to endure beyond the endurable

[furicdheart]

furicdheart — for while the night is long and full of terrors, the hearts within still beat with fury. a tale as written by greenie for darkwindshq, please do not interact if not affiliated.

ARGELLA FELL, THE ARCHER — intro. threads. pinterest. IRESHI STARK, THE BLOOD WIDOW — intro. threads. pinterest.

[maidavika]

MAI DAVIKA FOR BVLGARI

[bethemouth]

open starter! where: at the feast, during the storm.

the mathematics of a highborn feast are incredibly delicate, especially when the hosts are bleeding gold to buy the room's goodwill. the rykkers have undoubtedly spent agonizing days arranging the long wooden tables in the belly of the dun fort, balancing rivalries and fresh griefs like a man walking a tightrope. the ruling lords, those who have bent the knee and sworn their swords to the boy king, are seated in places of honor close to the royal dais. this, by the rigid laws of court hierarchy, includes the man who currently calls himself the lord of the tides. for lady aelina, this separation is a profound, secret mercy. relegated to one of the lower tables amidst the sprawling sea of lesser nobility, she is granted a physical reprieve from the suffocating proximity of her new husband. she does not have to endure his ambient body heat, the wine-laced scent of his breath, or the paralyzing possibility of his hand settling on her thigh beneath the linen tablecloth. the storm outside is howling, a dark and violent entity rattling the high windows of the fort, but here, swallowed by the crowd, she is safe, she can breathe.

the lady settles into her assigned chair, ensuring saera and daeron are comfortable on the bench beside her, their small frames acting as a grounding weight in the shifting anxiety of the hall. the air is thick with the smell nervous sweat and the extravagant, savory aroma of roasted meat. she reaches for her silver goblet, the aged dornish wine catching the hearth-light like dark blood. turning her gaze to the noble seated to her right, she offers a perfectly calibrated, polite smile that doesn't quite reach the heavy exhaustion in her eyes. "house rykker is nothing if not generous tonight," she murmurs, hoping her words are carried to her immediate neighbors over the ceaseless roar of the rain. she nods elegantly toward the massive platters being hauled from the kitchens, but noticed the person sitting beside her, glaring at the windows instead. "forgive me… but you seem to be listening more to the storm than to the music. does it trouble you?"

[furicdheart]

Ireshi had been offered a seat among the ruling lords of Westeros, though she saw it for the consolation prize it was. Look at how the crown dotes on the childless widow! Aren't they just so benevolent? She could scream from the pitying looks that every last man, woman, and child had given her. She could choke on the condolences that had been mercilessly shoved down her throat. And now, there are boys playing at men, terrified of one little storm. It was almost enough to make the Stark widow abandon the feast altogether to return to her rooms.

She sits at one of the lower tables, an almost dare for someone, anyone, to say something. Everyone seemed on edge at the announcement, a hum hanging in the air like an overripe fruit. It was enough to make Ireshi wish it were real, so that she could sink her teeth into its flesh and taste the juice as it floods her mouth. For now, she takes a large gulp of her wine before stabbing her fork into the meat, knife cutting with a frenzied precision. When she is addressed, she turns to face the lady, lips spreading into a twisted smile. "Yes, which is to be expected. Duskendale stands to gain a lot with the loss of King's Landing." More than just a boom in commerce, clearly. Ireshi bites into the meat, savoring the taste, how it so easily is chewed down to nothing. It is only after she swallows that she speaks again. "The storm, at least, could be considered as having more intelligent things to say. It's a sad day when grown men act like terrified boys, afraid to get wet."

[qelitsun]

Cyrenna had taken to the balconies as hour after hour of rain kept what seemed like half the realm trapped inside with them. As had grown most ordinary, sleep would not find her. She wandered, feeling wraithlike as she wandered the unquiet halls, when a lone voice drew her attention. Cyrenna neared Lady Fell with a muted smile, looking out at the rain. "It must be a familiar story in the Stormlands," she said companionably, looking out at the rain pouring over the rooftops. The maesters and guards had been quite clear not to step into it, and yet... She had never known a storm that did not leave the world feeling cleaner than before it began. Unlike flame. She shook her head, and looked at Lady Fell once more. “I loved to be outside just after the rain was at end, when everything still smelled damp and my feet would dig into the mud. My septa despaired of me for it. Though she never called me Jenny of Oldstones, only a... grimy bogswoman, or a Rainwood urchin.”

