  are  right  in  wanting  me  dead.  unfortunately  I  am  not  very  eager  to  comply  with  their  wishes.  —  ❞  he  smirked,  a  wicked  glint  in  his  blue-green  eyes.

[firedreamt]

shock  runs  through  the  other  waters  at  such  returned  affection.  an  attempt  at  recollection  brings  forth  little  memories  of  their  fraternal  fondness,  preferring  their  spars  and  spats  for  what  they  were  instead  of  outright  displays.  blame  this  on  their  father  or  other  absences,  that  of  their  mothers  not  willing  to  each  them,  but  either  way,  taliesin  could  sink  into  it.  for  that  moment  with  addam  embracing  him,  not  much  could  go  wrong  besides  what  already  did;  it  chased  away  the  night  terrors  of  when  he  was  a  child,  and  perhaps  he  can  confess  to  his  own  mind  he  maintained  his  personal  swagger  by  emulating  addam  all  his  life.  he  had  waved  farewell  to  the  ship,  then  his  hand  dropped,  and  upon  its  disappearance,  his  fist  clenched.  a  strange  resentment  had  bred,  the  idea  of  him  not  being  permitted  to  go  along,  but  brothers  cannot  always  be  each  other's  keepers,  can  they?  “  and  may  it  never  die,  even  when  i  do.  ”  in  a  sense,  it  acts  as  the  finality  of  their  greeting  and  the  release  of  their  embrace.  the  jest  ebbs  a  bellow  of  a  laugh.  “  easy  is  as  bastards  do  or  whatever  the  fucking  maesters  said  when  we  were  born.  where  are  the  lions  to  consort  us?  predators  can't  feast  without  prey,  we've  been  doing  them  a  favour.  ”  how  callous  his  jests  have  grown  over  the  years!  a  far  cry  from  ones  addam  would  remember  him  trying  out,  seeing  if  his  siblings  would  find  joy  in  them. “  well,  it  struck  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  it  was  in  the  wine.  i'm  …  surprised  that  it  was  shiera.  ”  the  implication  is  sullen,  protective.  he  drank  the  most  wine,  it  was  a  known  fact  amidst  waters  and  westerlings  like  —  truthfully,  anybody  who  kept  of  his  company  for  a  prolonged  period  of  time  witnesses  his  imbibing  habit.  “  she  was  hot  with  fever,  hallucations,  nausea  …  it  was  wretched,  addam.  it's  clear  they  think  less  of  us  until  it  suits  them  to  kill  us  off.  ”  hot.  befitting  of  his  true  intentions  and  feelings,  a  passion  which  only  his  brother  pulls  from  him.  “  it  killed  off  the  master  of  laws  mewling  kitten  and  replaced  him  with  a  pining  priest.  ”  a  smidgen  of  guilt  comes  about  when  insulting  the  hightower  name,  but  he  places  it  out  of  his  mind,  the  throbbing  in  his  thoughts  is  not  thus  named  perceon,  is  it.  “  as  you  shouldn't  be!  ”  comes  the  bluster.  “  let  us  be  snakes  in  the  grass  then.  although  that's  half  the  problem.  it  could  be  anyone.  ”  even  our  own  kin.  allowing  themselves  to  fall  prey  to  the  symptoms  to  avoid  evidence  to  the  contrary.  taliesin  dares  not  voice  that,  for  voices  carry  in  the  corridor,  despite  them  being  open  to  the  outside  and  containing  little  echo. “ the worst has passed, and it's taken all its numbers for now, i believe. ” and the whole point of this fucking kingsmoot with it. one day, i will be the hated hand.

[bethemouth]

"cedric?" the name parted from your lips in a quiet breath, born of pure surprise. you turned your face away, your brow knitting as a hundred old memories began to collide in your mind. cedric was your best friend. you had never once cast him in that light, and the sudden shift felt clumsy and strange in your thoughts. you trusted him, of course, and you held him dear, but he had been such a constant fixture in your life that imagining him as a suitor seemed nearly impossible. yet marriage had never been about love or lust. within nobility, marriages were political arrangements. anything other than that was wishful thinking, a childish lament of the vapid and the imbecile. you may have outgrown licey, but you were not plainly maekara either. you were house targaryen itself. it mattered little if you carried delfina's blood, for you held her name and you were her future. the dynasty continued through you now. history would flatten the rest. and if-- no, when. when your mother takes the iron throne, gods willing, you wouldd inherit more than just dragonstone's shores one day. you'd inherit everything. and as the realization settled in, you thought of your sisters, the three-headed dragon scattered and fragmented within you. and you already knew what your answer had to be.

