LIFE'S POETRY

GAEL HIGHTOWER LORD OF THE HIGHTOWER & OLDTOWN "There's an art to life's distractions; to somehow escape the burn weight. The art of scraping through." ( mobile navigation )

[gael-hightower]

♛ → THE REACH presents GAEL HIGHTOWER, LORD OF THE HIGHTOWER & OLDTOWN. when the dragons danced in the sky he thought the GREENS would still fly, but in the blink of an eye, they would all die. The TWENTY-EIGHT year old MALE who was ARTISTIC & PERSEVERING before he saw the first of the flames, is now RESENTFUL & SECRETIVE after seeing the last. He's often associated with melodic stanzas echoed throughout the realm, the rotten dynamics of a distant family, and the acts of war committed in his family's name. ( Damian Hardung )

I. BASICS:

FULL NAME: Gael Hightower

DATE OF BIRTH: September 2nd, 116 AC (Twenty-eight years old)

HOMELAND: The Reach

STATUS: Lord and warden of Oldtown, Master of Arts

RELIGION: Faith of the Seven

GENDER IDENTITY: Cisgender male

LANGUAGE: The Common tongue

MARITAL STATUS: Married to Lady Talia Tarly

BIOGRAPHY:

117 AC: Gael was born as the third trueborn son of Lord Gilbert Hightower, but the fourth child altogether, considering the Hightower lord sired a bastard daughter some years prior (Florence, who was eventually legitimized a Hightower and became King Cedric's first wife until her betrayal and following execution).

117 AC - 113 AC: With some years between him and his older brothers, Gael never had a chance to become too close to them. In his firstborn, Gilbert Hightower had his heir and a son set for knighthood, and in his second son a child bound for the sept, with Gael being a spare in every sense of the word.

From childhood, Gael found an affinity with the arts. He was particularly drawn to writing and sculpture, beginning to try his hand at both despite the disapproving frown of his father. Initially, he endeavored to practice those crafts secretly, but in his teenage years, he found a brazen nature in the act of creating art. It became both an exploration of his thoughts and emotions as well as a way to challenge his lord father and his eldest brothers' attitudes.

129 AC - 133 AC: When the Dance of the Dragons started, Gael was only a boy of twelve and didn't play any role in the war, remaining in Oldtown. His brother Garland was the one to lead the Hightower forces for a few years until that eventual accident which left him crippled. During those initial years of the war, Gael had begun publishing some sonnets under a pseudonym (Hadrian Dunn), enabling their distribution to both nobles and literate common folk. In those poems, he explored his own emotional vulnerability while making clever use of historical and religious symbols in the works, every now and then wielding his pen to criticize the ongoing war. He was still rather young, so it wasn't suspected that Gael was the author. That was until he made a subtle reference to Otto Hightower, harshly criticizing his role in instigating the war. Subtle as it was, the subtext was clear to Gilbert Hightower and he was able to put two and two together, severely chastising his son for "standing against the family".

132 - 140 AC: Gael was sixteen and his father put a sword and a shield in his hands, sending him to battle to be of use, or to die honorably, which in Gilbert's mind, would be the best use for Gael. Rather than folding, Gael doubled down, openly beginning to write under his true name and distributing his writings in any battle camp he was in. Not once did he paint a favorable picture of his father, and some say that this might have been the start of the negative perception that surrounded Gilbert Hightower in later years.

Much to Gilbert's dismay, Gael did not die. In fact, the years of war forged him as a fairly decent soldier, and ironically, he ended up becoming the only of Gilbert's sons who could be summoned to battle when the need presented itself.

141 - 142 AC: After cutting ties with his father, Gael did not speak to him for years. He did not even attend his funeral when Gilbert Hightower was executed as a traitor along with other lords of "the old guard" by order of King Cedric Tyrell.

After the Dance, Gael also was involved in the war that eradicated the Ironborn, the civil war in the Reach, and the crusade in Alaym, further establishing his position as a skilled soldier under the command of Lord Omer Florent, or his cousin, Lady Lucrezia Redwyne, when warfare has taken them to sea.

He was appointed Master of the Arts by King Cedric Tyrell, a new position within the council of the Reach to continue to further the arts in the realm. Since gaining that title, Gael became a much more prolific writer. He has written a number of plays, participated in artistic exhibitions, and began working to develop of school of the arts set in Brightwater Keep.

142 - 144 AC: In the last two years, Gael separated noticeably from his lady mother, who never did much to be a present or loving parent, and from his eldest brother. Being away from Oldtown, he divided his time between Highgarden, performing his duties as Master of the Arts after Kind Cedric appointed him, and in the Arbor, having been Lucrezia's heir until the birth of her first child.

Gael and Garland's relationship remained very tense and distant until the eldest son's death, for Gael saw much of what his brother did as repetitions of Gilbert's behavior. To this day, he only maintains a good relationship with his other brother, the second-born Hightower.

To bring some stability back to his family after Garland's and his mother's murder, Gael wed one of Harlon Tarly's sisters, Lady Talia. It was an arranged marriage and there is little in common the lord has with his new wife, with both of them rarely spending more time together than is necessary.

CONNECTIONS:

House Hightower: Gael had a very strained relationship with his family, particularly his father, and his eldest brother, Garland. He had a civil relationship with his mother, though he resented that she never did much to parent him with any care or appreciation. Nowadays, Gael's only remaining immediate family is his other brother, who is a septon, and with whom he began building a closer relationship in recent years.

Omer Florent: Gael has admired the Florent lord deeply and has considered him one of his dearest friends since he was a teenager. Omer was the first person to encourage his writing and that is something Gael has never forgotten. He sees Omer as a bit of an older brother figure.

Lucrezia Redwyne: His cousin on his mother's side. Gael has always respected her and loved her dearly. His relationship with her became closer after Gael began distancing himself from his family, and he even resided in the Arbor for a long period of time in the last year.

Ophelia Fowler: A Dornish lady that Gael met when the peace accords took place in the principality of Dorne. Gael befriended her and later became infatuated with her. Ultimately, a relationship between them could not work and they ended up distancing themselves from the other.

Harlon Tarly: A painter that Gael has admired greatly for many years. Gael considers Harlon one of the most talented artists he knows and sees him as a bit of a mentor when it comes to the artistic world. As a mutually beneficial act for both houses, Gael recently married Harlon's younger sister, Talia.

Conall Blackbar: The of them became friends through Omer. When Conall's wife died under such suspicious circumstances, Gael asked him point blank if he'd killed her. Conall said "No" and the Hightower lord has honored that moment of sincerity ever since. They actually became closer after that, and Gael has stood by Conall when so many others had shunned or judged him for the incident. As Gael does, often gaining inspiration from those he knows, he even wrote a poem inspired by his friend and his circumstances. The individual in the poem is presented as Gael sees his friend, not as others do. What's sad is that Conall didn't recognize himself as the source of inspiration for that piece.

