&&. even the iron still fears the rot;

dependent mumu rp blog affiliated to circa204.

[gildedthcrn]

⪼ dependent mumu rp blog affiliated to @circa204. loved and penned by lyra.

drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart. my fingers claw your skin, try to tear my way in. you are the moon that breaks the night, for which i have to howl.

lady lucretia lannister..................... intro. threads. pinterest.

[fatedriiiven]

when  lucretia  looks  down  at  the  trinkets  she's  holding,  she  nods  and  smiles.  “yes,  they  love  having  little  bits  and  bobbles  from  around  the  realm,”  she  says  with  a  laugh.  daenyra  had  always  been  taught  to  be  cautious  around  lannisters  –  they  can  be  calculated  sycophants,  she  remembers  hearing  at  one  point.  she  can't  remember  who  said  it.  but  when  the  other  brings  up  their  shared  motherhood,  she  cannot  help  but  to  let  down  her  guard  in  the  slightest.  the  topic  of  children  always  softens  her.

but  maybe  the  other  knows  that.

still,  nyra  walks  alongside  the  other  as  they  make  their  way  through  the  various  stalls.  vendors  call  out  their  deals  and  insist  upon  their  rare  treasures.  “does  she?  how  wonderful…  please,  send  her  my  well  wishes.  i  am  sure  she  will  provide  quite  the  show.”  lannisters  always  do.

nyra  giggles  at  the  mention  of  lucretia's  other  daughter  becoming  queen  of  love  and  beauty.  “i  must  admire  her  confidence,”  she  says,  still  giggling.  “they  both  sound  very  lovely,  my  lady,  you've  raised  them  well.”  and  truly,  she  means  that.  “we  must  introduce  our  children!  i  think  they  would  all  get  along  quite  well…  perhaps  your  daughters  should  even  be  ladies  for  my  little  maegelle  one  day,  should  you  allow  it.  and  besides,  i'd  like  for  both  her  and  baelon  to  know  their  peers.”

the  crown  is  a  heavy  subject,  to  be  sure.  though  nyra  feels  like  she  is  ready  for  it,  there  is  still  a  part  of  her  that  worries.  and  more  so,  she  hopes  that  it  is  not  for  many  years  to  come  that  it  should  rest  upon  her  head.  she  wants  to  see  her  father  thrive,  to  rebuilt  what  his  father  destroyed  in  his  time.

“i  appreciate  your  kind  words,”  she  says  with  a  nod.  “but  to  answer  your  question,  yes,  it  is  indeed  quite  a  heavy  thing  to  think  that  one  day  all  of  this,”  she  waves  her  hand  across,  “will  one  day  be  under  my  son's  domain.  he's  a  good  boy,  baelon,  but  i  cannot  help  but  to  worry  for  him.”

[gildedthcrn]

"i shall, your grace. thank you," lucretia said, her voice flat and dry as she gave a small, respectful incline of her head. but when the offer came, when daenyra spoke of children and futures entwining in softer ways, something in her finally loosened. "i would like that," she answered, more readily now. "truly. and if you do not find her too old for your little maegelle, then cyrelle would take to it as flame to oil." the faintest curve of amusement touched her mouth. "she would be utterly devoted to her. i suspect within a fortnight your daughter would not know a single day without her hair being fussed over." and here, for a moment, lucretia allowed herself the indulgence of it, the quiet absurdity of her child. "she has made a study of hair, you see. i cannot explain it. i was not the one who taught her. it was one of her maids back at home. braids upon braids, intricate as tapestries from yi ti, roses woven from strands, butterflies, hearts. for three days i was buried in ledgers, the west laid out before me in numbers and tallies, and she appeared without warning. like a little ghost." her voice changed then, lighter and mimicking with a sweetness that didn't fit her. "mama," she said, tilting her head just so. "you look so beautiful today. what are you doing?" lucretia exhaled through her nose.