slowly, you unlooped your mother's hand from your arm to cradle it within your own palms, your fingers closing gently around hers. "it is not what i expected," you admitted, the truth bringing a sudden warmth to your cheeks. perhaps the early days would be clumsy, but you knew you could grow into it, people had built marriages on far less. "but it is better than a stranger. and house lannister has been a good friend to us, so it makes sense." it also kept mara close. "i accept it." your voice remained steady. you already loved him, only differently. perhaps the distance between friend and husband was not as vast as it seemed. "and should lord cedric agree, i am sure we can make the best of this arrangement." you were ever the indomitable human spirit. clawing and teething and kicking your way out and through any and every thing. and cedric was just as resilient. ambitious, too. he possessed the qualities you lacked in many ways; even when putting your knighthoods to the test and fighting bandits or participating in the lists, you were far deadlier when paired together. cleared the floor with a frightening efficiency. perhaps her grace, your mother, had envisioned something you hadn't yet. but when she scolded you for wandering off, your face only softened. "yes, mother." you stepped closer and let your head rest against hers for a second. instinctive, the way a creature sought comfort from its own. then you drew back, a smile on your lips. "one thing at a time."

end.

[fromashe]

what was your name? his ask immediately draws a bright laugh. it escapes her before usual sense could intervene. the sound surprises her. seraphina had taken to long stretches of silence, especially in her imprisonment. but since children, her siblings and household knew the younger hightower to be solemn, shielded by a mask of piousness. it feels good to laugh, to smile, as he continues, listing misnomers. more telling he lists the name she chose second before deviating to utter nonsense. perhaps she lingered on their mind, the way they lingered on hers all these years.

it was his humor that drew her in, the confidence in how he held himself, the verbal sparring, the challenge, the excitement to truly break from the curse of her father's brainwashing, liberate herself from the fears of condemning her soul to the seven hells for simply existing, for human desires. sera did not suffer from delusions that their single dalliance was some great love, nor did she have much use for romance, needed nothing beyond satiating carnal desires. she dare not ask the universe for anything more than freedom from oldtown, from family obligation.

besides, she'd since learned much about taliesin's philandering reputation, apt that the words lie and sin sit beside each other in his very name. her breath catches when he steps in front of her, addressing her by title, how she loathed to hear it from his mouth. "oh yes, how vile of me to withhold. would you have preferred septa seraphina?" she batted her eyelashes, teasing the very notion of ravaging a holy woman of the cloth. but sera can't help that her gaze then traces across his lips, his jaw, though avoiding his eyes.

he stands so close, she could feel the warmth of him. his mere presence. it is a blow to her ego, the building desperation that pools in her stomach. "perhaps, you would have though. more of a challenge conquered than a simple girl named phia, i suppose." the pathetic need for comfort she finds herself yearning from the familiar figure. sera longed for the girl that she was when they met, often wrapped herself in the memory of them together, the day a key opened a lock smithed by her family, breaking free of the self-hating beliefs, the revelry in a forbidden union, the fantasy of safe haven in taliesin's arms.

the mention of his sister is sobering, even if her cheeks flush red at his insinuation. seraphina makes to move across the room, needing to reestablish a physical boundary for her peace of mind. but not before curious hands brush across talisein's, reaching for the scroll and trying to tug it free, testing if he'd let her peruse what literary tale caught his attention prior to her intrusion. "i've been praying for your sister's swift recovery." words earnest. "they say she's already doing better." she had prayed, oddly enough, for shiera's recovery. strange what can bring you back to your faith... the loss of posey haunts her family, grief weighs her soul still. it is a pain she wishes on no one. she'd hate for loss and grief to dampen talisein's light.

"what troubles... hmmm, let's see. shall we recount from the beginning?" she muses, sauntering towards another bookshelf as though in deep thought. sera can't bring herself to see his judgement, to know his thoughts on her predicament. "mayhaps we can begin with the unexpected gift left in your stead." her hand rests for a moment over her abdomen to offer a single hint that she knew he'd understand. no blame, no anger. she owes him the truth, owes herself the truth. "moons of worry until a solution presented itself." the seven in their kindness and cruelty stole her siblings but gave her a gift in lyanna's guidance.

she finally turns, bracing herself on the table behind, needing support of the solid wood in her hands to feel grounded as she leans on the edge. "or shall we focus instead on my missed opportunity to 'voyage' to essos on the ship i chartered? or my subsequent imprisonment in the family keep?" maybe to some it was the complaints of a privileged young lady who want not for food and shelter. but the solitude was maddening. it's left a cold in her soul that she fears can never be warmed.

"i did not know you were acquainted with my brother." she had thought she had carved something good in her life, a precious secret treasure, belonging all to herself. had she known who taliesin was, his father, his life, his name... sera wondered if she would have permitted herself to make the same mistakes.