Give me all the connections, please and thank you!

[thunderandmoonlight]

setting: the verdant concord, xiomara spots gael hightower amongst the crowd and greets an old friend ; @gael-hightower

context: xiomara was once warded with the hightowers during the dance.

the gardens were alive with soft music and the rustle of silk, every corner bright with garlands of green and gold for the verdant concord. xiomara moved through the crowd with a quiet grace, fingers still faintly stained with ink from the artwork she had been finishing that morning. she kept close to the edges of the festivities, where the shade of the trellises offered a moment's peace from the chatter. laughter rang out nearby, but her attention lingered instead on the distant towers, pale against the sky. they reminded her of another place, white stone rising from old water, the halls of the hightower where she had once walked beside a boy with a kind face and an unexpectedly gentle humor.

she held a small bundle in her hands, tied with a slender ribbon, a packet of parchment and dried lavender, something she had meant to give him when she arrived, though she had hesitated, unsure if he would remember such small tokens. gael hightower had been a quiet harbor in unfamiliar tides back then, steady and kind in a way few noticed unless they were paying attention. xiomara always did.

spotting his familiar figure just beyond, she paused, her breath catching with a flicker of something warm and steady. she approached slowly, not wanting to intrude, but the moment his profile turned toward the light, recognition kindled in her eyes. she did not raise her voice to call for him, instead, she simply stepped into his view, hands folded before her, the faintest smile forming upon her lips.

“gael,” she said, softly, but no doubt with an edge of excitement that laced her words. “it's been too long. perhaps you would walk with me a moment, if you’ve the time, of course.”

[gael-hightower]

The Verdant Concord was an indisputable hub for artists and creators to gather, for inventions and new creative endeavors to flourish. With the Reach as the host of such a gathering, the Master of the Arts of King Cedric's realm was inevitably one of the figures that was under the spotlight more often than not. Gael cared little for that sort of attention, especially when it was just for posturing and the attempts of others to make advantageous connections. What the Hightower lord focused on instead was the discussions around artistic and aesthetic approaches, about new projects that could come to life, about new artists showcasing their creations.

So many new ideas had been brewing in his mind, and the poet was quick to write down notes on the small notebook he slipped in and out of his pocket every now and then. After an enthralling conversation with a sculptor from the YiTish region of Wan about capturing the spirit of nature rather than mere physical likeness, Gael scribbled some of those ideas. It had been a while since he last sculpted something, having focused so much on his writing. But he'd grown intrigued to try the approach the YiTish sculptor spoke about.

He slipped his notebook back into his pocket when the familiar voice of Xiomara Dondarrion spoke his name. “Xiomara,” he greeted with a smile, much less formally than he probably should. It had been some time ago, and yet Gael still felt that tender bond that formed between the two of them years ago. The lady's presence in the halls of Oldtown had been a blessing, truly. She had been a kind companion for him in a household that lacked nearly all forms of familial warmth. “Of course. Gods, I'd love to hear how you've been. It's been a long time”.

[conallblackbar]

conall only nodded his head. it was all he could think to do in that moment, no sage words of wisdom coming to the front of his mind to impart. of the two of them, it was gael that was good with his words. what conall was good at, he wasn't sure, but it certainly wasn't this. "it is still fresh," he suggested, gently, hands reaching into his pockets. he took out a cigarette, then realised he had nothing to light it with, and put it back, a faint sigh escaping him. "it'll take time to sink in." he spoke as though it were a given it would sink in at all, though there were times where he woke in the night, usually after he had doused his more complex emotions with a haze of whiskey, where his mind momentarily slipped, until it came back to him with a jolt that made his stomach lurch nastily.

"but in name only," he finished gael's words for him. he knew little of talia tarly, nor the nature of their marriage, but gael had said enough in the last few minutes that he understood it all too well. "maybe you could think of it as... condolences for what could have been rather than what it was." for the fact affection would now have no chance to grow between them, for the notion there would be no fair-haired babies with gael's eyes and talia's bone structure. perhaps gael would find it easier to mourn for a future that would never be, rather than a past he felt no sorrow at losing.

when a wife was lost, people expected the husband to play the part of the broken man. that, at least, con had been able to do, but he knew not if gael would, if he could. at the very least, the path of guilt he was going down pointed that way. he ran a hand over his jaw, the unshaven skin beneath it rough to the touch. "i remember thinking that marriage was a shackle," he mused, with a hoarse laugh. "you'd think death would break them, but sometimes the chains feel tighter than ever." perhaps it was the failure, the sort gael was talking about, the responsibility of it all.

he could not help but raise an eyebrow when gael mentioned an investigation. misgivings stirred within him, lips pursing, not so much in disapproval, but with something that painted onto his expression that he did not think it was a good idea. "ah," he said, leaning back in his seat. "i can understand that, but... mate, do you not think you're a bit too close to it to do that properly?" grief could quickly turn to blame, he had been on the receiving end of that himself. "i'm not saying not to follow a trail if it's warm. just that you should ask someone else to help you do it. someone impartial."

[gael-hightower]

His gaze lifted from his cup when his friend spoke. It was all still fresh, he knew, and he could only nod slowly, solemnly. Gael recognized that Conall didn't speak empty words. The weight behind those words could only come from having lived through this very experience himself. Having to battle its aftermath. He understood, finally, what Conall had tried to put into words years ago. Grief did not arrive as a whole, complete, and manageable thing. It shifted and manifested itself in ways one couldn't fully expect or prepare for. “I know,” he replied softly at last. “Or… I am beginning to know”.

Gael let out a slow breath, his shoulders sagging somewhat. Condolences for what could have been. It sounded almost beautiful. “That frightens me,” the Hightower lord admitted, his voice low. “I am a poet, Con. My mind rarely stops at what is, what was. It invents possibilities and spirals, if I'm honest”. Creativity, some called it. And it truly was so. But his writings were also a testament to what wounded him, what bothered him, what kept him up at night. He shook his head slightly. “If I begin to mourn the future Talia and I never had, I fear I will drown myself”.

As for marriage, yes, it could be a shackle in some ways. But some small, foolish part of Gael that remained idealistic despite how jaded he could present himself to be, had hoped his marriage might become something kinder with time. But it hadn't. And he couldn't fully bring himself to perform grief that did not fit with the true relationship he had to his late wife. A widow was expected to show some form of visible grief, but no one ever offered the path to follow for this sort of ambivalent loss. He would be called callous or cruel. Worse, he might even be called guilty, if he did not mourn as a husband ought to.