[furicdheart]

Argella almost laughs when the queen mother approaches. At the story, at the storm; at the very thought that the queen was now the queen mother. She nips the impulse in the bud, letting it die in her lungs; instead it leaves her lips as a sigh. Argella retracted her hand, turning to face Cyrenna. "It was my mother's favorite tale." She sometimes wondered if her mother had ever envied Jenny of Oldstones. A woman so bewitching, even a prince would cast aside his birthright to be with her. "My septa always despaired when I came in soaking wet. Called me "worse than a Flea Bottom street rat." Though she never meant an actual rat, she meant an orphan." A beat passes, and her thoughts turn, as they had since the storm began, to home. "I wonder if the storm will make its way to the Stormlands. It'll make spotting bandits harder."

[furicdheart]

a girl in the shape of a 𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗 a monster in the shape of a 𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵

LADY IRESHI STARK of WINTERFELL attends the season within the capital! before the court, they are CONFIDENT and DUTIFUL. but every man has his shadows, and when darkness descends, they are MALICIOUS and SCHEMING. another face appears in duskendale, reminiscent of enemy bloodlines bound as one, love beading like drops of blood, grief and anger mixed, your roots are calling for you, but what can they possibly hope to achieve in the aftermath of the flames? to find the ones responsible for the deaths of her husband and children and remind them what her maiden house is famous for. gods protect them from these dark winds.

i. statistics

full name: ireshi stark nee bolton. nicknames: none. titles: formerly lady of winterfell, lady bolton. age: thirty two. date of birth: 11th day of the 11th moon ( november 11 ). place of birth: the dreadfort, the north, westeros. gender: cis woman. pronouns: she/her. sexual orientation: bisexual. affiliations: house bolton, house stark.

faceclaim: davika hoorne. hair color: black. hair style: worn up in a bun with a pin or down in loose waves. eye color: dark grey, almost black in appearance. height: 5'9". body modifications: ears pierced. clothing style: often favors neutral tones or a deep red, somewhat form-fitting. signature scent: lavender and vanilla - floral and warm.

positive traits: confident, dutiful, meticulous. negative traits: malicious, scheming, argumentative. zodiac sign: scorpio. moral alignment: chaotic evil.

mother: lady bolton ✞︎. father: lord bolton ✞︎. siblings: liege bolton, liege bolton nee utp, liege bolton, liege bolton. significant other: lord torrhen stark ✞︎. issue: lady intira stark ✞︎, lord eddard stark ✞︎. others: lady annaya stark, lord edric stark, liege stark, lady wylla stark. pets: none.

ii. background ( tw for death, death of a spouse, child death, thoughts of violence against animals )

Your house is an ancient one, one with a long and bloody history. You are a daughter of Red Kings, though the title is more legend than fact at present. Born in the dead of night during a harsh winter, your screams are not the only to echo in the Dreadfort, but they are the most important. There is the heir, and now there is the spare.

A daughter, a bargaining chip, a blade to be sharpened so that it would be useful. And you are sharpened, as every child must be, as a child of House Bolton must be. Your education is thorough, both on battlefield and off. You are taught governance, history, politics, as well as the sword, axe, and bow. You are taught to sing, dance, and needlework, as well as battle strategy. You are taught in an art that is outwardly forbidden, but very much still practiced.

You are an exemplary daughter, a terror wrapped in fine clothing, smiles always too wide, pearly white teeth too sharp. Is it any wonder that the wolves of House Stark would keep too close an eye on yours? Perhaps, but perhaps not. The descendants of the Kings in the North and the descendants of the Red Kings had long been enemies, even when they became allies. But what happened next was a moment in history.