[firedreamt]

her  laugh  and  her  voice  as  she  speaks  pours  itself  a  hymnal  to  him.  without  religion  nor  creed  to  beholden  him  besides  that  which  he  decides  upon  a  whim,  and  here  she  converts  him  to  the  euphoria  of  her  confessional.  this  place  has  been  turned  into  one,  archives  of  other  stories  to  the  scrolling  of  their  own.  when  she  slaps  at  the  scroll,  he  pulls  it  out  of  reach,  and  then  awaits  her  arms  to  lower,  then  lets  it  roll  into  the  creases  of  her  elbows  as  if  a  game  of  dominoes.  he  might  have  smirked  if  not  for  that  ringing  truth  from  her,  the  cold  of  ice  and  realisation  spoken  as  if  from  the  gods  themselves.  her  hands  to  her  abdomen,  the  cradling  of  a  now  nonexistent  void  —  the  floor  feels  as  though  it  falls  out  from  under.  a  sharp  exhale,  the  kind  which  impales  him  in  the  stomach.  his  hand  absentmindedly  taps  the  back  of  the  chair,  unable  to  resist  the  orbit  towards  her  stubborn  stance,  the  odd  halo  that  particular  candle  casts  over  her.  pacing  to  the  window,  then  bracing  against  the  sill. “  …  if  i  had  but  known.”  quieter.  “  i  am  not  so  much  a  bastard  that  i  would  have  left  you  both  starving  and  destitute.  ”  or  alone.  or  against  the  world  in  kind.  a  tyrell's  face  flashes  before  his  eyes,  but  does  not  erase  hers,  and  the  ferocity  with  which  she  fires  off  her  months  away.  the  voyage  not  taken,  the  gift  not  spared  from  the  gods'  eyes  so  she  believes,  and  the  prayers  for  his  sister's  well-being.  “  you  call  that  time  a  conquering?  ha!  so  then  that's  how  you  view  me.  ”  his  emotions  tumultuous,  the  need  to  be  sarcastic  and  cruel  attempting  to  outweigh  the  anguish  within,  at  the  idea  of  a  …  of  a  child  with  his  face  or  his  laugh  and  never  knowing.  yes,  it  strikes  somewhere  deeper  than  it  should,  the  face  of  his  own  father  westerling  and  how  coolly  he  looked  upon  him  at  first,  how  he  felt  he'd  to  earn  his  place  and  still  hadn't.  “  i  asked  where  septa  phia  went.  if  you  had  told  me  seraphina,  perhaps  we  may  have  gotten  somewhere.  ” but  where  would  that  somewhere  be?  and  what  would  it  be  named?  dare  he  even  name  it?  he  pushes  off  the  sill  and  paces  to  the  scroll  he  gave  her,  then  snatches  it  back.  the  rancid  romance  is  scrawled  across  the  page  in  familiar  handwriting,  but  for  now,  he  pays  no  attention  to  it.  uses  it  instead  to  point  at  her,  to  be  obstacle  between  the  vibrations  of  static  which  cross  through  his  arms  at  the  nearness.  he  could  shiver,  he  could  be  accosted  with  goose's  flesh.  “  focus  on  what  you  like.  clearly  you  know  better  than  i  in  all  things,  s  —  ”  he  near  addresses  her  by  first  name.  he  stops,  and  swallows  it  whole. “  willas  and  i  play  cyvasse  together.  we  met  at  the  joust,  or  the  whatever  the  fuck  it  was,  and  our  conversations  carried.  you  hightowers  tend  to  make  lasting  impressions  wherever  you  go.  ”  as  though  this  throwaway  insult  could  separate  him  from  the  blade  of  the  bond.  she  leans  upon  the  edge  of  the  table  and  he  leers  over  her,  and  yet  she  is  not  afraid.  (  he  doesn't  want  for  her  to  fear  him.  please.  )  “  i  was  honest  with  you  about  who  i  was.  i  said  waters,  not  westerling.  for  once.  and  this  is  —  never  mind.  ”  hands  splayed.  wiping  it  away.  “  that  particular  honesty  meant  nothing  in  a  bed  made  of  lies.  ”  and  he  had  in  kind.  waters  could  have  meant  anything.  he  left  no  note,  he  gave  no  written  address.  she  vanished,  and  he  faded. 

[liver-y]

maelora celtigar, in an unexpected conversation with delfina targaryen @firedreamt upon a balcony in the red keep, shortly after the discovery of the poison

The knowledge that the toxin that had tied half the lieges in King's Landing to a sickbed was poison did nothing to clear the air of the foul miasma hanging over it. The Red Keep was an overlarge house of healing, every third room dedicated to the sick and suffering, and maesters and septons and acolytes a constant presence in the halls. Maelora was beyond sick herself. All this, and now she may no longer even reach for a good wine she could trust. Had she known the Arbor would prove so careless, she would have brought some casks from her own cellars. In the courtyard, several servants carefully hauled barrels across, all to be delivered to whatever maesters and woods' witches were looking for a cure closer to home than Oldtown. Another figure joined her on the balcony; Maelora curled a lip. "Poison. Who would dare do such a foolish thing?" Someone bold—or so confident in the Small Council's incompetence that they would risk all for a good opening move. They had achieved a great deal in this daring, with very little effort; even a Faceless Man would be jealous.