Gael noticed the way his friend's expression shifted when he brought up the matter of the investigation. He leaned back a little, taking a better look at Conall. “You’re right. I am too close to it,” he said plainly. “I do not trust many to care enough to follow the thread to the end, though”. It was the old adage of 'If you want it done, do it yourself' in some way. “I’ve asked Harlon to help me with it”. The Tarly lord was someone he respected, someone he deemed honorable enough. Ultimately, the two of them were the ones bound to Talia as husband and as brother. If Conall's worries were that he'd be impartial, they were justified. Of course he wouldn't be impartial. He cared enough to not let the whole thing be smoothed over for the sake of comfort or appearances.

[fromspringandfire]

laena’s gaze lingered on him as he spoke, her expression intent but unhurried, as though she were gathering his words in her hands before deciding what to do with them. her hands smoothed over her skirts again, though her eyes stayed on him, steady and soft. “i don’t remember the lines,” she admitted after a pause, “not as they were written. it’s been a while, and i was never one to hold words in neat order. but i remember how it felt. like a weight pressing, but not unkindly. as though the words asked you to carry them for a while.” her lips curved faintly, almost self-conscious. “that’s what stayed with me. the feeling, the wondering.”

she let the quiet linger, as though testing the shape of her own thoughts, before she went on, voice lower, more tentative. “i imagine the rest of your work carries the same sort of weight. the kind that isn’t always easy to look at, but harder still to turn away from once you do.” her gaze flicked down, catching the pale thread at the edge of her sleeve, worrying it between her fingers. “i wonder what you’ve chosen not to show yet. whether it is silence or simply not ready to be said.”

she looked down at her hands in her lap, pale against the silk, turning them slightly as if to examine the faint lines etched there. “i think you’re right,” she said at length, her voice quiet but steady. “the unsaid doesn’t stay buried. it finds its way out, in fabric or in ink, in songs or in silences. sometimes it feels safer that way, when what we mean doesn’t have to pass through our mouths first.” her eyes lifted back to him, softer now, touched with something like relief at having spoken the thought aloud. “there’s a kind of truth in what the hands make that the tongue might stumble over.”

a breeze tugged faintly at the edge of her sleeve, and she drew a breath, watching him with the careful ease of someone used to listening more than filling the air. “still,” she added, her voice taking on a gentle lilt, “it’s rare to find someone who wishes to hear what lingers. most are content to let the silence swallow it.” she tilted her head slightly, silver-blonde hair slipping against her cheek. “so i’m grateful, truly, that you asked.”

[gael-hightower]

Gael listened with the kind of attention that came naturally to him as an observer of life, keeping his gaze steady on Laena as she spoke. There was something deep and sincere, almost vulnerable, in the way she described how the play had lingered with her. The Master of the Arts found himself nodding slightly. She had phrased it wonderfully, how it were emotions that lingered. Not the words, not the images, but how they made one feel. “Then I feel some accomplishment, I suppose. That a feeling could linger”. Knowing that something alive remained, a resonant emotion, more than having one of his verses quoted out loud, meant everything.

The Hightower lord thought about Laena's next words for a moment. She had made that keen observation about his work and the underlying weight it carried. He did write about what pained him, what unsettled him, and about the many questions that swarmed in his head before going to sleep. Putting that on paper was the way he had of attempting to understand the world. There was plenty he hadn't yet written about, though. Or rather, that he hadn't publicly written about. So the lord's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “I should keep some things to myself,” he said with a hint of dry humor. “If I reveal it all too soon, who would still care to read my work afterward?”

His gaze drifted briefly to the fountain, soothed by the calm atmosphere around them. He was also comforted by the company of a relative he hadn't expected might engage with him so sincerely. In turn, Laena’s gentle insight managed to draw some honesty from Gael Hightower. His attention returned to her as she thanked him. The poet watched her for a moment, his expression softened somewhat before he responded. “It speaks to your kindness to say you’re grateful for that”. It seemed like such a simple thing to show gratitude for. It made a difference to feel heard and seen, though, especially if one was in a place where not many cared to pay attention like that. He experienced that subtle dismissive nature in Oldtown most of his life. He wondered if Laena felt it here. “I should thank you in turn. You are a good listener, Laena. A kind listener”. His tone was somewhat warmer, and he offered a small smile to her. “That’s rare”.

[caitria-blackbar]

.

caitria’s laugh was soft, but genuine, carried on the wind between flickering torchlight and the rising swell of festival song. she regarded gael with a warmth reserved for those whom she knew well.perhaps it was the ease of his presence, or the gentle way his words settled between them. maybe it was the comfort of familiarity in a place where so many felt like strangers draped in garlands.

"haven’t you heard gael?" she teased lightly, slipping her hand into his with a graceful ease she always seemed to carry. "that the gods of spring and seed are more easily favorable for today. a simple dance will do the trick. though dont count on that for the rest of the year."

her tone was playful, but her fingers curled around his just enough to steady the touch. she wondered if he’d hav calluses on his palm that so many high lords seemed to have these says. it wouldnt surprise her. gael had always struck her as someone who bore the weight of things, quietly. didnt seem like someone who sat and let others do the work for him.

“still.” she went on, stepping in beside him, the wildflowers in her hair brushing his shoulder as they moved toward the dancing square, “if luck is being handed out on the rhythm of a fiddle, i’d rather not tempt fate.”

she tilted her head to glance up at him, her smile touched with something gentler now. “and besides, i think you’ve earned a moment of levity.”

the music swelled around them, laughter pealing through the courtyard like bells. for a moment, she allowed herself to be part of it. not the planner, not the observer, not the lady with ambitions woven into her hems. but just cait, dancing with a man who had known her brother, who had not yet tried to read too far into her.

"you’ll have to tell me, after all this is done," she said as they stepped into the dance, her voice lighter now, "if we managed to bring in the good luck… or just gave the gods a good laugh."

[gael-hightower]

“Would these gods really favor me, though?” Gael asked with a touch of sarcasm, a subtle scoff laced through his words. Whatever deities looked over Longtable, they might not think too kindly of a Hightower. The bitter history between his house and the Merryweathers had not entirely dissolved through time, and frankly, he couldn't fault Lady Seffora or her kin for any grudge they still held. He did not linger on the thought, though. If he thought too long about every house that carried a grievance against his damn family, the spiral would be endless.

Instead, he let his shoulders ease somewhat, allowing himself that concession in the company of someone familiar. “Well then, let us not offend any sowing gods or earthy sprites, and hope they extend us some good fortune,” the Master of the Arts stated as the Blackbar lady took his hand to begin their dance. And while Gael was no stranger to dancing, the movements he saw around him were far looser, much freer. The music and the dancing around were nothing like the structured, rehearsed merriment he grew up with in Oldtown or King’s Landing. So the Hightower lord found himself glancing around from time to time to try to follow some of the rhythm and steps he saw the locals perform. He managed well enough, though his movements did carry a trace of caution.