You are betrothed to Torrhen Stark. With any other house, this would not be shocking, as House Stark has had marriages between itself and its vassal houses before. But not House Bolton, never House Bolton. What was going though your father's head when Lord Stark discussed this arrangement, you will never know. You do not ask, for you are too busy seething. Of all the Stark siblings, the eldest had perhaps been the one to grate on your nerves the most.

The arguments that sprung up between the two of you could draw blood, were you fighting with more than words. Yet it was not enough to cause either of you to call for an end of the betrothal; in fact, you often joined forces with him should either of your lord fathers bring it up in discussion. Ancient blood called to ancient blood, in a dance that only the two of you understood. Your wedding night is a brawl, and every night after. You do not want love, cannot fathom the idea of it. But you bleed and in the drops that fall is that elusive emotion that drives men mad.

It is a sorrowful day when your husband becomes Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. It is a momentous day when some weeks later, you announce your pregnancy. Your daughter is born first; she who is two ancient bloodlines once enemies now bound as one, heir to Winterfell. She is both strong and sweet, all of the good in her parents and none of the bad. Her brother follows two years later, a clone of his father. You love them fiercely, your pups. You ensure the best education for them both, for the day that they accompany their father to King's Landing.

In retrospect, you wish that you had forbid it. Had used your temper to keep your babes near, with you where they would be safe. But Intira had been traveling with her father to King's Landing for part of the year since her sixth nameday, and you had already agreed to keep Eddard back a year. It should have been fine, it was supposed to be fine. But the gods, ever cruel, take away your sun and your world. You want to wring the neck of the raven that carries the letter, but you don't. You hand the letter over to your nearest good-sibling and flee to your chambers.

Your grief is raw and biting. You are a widow, and you are a mother with no children. You have nothing to remember your husband by, and the very sight of your children's belongings sends you into a horrid spiral. And in all that, you are forced to take charge. Your good-sister proves weak in your eyes, refusing her birthright at every turn. Your grief turns to anger, and in that anger you find purpose. You are a Stark by marriage, but your blood is Bolton blood. And you would turn to your maiden House's ancient practice to get the answers for why your universe has been taken from you, no matter the cost.

iii. connections

lord torrhen stark: ireshi's late husband, and the father of her deceased children. lady annaya stark: ireshi's good sister, and the rightful liege of winterfell and warden of the north. lord edric stark: ireshi's good brother and annaya's twin. liege stark: ireshi's good sibling. lady wylla stark: ireshi's good sister, the youngest of the stark clan.

more to be added...

[brxndished]

Aren had taken what sleep he could immediately after the evening meal. The moment it became clear the fort would be over-encumbered with the great houses of Westeros, he knew the night would offer little rest. He'd heard no word of who had set the fire, and if a man meant to wound the king’s house further, what better opportunity than a gathering such as this?

So he rose again once the corridors had quieted, choosing to walk them himself with only his most trusted guards at his back. It ruffled some ornately white feathers, certainly, but Aren had never been overly concerned with feathers. They rarely withstood the rain.

He noticed the new Lady Fell before she seemed to notice him, her silhouette framed by torchlight and rain-streaked stone. He adjusted his stride, letting his boots strike the floor with enough weight to announce his presence rather than startle her.

“A true child of the Stormlands,” he said, a sad smile touching his mouth as he nodded his head politely in familiar greeting, then settled one shoulder against the wall beside her. “An early sign of a promising leader, in my experience.”

Silence followed, thick and companionable, filled by the steady drum of rain. After a moment, his voice lowered.

“My condolences for the loss of your mother, Argella. She was a great lady. It grieved me deeply to learn of her passing.”

[furicdheart]

She notes the heavy footsteps, head turning in the direction they came from. Argella allowed a smile to cross her lips at the sight of Aren. House Baratheon had made it a point to be on good terms with their vassals, and Argella had always looked forward to their visits. Aren, at least, she was the most familiar with out of his siblings. "I should hope so, otherwise the seven have an odd sense of humor." Odder than they already did, at least.