A sideways glance, a moment of pause. She had not expected her company to come in the form of Delfina Targaryen—but the princess had more reason than most to watch this venomed procession. “You must be relieved to know what it is. A poison that leaves one alive a week after ingesting is unlikely to kill before it is cured. Unless one is particularly frail. How fares your... wife? And a daughter, I believe? Which one is it?”

[firedreamt]

the  princess  stops  as  a  heartbeat.  shadowed,  with  the  celtigar  mistress  not  yet  turned  around  to  see  her,  the  darkness  upon  her  face  rabid  and  working.  it  tenses  her  jaw,  flashes  through  her  eyes  to  thus  blacken  them  near,  like  thunder  across  the  keep.  tension  slices  through  the  encounter,  and  delfina  curses  herself  for  not  looking  where  she  was  going,  for  not  changing  direction  when  she  realised.  (  you're  just  like  me,  delfina.  you  crave  to  be  anything  but,  and  yet  here  you  are.  claws  out,  teeth  bared.  how  does  it  feel  to  be  pushed  into  a  corner?  to  see  the  only  way  out  is  through  the  narrow  bars?  )  then  the  sideways  look  comes,  and  by  that  time,  delfina  has  fastened  her  expression  into  a  pale,  thin  smile  of  greeting.  she  inclines  her  head,  for  regal  status  demands  equal  respect,  despite  any  internal  disrespect  she  wishes  to  give  her.  “  someone  who  wishes  to  play  us  as  fools,  to  sit  back  and  watch.  you  and  i  have  a  close  relationship  with  the  games  of  puppets,  don't  we.  ” with  maelora  celtigar,  little  is  a  question  now.  once  upon  a  time,  and  perhaps  not  as  distant  as  either  lady  would  prefer,  their  houses  were  regarded  as  staunch  allies  and  stronger  friends.  how  rotten  blood  grows  when  left  to  bleed  out.  to  satiate  the  concrete  beneath  their  feet,  and  now  wishing  to  be  gnashed  upon  the  iron  throne,  and  they  both  know  there  can  only  be  one.  still  —  she  does  not  leave.  she  joins  maelora  fully,  hands  clasped  in  a  demure  position  at  their  waist,  unlike  them,  and  yet  entirely  somehow  in  character.  “  i  think  relieved  is  a  harsh  feeling  for  this,  lady  celtigar.  you  must  understand.  my  wife  and  daughter  both  have  come  through  to  the  other  side.  i  hope  neither  this  nor  the  fact  that  i'm  without  illness  disappoints  you.  ”  terse,  but  not  impolite.  it  would  be  easier  one  for  the  other's  claim  if  one  perished  in  this.  “  you're  also  without  illness.  how  did  we  get  here?  ” already  she  faces  chains,  gold  and  otherwise.  she  dare  not  throw  around  a  true  accusation,  but  perhaps  it's  agreed  upon  without  saying  that  there  is  a  heavy  dose  of  suspicion  upon  them  both.  how  odd,  delfina  thinks,  clenching  until  her  right  hand's  knuckles  whiten,  to  be  united  in  this.

[fromashe]

closed for @firedreamt (for knuckle mor <3) setting: guest chambers for the tully, days after the harvest festival

aila grew stir crazy as the days dragged on. the news of any sickness is hard to swallow but there are mny among the ill who aila worried for in particular, aybüke, lady helvis and lady arryn, makoa's sister as well. while not particularly religious, they would pray if it'd help. may the gods old and new protect the bedridden nobles, may each of them survive and have a full recovery. but prayers did not work that way, did they? if sheer will could keep someone alive (though their grandsire may be that exception for their iron will had them far older than most in the realm), then her aunt would have been spared. perhaps her birth parents would have to. if you could simply beat the stranger in a game of sheer determination.

it'd been days with no improvement and they understood the need for precaution but there was nothing aila hated more than being useless, powerless, forced to sit idle when something, anything can be done. uncle mor had mentioned in passing of wanting to aid the sick, keep them company at the very least. but aila could see the toll on the older tully. their aunt's death had been devastating to the family, their cousin and uncle most of all. but of course, it would not be proper discussion and life went on. though there are days, aila swears it seems that their uncle is stuck in the grief. it's not something she can understand, not really. too young when she lost her parents, too inexperienced to know that type of love, too afraid and too sheltered to witness her aunt's deterioration. that is a nightmare exclusive to others.

the proper thing would be to take a page out of aunt saby's book. but when has aila ever done the proper thing?

"i don't know how... but i'd like to help too. if you teach me or showed me how, i'd like to do something." anything. aila fiddles with the edge of her sleeve, summoning the courage to ask the harder question. "... are you alright, uncle mor? i know it can be..." they don't know though, not really. hope to never know.

"you don't seem to be taking care of yourself." they finally blurt. "and i feel you should probably care for yourself as well in order to help others."