There was a small smile on his lips when Caitria spoke of the luck their dancing might invoke. “I will,” he said with a quick nod. “And honestly, I wouldn’t mind a bit more good fortune in my life”. Quite the understatement that was, considering his house's cursed history. A prickly legacy, courtesy of Otto and Alicent. A family life that fractured any affection between brothers. A succession of murders he couldn't bring himself to truly mourn. And a wife who was a stranger to him, and all but ignored him. Perhaps one day he might get a respite. Not that it was owed, or deserved, though.

They circled together, following the music of the fiddle and flutes, before he spoke again. “Tell me, Cait, how have you been faring?” he asked. His tone wasn't that of courtly politeness, it was gentler, more sincere. His question was genuine, and he appreciated this unexpected opportunity to catch up with his best friend's sister.

[conallblackbar]

conall remained silent, allowing gael the space to speak through his thoughts. it was almost eerie how closely their two situations seemed to echo one another, just with a few years distance between them, because all the thoughts gael was giving words to, conall had felt. that deep seated belief that whatever you had done, or hadn't done, it wasn't enough. the world would expect grief from him, and perhaps that would come later, or perhaps it wouldn't, but grief was easy to understand. this feeling wasn't. conall wasn't sure there was any other who could understand but the two of them, now.

"she probably did," conall said, without sugar coating, though his voice was gentle. it was empathy, for the both of them, without attaching sentimentality that gael did not feel, and emotion that did not exist. his chair scraped audibly as he inched it closer the table, loud enough to make him wince. "but i think death is often as unfair as life is, unfortunately."

he paused for a second, drumming his fingers on the table. abigail was on his mind, but he was hesitating over bringing her up. he didn't want to compare wounds - only make it plain that gael was not alone in his ordeal. conall knew that if he had that, all that time ago, it would have been a comfort. "i didn't love abigail," he admitted. "especially not towards the end. when she died. i think that makes it harder to know what to do, in a way. how to accept condolences that don't feel like yours.

he cleared his throat, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the table. "most people still think i did it," he admitted. "and even for those who don't... it's hard to explain why i still feel guilty about it. i didn't kill her, but i still feel responsible for her death. i think that might make a little more sense to you right now than it would have before."

[gael-hightower]

Gael’s gaze stayed on his cup as he slowly swirled the amber liquid, still without lifting it to take a sip. Conall's words about death being as unfair as life stayed with him. They struck him, really. The Master of the Arts had circled that very theme in his writings time and time again, oftentimes ending his characters' journeys in tragedy. But perhaps, deep down, he hoped or prayed that the unjust nature of life could shift as death came. That there could be some sort of respite when worldly sufferings ended. But no, there was just an underwhelming sense of finality without the promise of anything else. “I've seen enough misery and cruelty to know there are few things that are fair, but still... I can't help but resist the thought that this was Talia's fate,” he murmured after a moment. “And that there's nothing to do for her”. He could still seek some sort of justice and figure out what had happened, but that wouldn't be for her. It would be for those who remained.

The Hightower lord listened intently when Conall spoke of Abigail, his posture and expression shifting as his friend revealed an honest, vulnerable part of his history. He found himself nodding subtly at the thought of getting condolences that felt both misplaced and unearned. “That's exactly how it feels,” he admitted in a low tone. “I feel all those words should go to the Tarlys instead. To Harlon. They were her family. I was her husband in name, but…” the lord trailed off, his shoulders shifting into a half-hearted shrug. Conall surely knew what Gael didn't say, what remained unspoken only because it was so obvious.

When Conall mentioned the suspicions surrounding Abigail’s death, Gael’s eyes met his friend's gaze directly. The Hightower lord had never once entertained the possibility that his friend had anything to do with it, and he spoke in his favor when others spoke ill of Conall around Gael. But given the murkiness surrounding the event, he knew some still doubted. “I'm fortunate in some sense, I suppose, that my name hasn't been spoken in the same breath as Talia's death,” he said with a weary sigh. It could have gone that way, as it did for his friend, but luckily, it had not.

“I thought I understood before, when you spoke about it,” he began. He had truly done his best to do so. “But only now do I truly understand it. That feeling of being responsible for what happened in some way. Even without love between us, I did make that vow to protect her when we married, and I failed”. Gael leaned back against his seat, his fingers tightening around the base of his cup. “Nothing will change what happened, or bring back Talia. But I do want to conduct an investigation,” he stated, a firm tone ringing deep with sharper words. “It might tarnish the bright mirage of the Concord, but... I do not want to wait. I cannot”. It was best to follow a trail while it was still fresh, after all.

[fromspringandfire]

laena’s expression softened at his words, not with pity but with recognition. something quiet passed through her, gratitude, perhaps, or the faint ache of hearing truth spoken aloud by someone unafraid to sit beside it. she let the silence linger again, not out of awkwardness this time, but reverence. the garden around them seemed to pause with her, the breeze stilling in the lavender, the hush of birdsong briefly held in the trees.

“i haven’t seen it performed,” she said at last, voice low, “but i've heard fragments of it. some time ago.” her mouth curved slightly at the memory. “one of the girls i was seated with read aloud one of the closing monologue's. she had no sense of rhythm, but still, her voice caught when she reached the end.” laena looked over at him then. “it stayed with me.”

laena moved to settle onto the edge of a nearby marble bench, the cold stone pressing through the fabric of her gown. she smoothed her skirts absently, then glanced up at gael. the air between them remained unhurried, filled with the rustling of distant ivy. it was peaceful, comfortable.

“i suppose,” she began, her voice low and thoughtful, “i put my feelings into the seams.” a wry breath of a laugh followed, not quite amused, more self-aware. “sounds foolish, doesn’t it? but it’s easier that way. fabric doesn’t interrupt. it doesn’t ask you to explain. and when it pulls or knots or refuses to lie flat, you can blame the thread instead of yourself.”

she looked back up at him. “my grandmother taught me to stitch when i was small. said a woman’s hands should always be busy, lest her thoughts wander too far. but i think she knew. i think she understood what silence could hold.”

she tilted her head slightly, her mind clearly far off in the past, yet still present. “i didn’t understand that until much later. but even now, i find it easier to speak in thread than in voice. perhaps it is similar to your writing, though i envy the clarity of your ink."

[gael-hightower]

Gael smiled a little when she told him she had heard a part of the last play recited by someone she knew. It was an endearing image, to picture the other woman giving voice to those lines, however imperfectly, and Laena listening, absorbing all of it. He wasn't too precious about the right way to read poetry in casual situations, as he was about a proper performance of it on the stage. He liked to think people could enjoy verses without the pomp and circumstance of the theater. He hummed softly, wondering which of the last three monologues had stayed with her. “Was it King Constantine's monologue?” he asked, raising his eyebrows with some curiosity. It was one of the most popular ones in the whole trilogy, after all. He did not think it was accidental that Constantine, who was inspired by their own King Cedric, happened to be one of the most well-liked characters in the tragic plays. “What stayed with you, if you don't mind me asking?” he said after a beat, “I enjoy learning what lingers with people”.