Her smile, however, quickly falls at the mention of her mother. "Thank you, Aren. It was a hard day." She retracts her hand from the rain, allowing it to fall limply to her side. "I can only hope to live up to her expectations." Which would have been easier done if current times had not been as they are. "I will need to pass along my condolences to your sister, as well. It is a horrible thing that has happened to Her Grace." Another beat passes, and she turns to face Aren fully. "Tell me, have you visited the Kingswood as of late? I will be petitioning the crown before we all take our leave of Duskendale, for aid for my fellow houses and mine surrounding it. I barely had enough guards to spare for an escort."

[woundedstatue]

open starter | day 1, during the feast, sometime after the guards have let it known of the storm

shit we are stuck here, its the first thought that crosses his mind. he was mentally preparing for a departure after the announcement of the new council but it seem the gods had decided against it. when new of the storm broke, he wondered if he could withstand it. the North had its weather and he lived through many winters but it seemed this was different to that. distracted but not wanting to let his thoughts wander onto unwanted territory edric turns to the person he was sitting near to with his goblet in hand. "how long until someone here decides to be a fool and try to leave while this storm is going on?"

[furicdheart]

"Why lord Stark, it almost sounds like you are volunteering to be that fool." Argella couldn't help but tease the Northern lord, taking a sip from her own goblet. She knew that many would quake in their boots like the guards had, wet behind the ears when it comes to extreme weather; the Reachmen and westermen being the foremost examples. "Though, in truth, I suspect it might be one of the Ironborn that make the attempt. They're no strangers to storms such as this."

[furicdheart]

where: a balcony on the dun fort when: the hour of ghosts, as day one bleeds into day two for: open!

The air is as heavy as the raindrops that fall, and yet Argella still stands with the door to the balcony open. Most were asleep, either in warm beds or makeshift pallets on the floor. And yet, she could not sleep, mind refusing to rest. So, she had stalked the halls, now at the most bare they had been since the feast had both begun and ended. She reached out a hand into the rain, allowing the falling water to pound against the delicate bone within. She sighed, then, an almost wistful thing. "Strange, the things that make you miss home." Argella speaks to the silence, staring in fascination at her now drenched hand, at the rivulets of water that snake down to her elbow. "My mother used to always speak of how she could barely keep me indoors when a storm came to Felwood. I loved nothing more than running and dancing in the rain, as if I were Jenny of Oldstones."

[masqueing]

where: next to a glass window in a hall in the dun fort when: a few hours after the feast has ended and the storm has become known with: open!

Sybelle had told herself she would not look, but she cannot help it. The pitter patter of the rain against the windows of the dun fort is almost deafening for the foreboding feelings it carries. The darkness swallows as port town outside, though the torches lining the walls behind her provide an eerie glow to thousands, tens of thousands of raindrops making beelines for the ground. She looks on, countenance forlorn, lips drooping into the frown she has been trying to move past for the last week. "My tent stands no chance out there." She says, to herself more than anything, as one finger swipes across the glass pane, a chill apparent across her shoulders and running down her spine at its cool feel. The finger pulls back to trace the pendant lying across her neck, a seven pointed star fashioned for her long, long ago. "Brave warrior, give Robb and Ilyn the strength to reach shelter, and to protect Holly in their endeavor. She is but a small handmaid. And they can be bumbling fools."

[furicdheart]

Storms such as this were all too familiar to Argella. Were it not for the location, she could almost be convinced this was but another day in the Stormlands. The heavy rainfall does little to startle her as it does her fellow nobles from more gentle kingdoms. The cramped halls of the Dun Fort were filled with titters of varying hues. She could almost swear half the Reach had never seen a drop of rain a day in their lives, the way most of them carried on. It was as she was making her way through those very same halls that she heard the lady's worries. Argella almost didn't stop, but something compelled her to stay, to speak. "If the men you speak of are bumbling fools, then it would have been wiser to keep your handmaid close to you." She stepped closer to the lady, keeping flush to the wall to make some small room for passersby. "With any luck, there might be a manse or two nearby that has the room, what with all us nobility tucked into the Dun Fort."