[firedreamt]

the  depths  of  the  fatigue  have  not  yet  registered  to  mordhred.  they  bear  the  burden  of  the  worries  and  take  initiative  to  enter  the  sick  rooms  when  others  could  not.  each  time  they  emerged,  a  new  strain  mutes  the  muscles  of  their  face  and  causes  it  to  sag.  this  carries  over  into  their  current  posture,  out  of  those  poisoned  for  a  handful  of  hours,  although  their  mind  strafes  to  their  condition.  the  sallow  cheeks,  the  rasping  voices,  the  pleas  for  water  and  the  fevers  besieging  them  as  hallucinations  take  hold  —  how  she  clung  to  him,  how  she  begged  to  wonder  if  the  world  around  her  still  was  real.  how  she  asked  if  he  had  become  a  figment  of  her  imagination,  before  she  collapsed,  and  they  called  for  the  maester,  whose  footsteps  did  not  carry  them  fast  enough.  no  solution,  no  antidote,  no  —  a  redwyne's  poultice  still  smells  the  sweetest,  their  eyes  closed  as  they  remember.  in  a  moment's  breath,  sleep  attempts  to  take  them. are  you  alright?  uncle  mor  …  uncle  mor  …  their  eyes  flutter  open.  “  god's  blood,  aila.  ”  cursing  themself  awake,  because  it  is  a  curse  sometimes  to  be  so.  “  i'm  sorry.  ”  for  everything.  “  you've  caught  me  when  a  kip  tries  to  take  me  under  its  wing.  ”  peering  at  her  determination,  though  their  brow  arches  at  her  slung  accusation,  and  there  was  no  disguising  the  truth  from  one  observant. “  you  saying  i  look  old  and  weathered  as  the  keep's  stones,  girl?  ”  then  they  laugh.  genuine,  if  not  a  bit  tepid.  “  you're  right.  ”  the  book  had  slid  into  their  lap,  and  they  pick  it  up  again  to  shut  it,  placing  it  to  the  stack  upon  the  table.  they've  gone  through  more  than  they  realised,  and  their  voice  does  reflect  how  much  use  it's  gotten.  “  why  do  i  got  to  take  care  of  me  when  you  do  enough,  eh?  …  never  mind,  don't  answer  that.  fine,  i'll  drink  whatever  you've  got  there,  if  it'll  make  you  feel  better.  what's  this  about  helping  now?  ” the  sleep  -  watery  words  she  spilled  in  confession  come  back  to  them  ind  roves,  but  they'll  be  damned  if  they  misheard  what  she  wants  to  ask  them.  there's  already  enough  misheard  in  this  fucking  family;  he  won't  have  her  fall  prey  to  the  same  from  him.

[fromashe]

gwyn always had better humor and sense to keep up appearances when there were watchful eyes about, likely instilled by their lord father. yerin knew how to speak with measured words if a scenario truly called for discretion but the reality was that ironborn callousness still prevailed in her heart of hearts. it was only a matter of holding her tongue before the words made it out. still, the feast had many prying eyes and sharper ears. the ironborn takes a sip of her tea before answering. "i am pleased then that you did not waste your prayers."

there would be too much to speak of, topics that yerin dare not put pen to paper and risk discovery. she is about to ask how gwyn has been when a few of the nobles drunkenly stumble their way. yerin takes it as a sign from the drowned god and flashes gwyn a smile and dips her head once more. "we'll speak soon."

what no one could have expected was how everything unfolded over the next week. sickness striking down many nobles, gwyn's good sibling among them. out of respect, yerin kept her distance and admittedly, the fear of potentially losing yet another son. but none of the ironborn fall ill and a rumor spreads that it may be poison. if true, then there may be an antidote. yerin takes it upon herself to find gwyn, to check on their well-being and seeing if she could bring comfort if not lend actual aid.

[firedreamt]

in  their  rush,  gwyn  forgot  their  spouse's  glasses.  an  odd  thing  to  forget,  when  it  is  his,  but  they  took  them  with  them  to  the  infirmary  due  to  sharing  a  similar  seeing-need.  (  one  of  the  few  things,  so  it  feels,  they  have  in  common.  )  qian  has  no  change  and  sleeps  the  nights  when  he  isn't  thrashing,  and  at  least  this  night  was  one  during  which  no  thrashing  occurred.  nevertheless,  the  glasses  must  be  seized,  and  so  this  drives  them  back  towards  the  ward  at  an  unusual  hour  to  them,  and  back  into  the  corridor  not  soon  after.  that  is  where  they  see  the  lady  harlaw  at  the  opposite  end,  her  face  in  pieces  and  expression  frazzled.  gwyn  glances  behind  to  ensure  she  looks  for  no  salt  nor  ironborn,  then  hurries  to  her. “  no  one  you  know  …  no  one  you  know  is  here,  lady  yerin,  i  don't  …  think.  ”  they've  been  awake  throughout  the  night,  propping  their  face  up  with  their  hand  and  taking  small  naps  in-between.  now  that  the  poison  had  been  confirmed,  and  rumours  of  a  need  for  an  antidote  arisen,  gwyn  no  longer  had  fear  about  catching  whatever  was  spreading.  “  you  can  look  for  yourself,  but  it's  …  ”  and  they  shudder.  their  lips  ghost  over  a  whispered  prayer  without  sound.  “  those  who  have  succumbed  to  it  don't  look  themselves  even  in  peace  and  rest,  for  it  is  not  a  peaceful  way  to  go.  ”  and  those  alive  were  no  better  off.