There was something about Laena’s quiet composure that reminded him, very distantly, of when he’d first heard about Florence's existence. Gael had been younger and so eager to meet someone else of his blood, to know what sort of relationship he could build with his half-sister. Laena was not like Florence in a way. She did not seem to guard herself as much and speak in half-truths. The young lady before him had a way of being steady and sharp even in her kindness. And she appeared to be a sincere listener. Gael found that the more he conversed with Laena, that he wished to keep speaking with her. Perhaps a good relationship could be formed for the distant cousins. “It isn’t foolish, by the way,” he said in a gentler tone, referring to her sewing. “To create something with your own hands is no small feat. That’s art as well”.

The lady took a seat, and the Master of the Arts walked towards the bench as well, but he didn't sit down. He remained standing before her, a few paces away. His posture was more relaxed than when she found him, moving his arms to leisurely rest behind his back. Understanding what silence could hold. He was still thinking about her words, about what she spoke of her grandmother, and the reflections that came with the diligent work of creating something. “I suppose some of us observe and listen more than we speak,” the writer added after a moment. “But I do believe much of what we don’t say ends up coming out in some way in the end”. In the emotions between a line of verse. In the patterns that a needle and thread could create. “Especially if there isn't someone close to us to lend an ear,”. He didn't have that in his brothers growing up, and only began to open up his mind to friends like Conall or Omer later in life. But by then, Gael Hightower had long started to wield his pen.

[conallblackbar]

closed starter for @gael-hightower setting: in the aftermath of talia hightower, conall offers his support to gael.

dusk had begun to settle over the hightower's quarters, casting shadows around the room conall sat in with gael. without a word, he rose from the table, bare, save for two cups and a full bottle, and busied himself with the act of lighting candles to stave off the darkness with the golden glow of the flame. beyond the windows, the lush expanse of the reach, a vibrant green bisected by the blue of the mander, unfolded, one of the many magnificent views highgarden offered. if he stopped to listen, he would hear the distant sounds of the versant concord carried on summer's breeze. it felt a million miles away from the two of them, sitting silently in this quiet room.

conall would be lying if he said this did not stir up a strange sort of emotion in him. he could easily recall when it was him in gael's shoes, him that people looked at with pity or accusation, though it did not seem as though gael had the misfortune of the latter. he and abigail may not have been a love story for the ages, but that did not mean he was not marked by what had happened to her, that guilt did not linger still. he could not save her, nor talia, nor did he think he could really help gael, but conall remembered, and he understood in a way that perhaps no other could.

the candles lit, he returned to his seat, uncorking the bottle on the table and pouring the amber liquid into the cups. considering he had been in gael's shoes himself, you'd think he'd be better at this, at knowing what to say that might offer a sense of comfort, if not total peace. but he was present, and surely that meant something?

"i don't know what to say, mate," he spoke tentatively. "maybe there's nothing to be said. i don't know. i just... remember what it felt like, you know?" and he remembered how gael had stayed steadfast when others had turned their backs on him. he could not, would not, forget that.

conall cleared his throat, raising his cup to his lips and taking a deep gulp of the drink inside it. "say the word if you want me gone," he offered, one brow raising as he returned the cup to the table and looked at gael. "if you need to be on your own for a bit. otherwise i'll be here for a while. as long as you need me."

[gael-hightower]

Perhaps there was some expectation for Gael Hightower to be completely distraught over the sudden death of his wife. Or perhaps no one actually expecting anything at all, since it was known that the marriage had not been forged with love but merely followed duty. The couple even spent time apart during events, lord and lady going their own way, not seen enjoying each other's company too often. So, the truth was that the Master of the Arts did not feel grief. Not truly. He did feel sorry, however. Gael felt truly sorry that Talia's life had been cut short so abruptly, and that he, as her husband, had been unable to foresee that something like this could happen.

His mind had been turning the situation over and over. The reasons behind his wife's murder. He tried to make sense of the timing, the way it happened, the target. Had it been an attack against House Hightower, meant to chip away at what little remained of Oldtown’s legacy? The culprits should have gone for him, right? Or go for Rosie, perhaps. Why Talia? An initial warning, possibly, with more to follow. Or perhaps the target had never the Hightowers, but House Tarly. Something tied to Harlon, maybe, remnants of Alaric's wild claims before he died...

Gael glanced up when Conall spoke, taken away from the silent spiral of his thoughts. “You don't have to say anything,” the lord replied, “Especially since I’ve not given you much to say or reply to”. Whether they talked or not, the Hightower lord felt truly appreciative of his friend's quiet support. Last night, the news spread like wildfire across the Verdant Concord, and Con had been quick to find him, to stand steadfast at his side.

“No, I don't want you gone, my friend,” Gael said after a moment, his voice lower, staring into the contents of his cup. In between trying to make sense of what had happened and trying to move through the shock of it, he had also turned the questions inward and considered in his role in it all. Not as a suspect, fortunately, for no doubt had been cast on him about his lady's mysterious death. Her murder, he amended it in his own thoughts. Gael thought about his role as a widower now. “I keep thinking I should be grieving her better”. In some way, he felt monstrous. What was it about him and his continuous absence of grief? What did it say about him that he'd not truly mourned his brother, his mother, and now his wife? “She deserved better”. In life, and also in death.

[gael-hightower]

A QUIET DEATH DURING THE VERDANT CONCORD

Amid the revelry and brilliance of the Verdant Concord, tragedy has struck. Lady Talia Hightower, wife to Gael Hightower and younger sister to Harlon Tarly, was found lifeless in her chambers by one of her maids. Albeit somewhat distant and not overly enthusiastic about joining her lord husband in all events, the young lady enjoyed good health. Lady Talia was even seen only hours before in quiet conversation with several guests among the gallery and crowded forums. Her death came with no apparent struggles and no wounds. No sign of foul play marked her body. Yet those who know the ways of court know too well that not all deaths bear marks or leave behind traces. Lady Rhea Florent, goodsister to the deceased, has taken up the silent thread of inquiry. A discreet investigation has begun. A list is forming. Who last saw Lady Talia. Who dined with her. Who might benefit from eliminating another figure in Oldtown, or ripping away a Tarly from Horn Hill. The splendor of the Verdant Concord continues, but the gathering of realms has now been stained by something more unsettling. The threat of not knowing who to trust is present. Every guest is a potential witness… or a suspect.

OOC Notes:

NPC Talia Hightower née Tarly, Gael's wife, has died suddenly during the Verdant Concord with no sign of violence or illness. The official cause is unknown, but whispers of poison have begun to circulate.