[qelitsun]

Hugo had enough experience with knights well more noble than he taking offence to loss; to ladies unhappy they had not been named queens of love and beauty; to lords embittered by the coin they had lost betting here or there. But he was more familiar with hedge knights whose claims came nowhere near their deeds, who would not serve for honour nor justice if there was not enough coin for them in it, and a great deal worse. He started to say so, then changed his mind; speaking of all the hedge knights he knew would do little. "They've fed us well thus far," he said instead. "But I take your meaning. I suppose I shall have to think thrice before I ever make plans to host all the realm. It sounds quite a task." 

Oh, he'd done it, put his foot in his mouth again. He needed to be careful what he said: everywhere he turned, there was someone who had died only a moon ago, and everything he said accidentally reminded their kin of the loss. At least Lady Fell wasn't crying. "I'll—be certain to remember, my lady, and visit when I can. But I'm very sorry," Hugo said, rubbing the back of his head. “Gods keep your mother well. Was she—that is... in the fire?”

[furicdheart]

Lord Arryn's words elicited the smallest chuckle from Argella, humorless though it was. Were she in his shoes, she'd likely think more than thrice about hosting all the realm. She had heard that Liege Arryn and his lady wife had found a new heir, and she wondered for a moment if Ser Hugo was this new heir. Gods be good to him, she thought, for court life will not be. She could sense the bit of greenness to him, someone who'd only explored the shallows now being tossed into the depths. "That they have. And that it is. Especially when keeping up with the feuds that pop up between houses great and lesser because someone sneezed the wrong way."

She shook her head, though she appreciated the asking in some small way. "No, my house was spared in losses from the fire. My mother died two years ago. A lingering illness she never managed to shake." Not that she didn't fight. Argella's mother had been of a determined sort, and the maester at Felwood had thought that a good sign. But for all the fight and all the poultices, Argella had still been woken by the servants and her step-father with news that she was the new Liege Fell. "You have my condolences as well, my lord. House Arryn has suffered many losses to the flames."

[ade-kane]

[bethemouth]

status: closed to lady argella fell. @furicdheart location: the sept in duskendale, late into the vigil.

the vigil has thinned. the weeping crowds have dispersed to their beds or their wine cups, leaving the makeshift sept to the silence of the stones and the few souls unable to sleep. aelina lingers, not out of piety, but because the rented manse feels too empty and the silence there is too loud; better to sit in the dim warmth of the sanctuary than to drown in the cold quiet of a house that is not a home. she watches the candles gutter in their iron stands, hundreds of tiny, captive stars fighting the draft that whistles through the cracks of the old sanctuaty, her gaze eventually drifting to a figure near the front: lady argella fell. the ruling lady of felwood stands with head bowed, seemingly oblivious to how the wind is teasing the flames dangerously close to her.

a sudden gust sweeps through the nave, cold and biting, catching the edge of argella’s long veil and fluttering the delicate fabric toward the hungry tongue of a tall votive. aelina moves before she thinks. she crosses the stone floor in three swift strides, the silk of her skirts snapping with the speed of her movement as her hand shoots out, catching the veil and pulling it back sharply, mere inches from the wick. "careful, my lady," aelina breathes, the words sharp in the quiet hall, her grip firm on the fabric as she pulls the younger woman a step back, putting a safe distance between the living and the burning. her eyes, wide and dark in the gloom, meet argella’s with a terrifying intensity. "the stranger has been greedy enough this season. let us not offer him more kindling by accident."

[furicdheart]

There is little warmth to be gleaned from the hundreds of candles lighting the makeshift sept. Argella knows that the practical reason is that there is no great fireplace to keep the room warm, just the candles; but a small part of her wonders if it is because this is no true place for gods and ghosts to walk. It had been two years since her mother passed, and yet sometimes Argella felt her lady mother's presence in the Sept of Baelor. Or, well, had felt her presence. Perhaps the loss of King's Landing was a sign that what she felt was nothing more than human fallacy at play, a fancy that helped no one and nothing.