[bethemouth]

as i walk through the valley of the shadow of death; i take a look at my life and realize there's nothing left.

open starter for everyone! location: the quaratine quarters, cerion is already dead & the antidote was finally administered. tw: sickness, vomit, death mention.

the heat seizes you first. it’s everywhere at once, smothering you under the blankets and burning inside your chest. then the real pain sets in. it's not a sharp prick, no. it's a deep, foul ache burrowed into your flesh and bone, making every limb feel too heavy to lift. a voice echoes from somewhere above, muffled like you're drowning. you can't catch the words. a hand presses against your hot forehead while another yanks your chin up. they force a bitter draft between your teeth. the taste is rank, making your stomach heave. you try to reject it, but fingers lock your jaw in place. swallow. you can't tell whether you obey the voice or if your body has simply lost the will to fight. light and dark trade places. white cloth. the ceiling. a face appears above you, then it’s gone, replaced by another that disappears just as fast. shadows crowd the room, carrying bowls, cloths, and candles. you think someone is praying near the bed. then you think someone is crying. both sounds terrify you. the fever comes in waves. or perhaps it is not a fever at all. you know fevers. you'd seen it take your lady mother. and for a while, brewing elixirs became your fixation, you pestered your maesters, demanded they'd tell you; willow bark, yarrow, peppermint-- perhaps add some macerated elderflower and ginger to the mix. maiden's finger, that blue root from the vale, could quickly heal blood coughs and a bad stomach.

but no, this isn't the sickness that struck the stormlands a few seasons back. you know the difference. this is something much worse, something foul and intentional. the suspicion takes root in your mind and won't let go, even while your thoughts unravel. you try to speak, to say it out loud, but your tongue feels thick and your lips are useless. nothing comes out but a ruined sound. it's infuriating, smothering you from the inside. you're still completely conscious; your thoughts are frantic, hammering against your skull, but there's no outlet left. you are a prisoner in your own body, and you can already feel the walls starting to give way. everything blurs into a haze where time doesn't exist. you find yourself biting down on a thick rag, tasting the metallic sting of blood before you even realize it’s in your mouth. someone has you by the shoulders. a voice keeps hammering away at your name. amaya. amaya. amaya. trying to tether you to the living. it fails. you sink, you surface, you sink again. then, out of the noise, a word breaks through. poison. it echoes in the room: "…certainly poison…" "...not a fever…" "...gods help us…" poison. of course it is. the realization dawns on you all at once. the kingsmoot. someone wanted the throne so badly they struck out blindly at every neck in sight. you want to laugh at their desperation, but another violent cough tears through your chest and you come asunder. then the dark swallows you whole.

the room looks different when you drift back to consciousness. for the first time, you notice the endless row of beds. some figures are moving; others are asleep. your vision blurs the second you turn your neck. through the haze, you spot the unmistakable gold of cerion lannister's hair. then jorah bolton, vaiora redwyne, and hira targaryen. but it’s the next face that makes you lock eyes. the grand maester. oh, no. no, no, no. a weak laugh rattles somewhere inside your chest. "f-fucking…" your throat burns. the rest dissolves into a cough. "…hell." if the grand maester is taking up a sickbed, the court is completely fucked. you close your eyes, the horror finally sinking its claws into you. you succumb to the thought: what happens if i die? the poison is nothing compared to the realization of who will take your place. lyanna and steffon. the two most incompetent creatures you know, presiding over the vale. the thought is so revolting it physically rejects itself from your body; your jaw is forced open by a sudden, hot rush of bile that spills out over the linen. you lie back, tasting the sour ruin of your own choices. you spent years refusing to adopt a proper successor with your wife, draped in the arrogant belief that you had time to spare. you don't. the truth is bitterer than the vomit, harsher, too, than the coil in your stomach and the heat crawling in again. you are growing tired of this. take me. take me.

does the stranger actually claim the faithless, you wonder? where do you go when you die? no way to tell. out of the dark, someone craddles your head and pries gently at your jaw, making way for a liquid to slide into your mouth. your throat moves. more comes, bitter and dark, completely different from the previous medicine. an antidote, perhaps. you do not know and you are too tired to ask. hours or days dissolve, but then comes the light; not the raving fire of the fever, but actual sunlight that makes you wince. you open your eyes, and suddenly the ceiling doesn't move. your throat is pure sand and broken glass, and every muscle is sore, but the pulse in your neck is finally steady. you blink through the glare and see a silhouette lingering by your bed, watching. you look at them for a long time before your hoarse voice breaks the silence. "fuck you're looking at? ...ew."