Rhea Florent, Harlon Tarly, and Gael Hightower are leading the investigation IC. Feel free to DM the muns to engage more with this plot drop in the following ways:

Investigators: Dig into the mystery, uncover secrets, and find the truth.

Suspects: Let your character fall into suspicion, whether through motive, opportunity, or just bad luck/timing.

Others: Be a witness, offer a clue, divulge a lie, stir up rumors, or fan political flames.

There is a planned culprit who will be revealed in due time. No one will be wrongly blamed or punished in an official capacity (unless you want to make your muse suffer). Everyone can feel free to explore suspicion and tension without worry!

Have fun and bring the chaos!

[dctyandhonor]

Ginevra caught the curiosity in Gael Hightower’s gaze, though his words remained measured, thoughtful. She tilted her head slightly, intrigued by the way he seemed to study her in return. His question, so direct yet laced with a quiet interest, stirred something in her; a mix of slight discomfort and a curiosity of her own. Nature was soothing, indeed, but more often than not, her mind found rest in the unpredictability of people, of their motivations, their desires.

“Solace, yes,” she replied after a pause, her voice steady but gentle. “But not in the way you might expect. I find comfort in the way the wind stirs the trees, the rustle of leaves, but it’s the silence between the moments, the stillness, that speaks louder than anything else.” She didn’t look to the landscape as he had done, but instead focused on him, noting the subtle shifts of his expression.

When he asked about the hunt, her lips curved into a smile of her own. “I admit,” she said, her voice teasing, “I find it rather more thrilling to observe than to participate. Though,” she added thoughtfully, her eyes narrowing with intent, “I could be persuaded if the chase promised something… interesting.”

[gael-hightower]

Gael listened with quiet interest, her voice steady and light, yet the weight of her words did not escape him. The silence between the moments, she said. It was a curious thing to say, the sort of poetic thought that caught his attention, but he did not press it further. Not because he didn’t find it worth pondering, but because he understood that some thoughts were more compelling when left partially veiled. Instead, he allowed his gaze to linger on her a moment longer. She didn’t turn to the view like he had, instead she studied him. Gael wondered if the Templeton lady had any artistic pursuits of her own. People who observed like that, with deliberate restraint and well-measured curiosity, often did. “You strike me as someone who likes to pay close attention, my lady,” he remarked, his tone even.

Her teasing earned a soft breath of laughter, not quite a chuckle. “And what would you qualify as interesting, Lady Ginevra?” he asked, lifting a brow as he turned slightly toward her. “A beast difficult to catch? Or else?” The Hightower lord asked with genuine curiosity. She seemed the sort who found games engaging, and in a subtle way, that made Gael become more alert than he'd been earlier. He was no stranger to games of ambition, having seen that close before, and he rarely wished to be a part of it.

The sound of stirring horses and distant voices behind the trees reminded Gael that the morning was progressing quickly. “Breakfast will be served soon,” he said, the words offered with calm politeness. “If you’ll allow me, I’d be glad to escort you back to the tents, my lady”. His tone remained unhurried, formal but warm. “We can continue our conversation on the way. Unless, of course, you wish to linger here longer. Stand with the silence between the moments,” Gael offered, quoting the phrase she'd used earlier.

[fromspringandfire]

laena nodded, letting the conversation settle like the ripples in the fountain before them. she had never quite known what to say to the hightowers, never certain what part of herself they might accept or reject. gael, at least, seemed less inclined toward the weight of expectation, but there was still something carefully guarded about him, something she wasn’t sure even she could unravel.

her gaze lingered on his hand, the brief warmth of his touch before it fell away. a quiet understanding passed between them, and laena did not press further. “yes,” she murmured, “what’s done is done.” the words felt final, but not dismissive, simply an acknowledgment that no amount of conversation could change the past.

gael being a poet was not something laena would have expected before, but now, standing here with him in the quiet of the gardens, it made a strange sort of sense. there was a depth to him, a careful consideration in his words, even when speaking of grief and duty. perhaps that same deliberation found its way into ink and parchment.

"i’ve heard of your work," she admitted, her tone light, but sincere. "a play, wasn’t it?" she tilted her head slightly, watching him. "are you working on another?"

laena let the moment linger, the soft trickle of the fountain filling the space between them. then, with a curious tilt of her head, she asked, “do you find muse in it?”

her voice was quiet, but not uncertain. “in all of this, the past, the grief, even duty. or do you look elsewhere?” her lips curved, just slightly, as she considered him. “i wonder if inspiration comes easily to you, or if you must chase it.”

she pressed her lips together, rolling them as a surge of awkwardness settled over her. "i apologize if that is intrusive, i've always been curious how others' minds work in that regard."

[gael-hightower]

Gael's expression shifted ever so slightly at her question, his lips curving up into a subtle smile. “The Ballad of Thorns and Roses,” he said, his voice touched a certain fondness, as if naming an old friend he hadn’t meant to revisit today. “It was a collection of three plays”. He glanced toward her, curious to know where she meant to lead their conversation. If it was mere civility to inquire about his work, if there was more to it she wished to discuss. “Have you read it? Or perhaps seen any of the performances?”. Laena had only said she'd heard of it, however, but he did wonder if she knew more than she let on.

“I’m writing more now,” he went on, managing to speak with ease despite not always knowing how to speak of his work. “I’ve written more poetry in the past couple of years, but playwriting seems to summon me back. There’s something about shaping a voice for others to carry, for an audience to witness”. His tone was light, but his words were deliberate. “And yes,” the Master of the Arts added after a pause, his gaze returning to Laena with more gravity, “things like this... grief, duty, the weight of history... It all makes me reach for the quill”. Gael paused for a moment, hesitating on whether to go on or not. In the end, he did choose to share the more vulnerable element of writing with Laena. “I do think every artist pours something of themselves into their work, whether they mean to or not. Writing helps me… understand what I’ve lived through. Or at least sit with it for a time”.

He offered her a small, knowing smile. “It’s not intrusive to ask, Laena. We are kin, after all. Perhaps it’s time our family began asking questions that matter, and answering them honestly”. There was no accusation in his tone, only a reflection he had evidently thought about many times as a Hightower. “I don’t mind your curiosity. In fact, I think I welcome it,” Gael admitted, willing to open a door for her that had not been there before.