Her wonderings are paused when she hears footsteps approach and a hand roughly snatches at her veil. She scarce has time to make a sound of protest as she's firmly pulled from the candles. Her head snaps in disbelief towards the intruder, dark brown eyes only relaxing from their widened state at the sight of Lady Aelina Velaryon. "My thanks, my lady." Is all she can utter for a moment, looking back towards the little flames that flickered in the wind before calming. "The Stranger has been greedy, in that we are agreed." Though the present moment felt more like the eye of the storm, not the end of one.

[qelitsun]

As the Arryn party had descended the Vale and made their way to Duskendale, Hugo had seen the arriving encampments: the tents already struck beyond the town's walls, the roads packed with horse and mule and ox pulling carts from all over the Riverlands, the Crownlands, and the Vale. He was rather embarrassed to say he had not once thought that would all be a *cost* to House Rykker, save for whatever feasts they held. He had heard a few lords complaining idly about the crowd, though Hugo had had nothing to complain about thus far, with chambers in the Dun Fort, stable room for his horse even if it was tightly packed, and food aplenty. To think, he would have thought it was at the Arryns' cost if not for the lady!

"But it must be quite an honour, to host all the realm's nobles in their own home. How many others can boast of such a thing? Though I am certain for its value it cannot have been no easy task either... I have been quite careless to complain about the stale air, when they went to such trouble, and indeed I'm quite grateful for all they've done—though, truly, I was only hot from nerves!" He bowed again, then remembered that he had just offered a courtesy, and straightened. "No, certainly, it was my failing first! Ser Hugo of House Arryn, Lady Argella. An honour! I once rode through Felwood, though it was many years ago."

[furicdheart]

"Honor so long as those nobles are fed and entertained, which is no easy feat. We nobles can be a rather vain lot." Some more than others, though Argella does not mention that. She could only imagine how many noble houses felt slighted at the current conditions of Duskendale. For all the current faults, the old port city was holding up rather tremendously. In that, she could not fault neither House Rykker nor the crown. And yet, Argella could not fight off the sting of envy. Would that her own keep and lands were doing so well in the wake of such abhorrent loss.

She simply gave a nod of her head at his bow, noting the awkwardness but not speaking on it. "A pleasure to meet you, Ser Hugo." She knew, if only idly, that House Arryn was one of the many houses so affected by the flames that had swallowed King's Landing. Thus, Argella couldn't help but wonder if the man before her would now be serving as Lord and Lady Arryn's heir. At his mention of Felwood, she smiled softly. "Then I would be remiss to not extend an invitation to visit Felwood once more. You would have rode through when my lady mother was the ruling liege. Gods be good, it should not be much changed."

[sixfleet]

        somewhere on the grounds, after all the pomp and circumstance.         open to all

his shoulders sag like rotted wooden poles holding up the weight of his snowy white cloak. it is unbecoming of a kingsguard—no, the lord commander of the kingsguard—to be out and about with a bent spine. but it’s inevitable, what with all this gravity and reality and duty. he figures it’s fine. night is here and no one’s nearby, not in this corner of the sprawling garden, behind these bushes, far from any eyes. he takes a break. his first breath of the day. pinches his nose, rubs his eyes. he’s meant to rest, see his chambers for the first time since swinging down from his horse at the dun fort’s front steps, but his head is splitting beneath his intricate white enameled helm.

everyone packed like sardines for miles, it was stupid or arrogant or optimistic to think he’d found the one empty place in all of duskendale. he lifts the helm free—cool air to his temples like a lover’s kiss. jael exhales and leans back, letting the stone wall take all the ache. hunk of head-shaped metal resting on his knee. the heavy wind a soft whisper between silver-streaked strands of overgrown black hair brushing his shoulders… his eyes pry open. lips curling, thin as moonlight.

“not much for crowds?”