[firedreamt]

“  so  you  emerge  from  the  seven  hells  at  last.  ”  a  quiet  greeting,  considering  who  speaks  it.  delfina,  not  changed  out  of  the  first  garment  worn  to  what  was  meant  to  be  the  kingsmoot,  fingertips  in  a  tapping  along  the  chair's  arm  but  not  in  impatience.  observing  has  she  the  lady  arryn's  symptoms,  able  to  keep  a  watchful  and  more  logical  eye  on  her  condition  than  be  swept  —  than  be  —  her  breath  hurts.  it  hurts.  she  would  take  the  hurt  of  the  poison  over  the  rest  of  them.  (  why  hadn't  it  happened  to  her?  )  there  was  a  message  being  sent,  thus  strengthened  by  the  …  arrangement  made.  she  suffers  to  call  it  anything  other  than  this,  to  wield  it  power  with  the  sturdiness  of  agreement.  “  much  has  changed,  lady  arryn,  but  i  hope  your  wanting  to  speak  to  me  hasn't,  despite  your  curses.  ”  a  feinting  smile.  the  wan  look  presses  darker  circles  beneath  the  princess's  eyes,  and  the  exhaustion  sets  in.  the  harvest  feast  had  carried  on  for  far  too  long,  their  chance  to  speak  with  one  another  dwindling,  and  then,  in  these  passing  hours,  perhaps  further  still.  and  what  a  shame  that  would  be,  before  delfina  heard  what  she  has  to  say.  what  question  she  wishes  to  pose.  (  by  the  old  gods,  let  it  be  one  i  want  to  answer.  )  “  i  hope  this  means  you'll  no  longer  be  sick.  i'm  tempted  to  tell  you  how  many  times  you  threw  up  since  i  sat  down,  but  some  things  are  better  left  unknown.  ”  it  would  be  information  she  certainly  would  hate  to  hear.  as  she  leans  forwards  in  the  chair,  she  clasps  her  hands  in  her  lap.  tresses  are  unbraided,  undone  from  their  elegant  styles,  brushed  out  and  otherwise  left  to  their  own  devices.  the  spirit  in  her  hair  reflects  the  truth  of  her  mood:  frazzled  and  in  a  rather  unfortunate  limbo  of  uncertainty.  “  nasty  critters  we've  found  ourselves  next  to.  nasty  vermin  with  nasty  thoughts.  ”  slick  as  the  blade  her  brother  once  yielded,  and  never  has  she  felt  closer  to  her  than  when  considering  revenge.  but  she  must  remain  …  logical.  she  must  look  at  this  as  though  from  some  great  and  terrible  distance,  and  understand  that  the  moves  upon  the  board  are  bigger  than  she  ever  will  be.  even  if  echoes  of  civil  dispute  resonate  through  the  servants'  mouths,  and  the  whole  farce  put  on  hold.  for  that  was  what  it  is,  including  her  invitation.

[steelworn]

he  does  not  know  what  he  would  come  to  desire  if  he  had  a  dragon.  he  had  given  it  barely  any  thought  in  his  youth  for  he  knew  that  the  targaryen  family  would  never  let  them  get  close  enough  to  even  attempt,  so  why  dream  of  it  at  all?  though  he  knows  he  would  rather  be  on  his  own  two  feet  with  a  sword  in  his  hand  than  fight  upon  dragon  back  using  them  as  a  weapon.  perhaps  it  is  one  of  the  only  good  qualities  about  him,  caring  for  others  that  can  hardly  care  for  themselves.  the  idea  of  using  a  creature  to  fight  battles  for  him,  to  win  them  without  a  proper  opponent,  feels  so  wrong.  "then  i  fear  for  anyone  when  i  manage  to  get  within  the  dragonpit."  when,  because  as  much  as  he  does  not  wish  for  himself  on  the  throne,  for  any  part  of  his  family  to  do  so,  daemian  knows  they  vie  for  it  and  if  they  do,  then  he  does  as  well.  "i  would  be  sure  to  let  you  take  a  ride  with  me,  for  they  would  fear  two  more  than  one."  and  that  is  all  daemian  has  ever  cared  for,  striking  fear  into  other  people  so  they  know  to  keep  their  distance  from  him.  "well,  princess,  i  say  take  what  you  wish.  he  is  not  here  to  stop  you  and  who  would  truly  notice  if  you  slipped  from  these  halls  to  make  way  for  a  dragon."