"and i tell her i am working. that it is tedious and she won't enjoy it. and she says, 'that sounds exhausting. have you eaten?' as if she were the mother." she continued, quieter but more animated. "and then when i attempt to send her away, she only hums and says, 'no, no, i'll be quiet, i promise. but have you heard lady crakehall got herself a new falcon? i should like one, too,' and then, last thing i know, she is behind me. fawning over my tresses with her hands." her fingers lifted, ghosting the air near her own hair as if recalling the sensation of cyrelle's touch. "'mama, your hair is so pretty. why do you hide it like this?' and before i can answer, she is already undoing it." she darts a look at the princess, to see if she follows still. "'just a little, i promise.' and it is never just a little." the story paints itself through her lips, fond and ridiculous all at once. she shouldn't be blabbering about her children so much. wearing off the crown princess's ears. and yet, and still... lucretia can not help herself. "she produces pins from nowhere," she went on, the dryness returning. "oils, ribbons. gods know how deep her dress's pockets are. and i sit there, attempting to care for the west while she experiments upon my head. the last time, she worked my hair into something fit for a royal ball, while i was only meant to be home, reviewing ledgers. it is… difficult to object. i pretend to dislike it, 'course. poorly."

they walked as she spoke, the world of banners flowing around them like a dirty tide, until lucretia’s gaze caught upon a stall alive with glinting head ornaments. "ah," she murmured. "speaking of the devil." she drifted toward it, fingers brushing over a butterfly wrought in gold. "you see? this is precisely the sort of thing that encourages her," she said, letting it catch the light. "she would lose her mind over this. and this moth of silver, for when she wishes to be subtle, which is rarely." she held up another hairclip, shaped like bird in flight. "for yours, perhaps. or does she prefer brighter things?" she selected a few with decisive ease, including a gold tiara adorned with oval emeralds. "this will be ciri's favorite, i know it. myrcella is trickier, she always tells me i choose wrong." she passed them to alika and looked at daenyra again, as the future queen spilled her worries about her eldest son. "how old is he now? ten? you are worrying far too early." she humored, "there are years yet before he feels the iron throne beneath him." her hand moved in a quiet and grounding touch over the princess’s, her thumb brushing once in reassurance before she let go, as if nothing had passed at all. "tell me, what is it you fear? does he struggle with his studies or his training? though i doubt he lacks for instruction. or is it something else. that he is gentle. that he is good." she shook her head. "the realm has suffered enough men who mistook cruelty for strength. a good boy is not a weakness. keeping them good, well, that is the hardest part."

[belcvd]

       𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑟

"  how  are  you  enjoying  the  celebration  ?  "  forces  her  features  to  remain  pleasant  and  carefully  neutral,  a  far  cry  different  than  how  she  felt  about  it  all.  a  strain  to  their  coffers  for  simple  folly,  a  mess  of  misadventures  waiting  to  happen.  still,  sheira  forces  herself  to  reman  in  proximity  to  it  all,  offering  polite  conversation  to  any  that  sought  it  out.  "  i  am  excited  to  see  who  will  win  the  horse  races  today.  it  is  sure  to  be  an  interesting  watch.  "  she  could  think  of  many  other  things  that  she  would  rather  enjoy  her  time  with.  

[gildedthcrn]

“oh, very much,” she answered, eyes already tracking the distant movement of horses and steel below, where the last echoes of hooves seemed to tremble still upon the earth. “i’ve spent enough years in the lists to appreciate a good showing when i see one.” a small tilt of her head followed. “and i have reason to watch closely. my eldest debuts in the squire’s joust.” she shrugged then, almost amused, “i suspect i’ll be more unbearable than the crowd when her turn comes.” only then did her attention settle fully upon the woman beside her, and it did not pass lightly, nor without intent. lucretia’s gaze moved quietly over her features, noting first the dark fall of her hair, the richness of her skin beneath the sunlight, the depth of those black eyes that did not wander as idly as they might pretend. there were houses that announced themselves in banners and boasts, and there were others written plainly in the bone and blood. this one needed no sigil to be read. a flicker of recognition stirred within her, subtle yet certain.

“blackwood,” she murmured, stating it as a fact that rather than a proper question. her gaze lingered with a thoughtful and reverent weight before a faint curve touched her lips, a gesture warmer than mere courtly grace. “you must be the new mistress of coin. lady sheira.” her head inclined, just so, in acknowledgment. “i must say, you look younger than i expected,” she added, and the words didn't sound like a slight, just a blunt observation. “either the crown has found a new boldness to it… or you are precisely as gifted as they say.”

[freshcir]

open! anywhere tbh

He stood there, the noble nearly a foot shorter than him berating him for bumping into him. If only this noble knew who Tyron really belonged to, the rumors being enough to send chills down a person who didn’t know him’s spine. But he stood there, and he took it, until he saw a hand being risen against him. Without missing a beat, he grabbed the noble’s arm and bent it backwards, pinning him against the wall with a loud ‘thud’.