[random-brushstrokes]

Leonid Pasternak  (Ukrainian, 1862–1945) - The Torments of Creative Work

[caitria-blackbar]

open starter: 0/3 location: set at the RYE SOWING FESTIVAL at longtable in the reach during the celebration. open to anyone who would like to attend

the scent of freshly tilled earth and spiced rye ale filled the air as caitria blackbar moved through the festival grounds, the hum of laughter and lively music weaving around her like a familiar melody. the chill of winter had not yet fully loosened its grip, but the warmth of the bonfires and the energy of the celebration were enough to chase away the last remnants of the cold.

dressed in a gown the color of spring leaves, embroidered with delicate golden wheat along the bodice, she fit seamlessly into the festivities. a crown of woven rye and wildflowers rested upon her dark hair, though a few loose strands had already begun to slip free in the evening breeze.

she lingered near a long wooden table laden with food and drink, watching as ribbons tied with blessings fluttered in the wind, attached to the great horn of plenty being paraded through the square. there was something about the festival’s traditions that fascinated her,a celebration of life starting again after the winter. it was always a joyous party and one that she looked forward to each cold season.

lifting a goblet of rye ale to her lips, she cast a glance over the crowd—familiar faces and strangers alike, each lost in their own revelry. it was the kind of gathering that encouraged all types conversation.

a slow smile played at her lips as she turned slightly, tilting her head in curiosity at the approaching figure. "tell me," she mused, voice smooth and inviting, “will you be dancing tonight? it’s supposed to bring you good luck if you do”

[gael-hightower]

It was an odd thing, to find himself at Longtable for celebrations. The city and its surrounding fields were filled with laughter, music and the scent of rye. Once, years ago, this place had been a part of the battlefield —a place for a brutal siege led by his own family. Despite such bitter history, Seffora Merryweather had extended her invitation to House Hightower too. Surrounded by the revelry, seeing bright banners and listening to music, Gael couldn't quite believe it was all in the past and forgotten. He just hadn't figured out the angle the ruling lady of Longtable played.

The warmth of the fires and the music had a way of lulling one into ease. The Master of the Arts wasn't quite there yet, but he was trying, at the very least, to calm his tension and have a good time.

He had not been searching for the Blackbars, not intentionally. But perhaps the subconscious wish for familiar faces led him to her. He was not as close to Caitria as he was to Con, but having paid a fair share of visits to the Blackbar lord meant he felt quite at ease around her. “Ah, so that's the secret,” he mused with a smile. “And here I thought luck required enough prayer, or perhaps a coin in the right hand”.

His gaze flickered to the great horn of plenty being paraded through the square, ribbons with blessings fluttering in the evening air. He could appreciate having such traditions to celebrate the cycle of life and the seasons. Of beginning again. He turned back to Caitria then, offering a playful smile to his friend's sister. “But if all it takes is a dance, I suppose it would be foolish to waste the opportunity,” he said as he held out his hand for the lady to take. “And your brother would never forgive me if I doomed you to bad luck, Cait”.

[cfthornsandroses]

the lion’s tor loomed before them, its jagged silhouette etched against the pale gold of the afternoon sky. sunlight spilled over the ancient stone, casting long shadows across the ground, while the wind carried the faint scent of wildflowers from the surrounding hills. hazel eyes, curious and bright, were drawn upward to the structure's weathered facade, a testament to both the skill of its builders and the weight of centuries gone by.

“it’s imposing, isn’t it?” she murmured, tilting her head as though the shift in perspective might unlock the secrets of its design. “not simply in size, but in the way it commands the landscape, as though daring time itself to erase it.”

she glanced at gael hightower, a faint smile playing on her lips as he spoke. his words, thoughtful and warm, matched the reflective mood of the moment. “an eye for detail, you say?” she replied, her tone light yet edged with playful humor. “perhaps. though i always fear my interest in such things might be mistaken for idle distraction rather than genuine curiosity.”

her gaze returned to the tor, her fingers brushing absently against the embroidered vines on her sleeve. “architecture intrigues me, yes. it tells a story, doesn’t it? of the people who dreamed it, who shaped it, who walked these halls and looked out from these gates. each detail, deliberate. each stone, a legacy.”

she turned back to gael, her expression thoughtful. “but it’s not only the walls that hold my interest. art, music, even gardens—anything crafted with intention and care. there’s beauty in that. in shaping something lasting.” matilda also yearned to have such an ability to craft such visions, but alas, she would content herself with admiring others, instead.

at the mention of the children of the forest, her brows lifted slightly. “a gateway,” she repeated softly, her gaze drifting back to the grand gate. “a relic of what was. how strange, and yet how fitting, that their touch lingers here, so far from the forests. i wonder what stories this place might tell if it could speak.”

[gael-hightower]

Gael regarded her with growing interest as she spoke. Something shifted, almost imperceptibly, in his expression. The Master of the Arts had not expected to find this commonality with the king's cousin, such a kindred understanding of beautiful expressions of a creative nature. It was one thing to simply admire beauty, to acknowledge a piece’s grandeur, but it was another entirely to see more deeply into it. He found Matilda's words almost poetic, as she recognized the hands that shaped the structure they were looking at, as she considered the purpose behind every stone.

“There’s something powerful in it. The idea that something crafted with care could outlast the hands that made it,” he added after a beat, smiling as his attention shifted from the Lion's Tor to the Tyrell lady. “A piece should stand on its own, but I admit I also think about those who made it more often than not. What was the purpose? What were they hoping to achieve, to communicate”. It was likely the artist in him, who thought of other artists too, not only their creations.

“By the sound of it, you an artist's heart, Lady Tyrell,” the lord offered with an affable tone, a subtle smile gracing his lips for a moment. It takes one to know one, people said. It wasn't idle distraction to have an eye for beauty and the artistic expressions around them, and to articulate a worldview as poetically as she had, was a clear sign in Gael's mind. It was a special sensibility, and he wondered just how much it might have been nurtured in her or not.

The poet, in his own way, also wondered what stories could be born from this space. It was the very reason he'd come here with a notebook in hand, open to the inspiration this location brought. He'd drafted lines and ideas, impressions, nothing quite finished or fully formed. The idea crossed his mind that he might just share a future draft with the Tyrell lady, since she had taken in this place so fully, and thus could be a good judge of whether or not his writing did this place justice.

He exhaled lightly, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s a shame, truly, that we hadn't spoken much before now, my lady,” he admitted. There was something genuine in his tone, an appreciation not just for the conversation but for the way her mind worked. The Hightower lord was curious to learn more about her, truth be told.

[fromspringandfire]

the gardens of highgarden were quiet, the usual murmur of birds and wind lost to the weight of their conversation. laena clasped her hands before her, the rich green of her gown blending into the hedges behind her. her cousin stood a step away, his posture seemingly tense, the soft light of the setting sun brushing over his sharp features. the distance between them was not just physical; it was the unspoken chasm that had always defined their relationship, rather, laena's relationship with her hightower blood as a whole.