it  is  what  he  wished  for  right  now.  not  the  dragon  part,  but  to  be  able  to  slip  away  from  everyone,  to  take  a  sword  to  a  wooden  post  and  finally  feel  like  he  is  alive  again.  not  to  be  stuck  in  a  room  full  of  noblemen  he  has  not  see  in  years,  to  stand  and  make  acquaintance  with  them  when  he  knows  they  do  not  wish  to  return  the  sentiment.  "trust  me,  princess,  for  i  do.  but  when  i  bleed  things  dry,  you  will  know  and  i  will  happily  stand  there  watching  you  die  before  my  very  eyes.  i  will  do  it  with  a  happiness  and  stamp  my  seal  upon  it  afterwards,  so  whoever  is  to  find  out  knows  it  was  me.  i  do  not  wish  to  partake  in  the  back  and  forth  these  people  do,  when  they  cannot  ask  what  they  wish  to  know."  he  has  spent  so  much  time  marking  death  in  essos,  enjoys  it  more  than  anything.  to  have  the  early  years  of  his  life  being  puppeteered  for  him  and  to  be  able  to  take  it  back  by  being  the  one  in  control.  he  misses  it.  watches  the  room  before  him  and  realizes  he  does  not  belong  within  it,  that  within  these  dancing  and  feasting  noblemen  that  he  has  not  belonged  for  many  years.  it  has  him  itching  to  escape.  the  suffocation  of  a  room  filled  with  those  he  does  not  wish  to  know  is  beginning  to  grasp  at  his  throat  and  squeeze.

"i  am  the  last  one  to  shame  another  for  being  callous  and  cruel,  princess." he  is  beginning  to  see  what  his  future  will  behold  already.  (a  betrothal  he  has  not  wanted,  the  thought  of  children  and  continuing  a  legacy,  one  that  is  hoped  to  sit  the  iron  throne.)  "then  it  is  hoped  you  are  ready  to  prove  yourself,  that  is  what  this  realm  needs."  something,  though  unknown  to  most  people,  is  something  he  had  tried  to  do  himself.  the  smallfolk  and  merchants  being  people  who  he  has  done  more  for  than  any  nobleman.  it  makes  him  think  of  the  sweet  lady  that  he  was  missing  tonight,  though  it  poses  as  a  way  to  leave  the  hall  as  he  as  so  wanted  to  all  evening.  "through  actions,  i  have  not  been  known  to  keep  silent  and  perhaps  this  is  something  you  shall  learn  of  me  in  our  coming  time  together."  he  gives  her  a  pleasant  smile,  one  that  is  an  ode  to  the  future  that  will  befall  them  as  this  kingsmoot  continues.  "though,  i  must  part  you  for  now,  princess,  there  is  someone  i  do  wish  to  see."  he  gives  her  a  deep  bow,  before  he  is  taking  his  steps  away  from  her,  only  to  announce  —  something  that  turns  near  them  heads  —  "but  do  not  be  a  stranger!"

END.

[rottedhearts]

candlelight  flickers,  casting  shadows  larger  than  those  ever  created  in  heart's  home.  DEXIAN  CORBRAY  sits  at  the  desk  within  the  rooms  given  for  the  corbray  couple,  absently  massaging  knee  to  nub  as  he  readers  over  his  letter,  not  yet  realizing  GWYNETH  CORBRAY  has  entered. // @firedreamt

once,  twice,  thrice  dexian  reads  over  what  amounts  to  a  collection  of  notes,  observations  of  the  week,  and  a  summary  of  the  hightower's  arrival.  stripped  to  essentials,  reading  dry  and  simple  ---  which  for  the  recipient,  is  more  than  enough.

by  chance,  he  lifts  his  head  to  see  his  spouse  lingering  like  a  ghost.  how  many  times  has  he  witnessed  this  very  image:  distant  gaze,  folded  hands,  how  they  swallow  their  thoughts.  the  physical  embodiment  of  the  sword  that  rests  beside  him.

the  sight  no  longer  unsettles  him.

dipping  the  quill  into  the  inkwell,  he  asks,  "how  is  qian?"

[firedreamt]

their  hands  move.  not  much  else  but  their  hands,  set  to  needlework  as  though  they  have  long  since  grown  old  and  grey.  finishing  out  the  woven  patterns  for  the  shawl  saved  for  the  kingsmoot,  no  time  to  put  to  the  embroidered  fish  until  now.  until  the  whole  keep  was  forced  into  quarantine,  and  one  of  their  own  in  the  nauseating  fever  of  the  poisonous  retching.  at  the  question,  their  hands  still.  “  his  fever  broke  last  night,  my  liege.  ”  then  resume.  the  point  into  the  blue,  drawing  it  out  of  the  fish's  rib.  “  the  maesters  say  he  will  recover.  why  haven't  you  been  to  see  him  yourself?  ” now  their  eyes  flash.  towards  the  notes  stretched  out,  towards  the  blade  kept  close.  closer  than  they  were  ever  to  be,  qian's  frame  warmed  instead  by  the  cold  of  steel  and  duty.  you  would  think  that  makes  them  a  match  from  the  gods.  “  what  plagues  you?  ”  the  play  on  words  purposeful,  and  pointed  like  the  swiftness  of  the  needle.  it  errs  closer  to  their  thumb,  vacant  of  a  thimble,  but  they  stare  not  at  the  work.