“With such fun activities going on I advise you to not show such a disgusting side to yourself, my lord,” he calmly said, grip tightening just until he heard a crack - then he let go, watching as he fell to the ground with a thud - a loud scream echoing the halls as maesters took him away to get healed. “I would say I’m sorry but he raised his hand first, I simply defended myself,” he said as he turned around, expecting to be chastised for his actions

[gildedthcrn]

the lioness didn't dare move so much as a finger to aid his cause; and why would she? when it was so irresistible to continue standing as a mere spectator to the chaos that unfolded right in front of her. a calamitous comedy for which she had seemingly and unwillingly purchased the finest seat. when the bone gave way with a wet crack she felt a small, flat pulse of satisfaction. "there it is," she said to herself before looking at him again. "i was counting the seconds until you finally snapped." she took a swallow of wine and looked at him with a smirk that didn't reach her eyes. "you showed admirable restraint. up to a point."

green eyes flicked briefly to the direction the maesters had dragged the wretch away, then back again to the nothern lord. well, of course he is northern. the accent. the way he moves. the somber fabrics of his attire. the firstborn of lord terrence lannister only waits. trying to catch up to something, anything that might solve the puzzle of which house he is from. but by the looks of his snowy skin, dark hair and pale eyes... she has a vague idea. "do you enjoy being berated, my lord? you sat there like a stone while he dragged your name through the mud and only moved when he tried to strike a blow. why go to such lengths to endure the tongue but not the hand?"

[gildedthcrn]

open starter for everyone! at the squire's joust; for the coronation of king daeron ii.

the final pass came like a held breath and it refused to break. the afternoon sun sat low and merciless and gilded the armor and the dust, until the world narrowed to the two riders and the line between them. lady lucretia stood within the crowd, in the high-seats meant for the great houses. below her, in the field, myrcella was a streak of crimson and gold upon a buckskin destrier that seemed nearly akin to her spirits. her lance angled true and her chin lifted just enough to betray the girl's frayed nerves. her opponent was a boy, lord urias dalt, with shoulders too broad for his years, who had also done admirably in his previous matches. but myrcella did not flinch; there were scarier things in the world than a dalt of lemonwood. for instance, being squired under your own shrew mother. the young lord spurred his horse first, eager and hungry for the finish, but the lady did not rush to meet him at his zest.

as they closed the distance at a terrifying gallop, the crowd fell into a vacuum of silence, where only the thundering of hooves remained. then, at the last possible instant, when the distance collapsed into inevitability, she shifted her weight and guided the point of her lance, not to glance, no, never that, but to strike clean. the crack rang out sharp as lord urias' lance caught her shield with a force that should have snapped her spine had he struck her body at full. lucretia's heart nearly leaped out of her throat at the mere thought of it. did her lord father feel the same ache when it was her in the squire's joust? but as myrcella's shield caught the impact, the girl leaned harder into the violence, her own lance exploding into a thousand golden splinters. urias was lifted clean from his saddle as if by the hand of the warrior himself, tumbling backward into the dirt. myrcella remained upright as she rode through the impact, screaming her own triumph into the sky.

the crowd erupted. a roar, raw and swelling. gold and crimson suddenly blurred together in lucretia's teary-eyed vision as she held her youngest daughter, cyrelle, and leaped. all around her, hands rose and voices crashed against one another, and somewhere within it, unapologetically, the lannister forgot herself. she was on her feet before the victory had even settled, her usual composure having taken a leave of absence while her green eyes burned with a light that was dangerously close to madness. cyrelle parted the embrace to applaud. lucretia joined. "that's it," she barked and finger-whistled, the joy of it all swallowed by the thunder of the throng. "that's my girl! well done! well done!" there was so much mirth in her laughter, a sound so rare it might scare those who knew only her iron heart. well done, were the very words her father had whispered when he kissed her brow after the babes were delivered, fourteen years ago. it all echoed and blended in the halls of her memory. the woman elbowed the soul beside her with a playful force in the midst of her applause. "i do hope you placed your bets on the right champion! else you just lost a lot of gold and well deserved."