[furicdheart]

Cool night air enveloped Argella as she stepped out of the pavillion for House Fell. Within, her family and their meager guard - the only knights that could be spared from Felwood - supped and chatted, each more anxious than the last. Argella had found herself unable to be around them, unable to pretend at cheer for even a moment. She had lost no one in the great fire, and yet the air of Duskendale hung heavy with ghosts. It was enough to choke the life from her as she walked through the gardens, invisible eyes watching her every step.

It is with a sigh that she stops at the one quiet spot in the gardens, or at least, quiet enough. She recognizes the white cloak of the kingsguard, but does not dare to break the silence. The very notion of quiet had become an unheard of novelty, a treasure to be hoarded. So when the kingsguard speaks, she startles the slightest bit. "I fear this entire event has soured me from crowds." And Argella truly meant that. It would be many moons before she was willing to be submersed in a crowd to this degree again. "And you, ser? What brings you away from the crush?"

[qelitsun]

where: in the courtyard at the dun fort, at the coronation who: open to all! (0/3)

Oaths of fealty to the king were the highest oaths any knight—lord—might make, and Hugo had never thought he would be making them. He hadn't dreamt of the White Cloak, that illustrious symbol of ultimate honour and unrivalled skill, in years, not since his mother had first despaired so openly at the ambition that he had dropped it entirely, and so he had never thought that unless there was some sort of catastrophic war that needed every knight of the Seven Kingdoms to rally together, Hugo would have occasion to swear his oaths to the king. How wrong he had been!

Lord Arryn had asked that he offer his own oaths, as the heir to the Vale right after his own oaths. Hugo had not stumbled—more than once—but he did not think it mattered terribly as the king was about seven and trying his damnedest not to yawn. But just because the king was but a child hardly meant *his* oath was less true! It was near unimaginable—him! If his mother could see him now... Rather lucky, all told, he did not attempt a White Cloak after all.

He turned on the spot at the sound of footsteps approaching, exiting the great hall, and dipped into a bow for the newcomer. "Needed some fresh air?" he asked. "Me as well. I didn't think I would be nervous—but it's quite something, isn't it, standing in front of everybody and swearing your loyalty? Haven't felt so tense since the day I was knighted."

[furicdheart]

Argella had already sworn oaths to a king once, two years ago. The king was different now, only a boy of eight, but the words spoken remained the same. It was a dance, one whose steps she should have been dancing so soon. Donned in the black and green of House Fell, the only other adornment she wore was a pair of dangling earrings, a beloved heirloom passed down to her from her lady grandmother.

The galleries of Duskendale were suffocatingly cramped with bodies, that Argella felt it a wonder that the doors hadn't fallen off their hinges; and wonder further that there was even any space in front of the boy king for lieges and their representatives to kneel and make their oaths of obeisance. She had to question what the ruling family was thinking, electing Duskendale for such a grand meeting. In days past, when great councils such as this were called, the crown had elected to host it at Harrenhall, for even in its destroyed state, that horrid keep was fully capable of hosting the entirety of Westerosi nobility.

Such questions had to wait, as Argella stepped out of the galleries and into the light of day. She had scarce taken a breath of needed fresh air when a voice addresses her, and she turns to watch as the lord before her dips into a bow. She curtsies in turn before saying, "Yes, the air within the great hall is rather stale." A polite smile appears on full lips. "If only for how little room there is, my lord. I can only imagine the state that Duskendale shall be left in when we all depart. I do not envy House Rykker, their coffers must be a mess from how much preparation would be needed to host all the houses." A beat passes before she thinks to make introductions. "My apologies, my lord, I forget myself. I am Lady Argella Fell of Felwood."

[luthienne]

I kept on with clenched teeth, I said to myself: it will end.