"it's okay, i understand,” laena admitted, her voice measured, she could sense the guarded wall he kept, which was understandable given the topic of discussion, and all that he had been through in this. “i did, sort of, but not well. i visited the hightower a few times when i was younger." she wanted to explain her lady grandmother was close with alicent, but just the thought of her other grandmother felt bitter, and so she left it be.

the breeze stirred, brushing a strand of her silver-blonde hair across her face. she tucked it behind her ear, her movements slow, contemplative. "i wanted to say something to you sooner, but i'm afraid i could not find you when we were in oldtown." she was uncertain if he took his grief alone and in isolation, or was simply busy with other matters at the time. lilac gaze flickered to gael briefly, then back to afountain at the garden’s center, where water spilled in a soft, unending rhythm. "though i wish i had more to say."

[gael-hightower]

Gael hummed softly at her words, contemplating how to respond to them. Laena was well-meaning, of course, in offering condolences for people she did not know well. She offered her condolences because she was supposed to offer them to him, and Gael in turn, was supposed to mourn those hacked away from his family tree. In many ways, he'd mourned the loss of his relationships with his mother and brother many years ago. Now, speaking of them in the irrevocable past tense, there was a strange, hollow sensation in his chest. Not grief, not quite, because for better or worse, as callous as it could seem, the lord had buried his family while they still lived. “Thank you for your words, Laena,” he said again, finding nothing else to say about it.

His gaze momentarily shifted to the cascading water of the fountain. The gentle rhythm of it was soothing, an idle reminder that like water flowing, the world carried on, indifferent to losses. “I haven't been to Oldtown in years,” he admitted, his voice even, though there was an edge to it. It was subtle but hard to miss. There was no sorrow in the statement, nor any nostalgia. “I've divided my time between Highgarden, the Arbor, and Brightwater Keep,” he added after a beat, his lips pressing into a faint, almost wry smile. “Apologies, perhaps I ought to have let you know that”.

Gael did notice there was something measured in the way the lady carried herself, in the way she chose her words. He wondered if she too experienced what it was to be tethered to something without ever truly belonging to it. “But well, I suppose I'll have to go back more often now,” he mused. Far too few Hightower remained, and it was likely he would be warden to his niece until she became of age to rule Oldtown in her own right. It was something he had yet to discuss with the King, but he imagined lawfulness would dictate matters were conducted that way. “Please, don't worry, you need not say more about this,” he offered, letting a hand rest on her shoulder for a moment, a softer expression appearing on his face. “What's done is done”.

[cfthornsandroses]

matilda noted the way he held his notebook, almost protecting it with the palm of his head, and it only made her all the more curious. she had always thought she was cursed to not truly understand one's passion for a thing that they felt coursed through their own veins, allowed their very hearts to beat inside their chests. the lady of house tyrell simply didn't have something of that nature for herself, at least, not yet. she had dabbled in a multitude of things: music, arts, literature, but nothing had truly struck her, though, in her quest for such a thing, she had come to learn a little about a lot, and that at least made for a good conversation. conversation, at least, she was good at.

"i do." she admitted, and it were somewhat of a truth, she found beauty in architecture though little opportunity to pursue it beyond observation, at least this moment provided just thought. sea-green hues floated upwards to the top of the tower, which was just shielding the sun from her eyes, casting a halo of light around the crest of the structure. "i'm no expert by any means, but i've always been intrigued." she offered a wave of her hand at his disclaimer, a sign that she did not mind, nor expect him to be able to give her the entirety of the story.

hands remained crossed in front of her, fingers clasped as she listened to the son of house hightower speak, and while she had her own reservations about the house, she found his insight fasinating enough to draw her into this conversation. "the children of the forest?" she repeated in question, brows raised. she were surprised to hear of such magic in the realm of the west, and it's history allowed to continue amongst the many changes in this kingdom. "it is very peaceful here. i fear if i knew much of the tale, i might be able to have more appreciation for it." matilda had always found herself struggling with introspection, often filling moments of silence that didn't necessarily need to be, perhaps to get out of her own mind. she looked around at the others drawn to this area, however. "the structure alone, however, is captivating. it makes one wonder what purpose it served."

[gael-hightower]

Gael’s gaze shifted from the towering structure back to the Tyrell lady, looking at her with an interest that went beyond polite curiosity. He had a tendency to wish to build bridges between himself and those who also had an eye for beauty, for any artistic pursuit. “I imagine you have an eye for detail, my lady,” he said in a more light-hearted manner. “Most people look but don't pause to observe. Not everyone would linger on a place like this, let alone wonder about its history, its purpose”. The faintest of smiles appeared on his lips, warm enough to soften the edges of his more polite, guarded demeanor.

“Tell me, is it only architecture that intrigues you, or do you find yourself drawn to other artistic pursuits as well?” the Master of the Arts couldn't help but ask. He leaned forward slightly, his posture casual yet intent, hinting at his genuine curiosity to hear her reply.

The king's cousin also appeared interested in the same topic that had caught his own attention about this place. The Children of the Forst. “I'm no expert,” he said, for it was his turn to admit how little he actually knew about the topic. “But in the ancient times, they were supposed to have lived here in this area too”. That made it all the more intriguing for him. How entirely extinct their presence felt in Westeros, except for northern regions. “And here, their gateway,” Gael smiled softly, looking at the grand gate once more.

[dctyandhonor]

A smile twisted her lips as she bowed her head in turn at the Hightower Lord. "I have never been, I must admit." Oldtown had never been a place her brother had taken her to. Ginevra had never had a reason to go. "So I will take your word on it." The words dripped with teasing, albeit companionable and light. Perhaps it was a natural, instinctual response to the disdain she thought to detect in his voice. An immediate urge to soothe the waves before they could even begin to grow.

His words were dipped in such true awe of what he saw that Ginevra immediately eyed him with more interest. She had always thought of the Hightowers as a concealed danger, hungering for the power they had once harbored as part of the only ruling family in the seven kingdoms. Not a lover of nature and beauty. "If you speak to Percy, perhaps he will permit you to visit more often. Spending time amongst nature and sights like these can be quite... soothing to the mind."

[gael-hightower]

Gael then turned his gaze from the view to study her for a moment, the faintest flicker of curiosity in his clear eyes. Ginevra Templeton carried herself with the kind of poise and grace the people of the Vale were known for, yet her tone contrasted with that. She sounded earnest, unpretentious. “Soothing to the mind,” he repeated, a subtle nod accompanying his words. His lips curved slightly, for the Master of the Arts had inevitably thought of what this sort of scenery might inspire him to write.

“Do you often find yourself in need of the solace of nature, my lady?” he asked out of curiosity. He let his attention drift back to the landscape before him as if allowing her the space to answer —or to avoid answering altogether, should she choose. He pondered if places like this one held the same enchantment for those who lived there as they did for those who could only visit. He dismissed Oldtown so casually just a moment ago when the Templeton lady attempted to speak of its wondrous views. Gael did not bore her with his musings, instead facing her again to say “You are one of the few women who chose to join the expedition, my lady. I'll admit I was surprised. Do you hunt? Or did you choose to only grace us with your company in between the moments of the chase?”.