[fatedriiiven]

when:  april  5th,  early  evening

where:  walking  through  the  pavilions

who:  open  !

the  princess  and  heir,  makes  her  way  about  the  grounds,  quietly  waving  to  each  who  pass  her  by  with  a  gentle  smile  on  her  lips.  she  feels  it  is  important  to  make  herself  known  to  those  who  have  come  to  celebrate  her  father,  and  speak  with  as  many  people  as  possible.  she's  always  been  quite  sociable,  after  all.  and  considering  that  one  day  –  hopefully  not  for  many  years  –  these  people  will  become  her  subjects,  it  is  important  to  know  them,  their  personalities,  their  needs.

she  stops  at  a  stall  to  buy  a  few  small  trinkets  for  her  children,  then  stops  at  another  which  is  offering  dornish  red  –  a  nice  thing  to  remind  her  husband  of  home.  after  paying  generously,  she  turns  and  goes  to  make  her  way  back  through  the  crowd,  only  to  end  up  walking  directly  into  someone.  her  hands  fly  out,  hoping  to  steady  the  other  so  that  they  would  not  fall.

“my  apologies!”  she  says  quickly.  “i  should  watch  where  i  am  going,”  a  nervous  laugh  falls  from  her  lips.  “i  did  not  hurt  you,  did  i?”

[gildedthcrn]

the collision brought a rare spark of genuine amusement to lucretia’s celadon eyes, and she held the princess steady for a lingering moment until the nervous laugh subsided. “not at all, your grace,” she replied. “i have endured worse in the lists.” the faintest flicker of humor sprouting at the corner of her mouth. her eyes moved then, briefly, to the trinkets gathered in the valyrian beauty's hands, and something in her posture eased. “for your children?” she asked, tone slightly more familiar than formal, careful not to cross into impropriety. lucretia gestured faintly toward a nearby stall, where colored glass and small carved figures caught the dying light of lanterns. “i was just partaking in the same indulgence.” she shrugged. “if you are not otherwise occupied, we might spare each other poor choices. two mothers are better than one when it comes to such matters.” there was a softness in that admission, albeit subtle, but it is real. the kind that only surfaced when her daughters were brought into conversation.

she turned then, enough to walk alongside if the princess allowed it. an unhurried pace and a steady presence about her. “myrcella rides in the squire’s joust,” she added, as if the thought had been waiting at the edge of her tongue for any listening ear. “it is her first time before a crowd of this size, and she pretends not to care, which means she cares entirely too much. she has my lord father's temper when she is focused on her lance.” a quiet breath escaped her, almost a laugh, though it carried the tight weight of maternal anticipation beneath it. “and cyrelle has already decided she will be crowned queen of love and beauty by the end of the week. she occupies herself choosing which silk favor she will bestow the champion. the girl is confident, i'll give her that.” she shook her head as a quiet snort came out of her nostrils.

for a moment, her attention drifted over the movement of the pavilions, where the whole realm stubbornly pretended this celebration was not entirely threaded with the tension of a new reign. the world have been waiting for a breath of fresh air, which was granted by the passing of the unworthy king. “it is a heavy thing, is it not? to raise the children who will one day have to hold all of this together,” she said, shifting her bags from one arms to the other. her maid, alika, followed a few steps behind her, carrying two more. “it is truly an honor to stand in a time that remembers queen rhaenyra not as an exception, but as a precedent. to see the world prepare for a second reigning queen, however far in the distance that day may sit, is a sight i find stirring. may the gods give you many years yet before the crown asks that weight of you, your grace.” the statement, however pleasing, was not dressed in flattery. it laid flat as a simple truth between the heiresses... or so lucretia intended it to.

[jenvier]

who: open to all three ! [ _ / 3 ] where: in the stands, during the horse races

A round of racing had just ended, and squires and groomsmen had taken over the field, aiding knights who ought to be capable of dismounting their own steeds; scrubbing clean armour and dust from eyes, calming the horses. Three had wandered close to the stands where Loren sat; from his high angle he could see the foam in their mouth, ruining what would otherwise be beauty with the lather. He pitied the creatures. One looked up as its groom attempted to remove the bit from its mouth, and locked eyes with Loren. If it were not a horse, he would think it a look of pained humiliation. He had never enjoyed being scrubbed down the neck from his own lather. Loren looked away and allowed the thing its privacy.

Preparation for the next race came to a close, and those that had wandered away for refreshment climbed into the stands once more. There are a dozen or more empty seats, he thought irritably, but somebody took the seat beside him regardless. Irritated, Loren inclined his head a few degrees in acknowledgement. In the field, a trumpet blared, and riders began to mount their steeds. The crowd cheered as Ser Connington, a favourite for the races, climbed on. Loren scoffed. "It is the horses we ought cheer for," he said idly. “Were they truly allowed to run fast as they could, the riders could do no more than hang on for life.”