Elena Ferrante, from The Story of a New Name (translated from the Italian by Ann Goldstein)

[furicdheart]

her heart was a 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 her soul all the 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖉 things which dwelt between 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓻𝓮𝓮𝓼

LADY ARGELLA FELL of FELWOOD attends the season within the capital! before the court, they are ADVENTEROUS and CONFIDENT. but every man has his shadows, and when darkness descends, they are OPINIONATED and STUBBORN. another face appears in duskendale, reminiscent of the mantle of responsibility that arrives too soon for liking, the keen eye of the archer, a will as hardened as steel, but what can they possibly hope to achieve in the aftermath of the flames? protecting her family and bringing the crown's attention to the fires and attacks in the kingswood. gods protect them from these dark winds.

i. statistics

full name: argella fell. nicknames: none. titles: ruling lady of felwood. age: twenty eight. date of birth: 28th day of the fourth moon ( april 28th ). place of birth: felwood, the stormlands, westeros. gender: cis woman. pronouns: she/her. sexual orientation: heterosexual. affiliations: house baratheon, house targaryen.

faceclaim: adelaide kane. hair color: dark brown. hair style: half-up dos or braids, sometimes decorated with simple ornaments. eye color: brown. height: 5'4". body modifications: ears pierced. clothing style: patterned fabrics, form-fitting on top with either full or flowing skirts. signature scent: pine and rose - woody and sweet.

positive traits: adventerous, confident, empathetic. negative traits: opinionated, stubborn, critical. zodiac sign: taurus. moral alignment: lawful neutral.

mother: lady fell ✞︎. father: lord fell nee tbd ✞︎. siblings: liege utp fell, tbd. significant other: betrothed to liege tbd. others: lord utp fell nee utp (step father), liege utp fell (sibling to late lady). pets: none.

ii. background

You are born, as all babes are, kicking and screaming. From the moment you enter the world, you rarely keep still - going from crawling to running before the thought of walking enters your mind. When you are not attending lessons on matters important for an heir to learn - court politics and etiquette, managing a household - you are within the surrounding woods, exploring every nook and cranny. Felwood is your home, and you will know every inch of it.

When you are six years old, you begin attending court properly with your mother. You are unafraid to join in debates, both real and imagined, and the septa rules you as a "rather spirited girl," a polite way of stating you are stubborn. If the lords and ladies of the court are offended, they do not show it, for you are a child, and still learning. In fact, some even indulge in your opinionated nature, your mother among them. Some lieges, she says, would rather hear false platitudes than a needed truth.

As you grow older, you better learn to curb your tongue. The loss of your father deals a heavy blow. You turn to archery, using your grief as fuel to ensure your arrows strike true. Your mother remarries, a decision you don't fully support but understand the necessity behind. Your lessons as heir to Felwood intensify, with more responsibility placed in your hands. Eventually, you are being sent in place of your mother to King's Landing for six months out of the year.

It is while you are there that a raven reaches you, its wings as black as the words written in the letter. Your mother has died, her soul now with the Seven. You depart for Felwood immediately, to arrange the funerary rites and her internment in the crypts of House Fell. You are now the ruling lady of Felwood, and you hate how the title has passed to you, despite the inevitability. The duties of running a household are not just yours in practice, they are now yours by law. You return to King's Landing to make your oaths of obeisance to your overlords in House Baratheon, and to the ruling family of House Targaryen.

You had not yet departed for King's Landing when word reached you of the unnatural green flames that had consumed the capital. In the week that followed, fires near your home began to crop up. When the fires were put out, bandits moved in. Even when the smoldering flames of King's Landing where little more than dying embers, fires persisted within the Kingswood, and every other day brought on more bandit attacks. You become curt with any that enter Felwood, from sheer stress alone.

During that month, you reach out to a variety of different houses to make a betrothal for yourself ( see wc on main ), to combine strength to strength. When one is finally brokered, she begins sending letters to her betrothed, to foster a civil relationship. Plans to meet are arranged, and then changed when the letter from the maester of Duskendale arrives. Now, your plan is twofold; to bring the crown and small council's attention to the horrors befalling the houses surrounding the Kingswood, and to meet with your betrothed face to face. If either will fare smoothly is in the hands of the Seven.

iii. connections

liege utp fell: argella's current heir and full-blooded sibling. lord utp fell nee utp: argella's step-father, the second husband of the late lady fell. liege utp fell: argella's maternal relation.

more to be added