[gildedthcrn]

the lioness paid him no heed. she first settled onto the seat. there remained a faint perfume of leather and tempered steel upon her person, a vestige of the preparation tents where she had lately stood, and she lamented how the burning sun and the dust of the king’s revelry stole the floral fragrances from her skin. beside her, cyrelle all but folded into place and then immediately leaned forward again with a restless energy, while her honey-blonde hair caught the light. her mismatched eyes, those curious gems of green and dark amber, sparkled with a feverish anticipation as they followed the gallop of the knights as they started lining up. “they would throw them, given the chance,” lucretia said, at last. her gaze lingered not on the riders, but on the horses themselves, on the tension beneath their hides, the tight pull of reins against instinct. “but that would ruin the show, i suppose, so we’ll pretend to be optimistic.”

but lady cyrelle gave a soft and restless sigh at her side, her spirit already wandering far from their speech to the dusty field below. “that one,” she cried with a finger pointed toward the fray, her body tensing as if to fly from her seat. “the chestnut! he is going to win, i can feel it.” a ghost of a smile touched lucretia’s lips, a rare blooming of light upon a face of stone. “you said that about the last one,” lucretia answered. “and i was nearly right,” cyrelle replied, with a haughty toss of her head, returning her feverish gaze to the spectacle. only then did the heiress turn her eyes to her brother, weighing the silent shadows of his character and the gulf he maintained between himself and the world. her features did not melt into softness, but they found a familiar peace, shedding the gilded mask she wore for the pretense of the court.

“myrcella rides later,” she added, almost idly. though those who truly knew her might notice the barely disguised tremors of a mother’s heart, for even as she had forged the girl in her own image and spurred her toward these violent sports, the spirit is not made of iron. had her own mother survived the birth of loren and witnessed lucretia’s own turbulent youth, she too would have found her tresses silvered by the weight of such anxieties. “she did not petition for luck, she just wanted us to look the other way.” a soft laugh escaped lucretia’s lips. “so we’re going to stare at her the whole time.” her gaze returned to loren and the fine embroidery of his robes. “root for the horses now, if you must,” she murmured with a sharp, sideways grin. “however, should you persist in this enthusiasm when the squires take the field, i’ll assist your descent to the floor with the toe of my boot. i swear it, brother.”

[gildedthcrn]

rosamund pike, cisfemale, she/her, forty five … #NOBLE // the seven beckon LADY LUCRETIA LANNISTER toward them; a rapacious, tactician of HOUSE LANNISTER. the firstborn daughter of the ruling lord feels their soul flay open just as judgement is shackling to a self-serving nature, gripping it tightly as mercy fights with diligence. traits guidance sees in the dreams of a rebellion with an accompaniment from strength and courage as they offer a long sword. all while innocence encapsulates memories of them — a spread of maps and books on the greatest battles known to history, a birth-cry so deep the mid-wives mistook her for a son, sunlight catching the polished brass of her pauldrons — so they are remembered when the unknown flickers into view, dragging them towards their end, failing to protect her siblings and daughters if war comes.

basics.

NAME: lady lucretia lannister.

TITLES: lady, ser, heir to casterly rock and the westerlands.

AGE: five and forty.

ALLIANCES: house lannister, the crown.

PRONOUNS: she/her.

ORIENTATION: lesbian. (homosexual + homoromantic)

STATUS: widowed.

FEARS: failing to protect her family in times of war. failing as a ruling lady.

GOALS: ascend as lady of the west after the passing of her father, maintain lannister supremacy, keep the west obedient (and eliminate house reyne if necessary).

2. visuals.

EYES: pale green.

HAIR: golden, usually worn braided or pinned down.

HEIGHT: 5'9.

SKIN: white. tans softly during summer.

BUILD: lean, toned and strong.

IDENTIFIERS: a collection of fine scars across her hands and forearms from years of training; an impeccable posture; hands filled with rings when outside the training yard.

3. connections.

PARENTS: lord terrence lannister & lady amara lannister (née lefford).

SPOUSE: lord brendan lannister (née serrett), deceased.

CHILDREN: lady myrcella lannister & lady cyrelle lannister (twins).

SIBLINGS: lord loren lannister, tba.

FRIENDS: tba. wanted!

LOVERS: tba. wanted!

4. biography.

lucretia lannister was born in casterly rock, with a cry so fierce and hoarse that the midwives, for one suspended and foolish moment, believed her a son. the mistake amused her father more than it disappointed him. lord terrence lannister, still young enough then to sire more children, took the deed as an omen rather than an insult. the girl was not denied the education of a lady. instead, she was given both worlds in full measure. tutors came and went through the rock, teaching her courtly etiquette, music, hosting, and anything else expected of a noblewoman, just as others instructed her in history, warfare, strategy, and westerosi politics. she learned it all. she absorbed it all. still, lucretia found herself drawn, again and again, to the weightier things. it was not that she could not play the lady. she simply preferred not to linger there.

lord terrence lannister was not a sentimental man, though he loved his children with a ferocity that bordered on the immovable. lucretia grew up idolizing him, but as she aged, the golden veneer wore thin, revealing the cold iron beneath his might. she came to understand that his love did not exist apart from his duty, and that the rock would always come first. to him, she was a daughter, an heir, and a piece on the board, utilized as easily as any bannerman or alliance. he sharpened her as he would any blade meant to endure, handing her every tool she might need, even as he made it painfully clear that her personhood would never outweigh what was required of her blood. and that understanding hardened her.

at seventeen, the title of knight was added to her name. her strikes, and her absolute command of the longsword left no room for doubt. yet there were those who loathed her for it, bitter lords who still cursed queen rhaenyra for letting women touch steel, but their anger changed nothing. she rode, fought, and studied with a discipline that bordered on severity, carving a place for herself in a world that would have preferred her ornamental. she did not argue her right to stand among men. she simply stood, and let her towering presence do the speaking. but skill, for all its brilliance, did not grant her freedom from expectation. if anything, her exceeding competence bound her tighter to it. as heir to casterly rock, her body was not entirely her own; it was a vessel for legacy, for continuity, for the unbroken line her father refused to see diluted.

their arguments over the matter were not usually screaming matches, but rather immovable, grinding stalemates. lucretia wanted women. she had always wanted women, and she possessed no desire to hide that truth. lord terrence, for all his pride in her, would not bend. duty came first. blood came first. the west could not afford ambiguity in its succession, not in an age where the realm itself seemed poised to fracture. and so, at thirty, she did what was required of her. she married lord brendan of house serrett. it was a political match, nothing more, nothing less. she was civil to him, at times even amicable, but there was no illusion of tenderness between them. he was a means to an end, and he understood that much, if not the full extent of it. within a year, he had given her heirs, twin girls, strong and wailing, their survival secured past the fragile threshold of infancy. and with that, the purpose of the marriage had been fulfilled.

it lasted three years in total. when the twins turned one, lord brendan died on the road, his carriage waylaid by bandits in what was reported as an unfortunate but unremarkable tragedy. there were murmurs, of course. there are always murmurs when death arrives too conveniently. some even suspected that lucretia’s hand had not been entirely absent from the matter. but suspicion without evidence means nothing, and lucretia gave them nothing to accuse her with. she mourned as she was expected to, clad in black, composed, impeccable in her grief. she performed widowhood as flawlessly as she had performed wifehood, and when the year of mourning passed, she emerged from it unburdened and unbothered.

motherhood remained the only territory she refused to surrender. myrcella and cyrelle were not just the required continuation of the golden line. they were the absolute only things in her life that belonged wholly to her. the iron that defined lucretia did not rust when she looked at them, but it bent, forming a quiet, vicious ring of protection around their lives. she looked at the heavy compromises she had been forced to swallow and vowed her girls would never taste the same poison. she would raise them to be sharp enough to cut their own paths, perfectly aware of the world but never imprisoned by it. they would be capable, but they would be uncaged. or so she fiercely promised herself.

today, lucretia is a creature of lethal fluidity. knight, lady, widow, heir. she glides between titles, refusing to let the court reduce her to just one. her blade stays sharp, though experience has cured her of mistaking skill for invincibility. she takes her lovers quietly and without apology, severing attachments before they can mutate into liabilities. she hides nothing of her nature. she simply denies the realm the chance to weaponize it. but now, the winds are turning. with aegon the unworthy in the ground and daeron the second wearing the crown, the whispers of bastard uprisings are already turning the air sour. the political board is shifting rapidly, and lucretia knows that keeping the west unbroken will be a far heavier burden than her father ever carried.

[allisoinreynolds]

HOUSES OF WESTEROS: HOUSE LANNISTER. The Lannisters never declined, graciously or otherwise. The Lannisters took what was offered.

[emily-axford]

ROSAMUND PIKE AS ANDROMEDA Wrath of the Titans (2012) dir. Jonathan Liebesman