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Peter Solarz
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Today's Document
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KIROKAZE
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@gniodnu
MUSES
Floris Baratheon
intro
inspo
connections
Allister Frey
intro
inspo
connections (WIP)
Rickard Celtigar
intro
inspo
connections (WIP)
Orion Hightower
intro
inspo
connections (WIP)
Cassandra Mooton
intro
inspo
connections (WIP)
dividers credit.
"florissa," alysanne greets in turn, warmly. it had been their nature, as sisters often did, to launch into the most foul of fights. alysanne had never spared her little sister her temper — screaming in face of a child, complaining to their mother before aelora took floris' position, pissing the older daughter off even further. always, the slight would be forgotten hours later, proven as alysanne guided the younger girl to the dance floor. these fights were not the same as the ones they faced today, not nearly as catastrophic or as heavy in weight. still, to alysanne, this is nothing different. lannisport was behind them. far behind them.
a deft finger catches one of her dark curls, holding her with the opposite hand still. "pretty dress, sweet girl." her mood was well, offering compliments as a serving girl did wine. how could it not be well — knowing what lay ahead for her this evening. "i was looking for you," not hard enough, clearly, preoccupied with her own plans, "but i had no doubt you avoid the hunt."
The name, so fondly thought of before, yearned for in the past few moons, now grates along her nerves like a barbed knife. The sisters' fight back in Lannisport had made it start to sour, but upon the filthy king's tongue it had truly begun to rot. To start their conversation with Florissa makes her ill at ease, and the way she speaks, like Floris is a sweet newborn kitten she has just encountered, gives her a stomach-rolling sense of foreboding.
Has she forgotten Lannisport? Floris had not, the memories causing her to tighten her grip along Alysanne's hand before she pulls her to sitting next to her, eyes never leaving her face. Her blue eyes shimmer under the chandelier flames lighting the Great Hall, mirroring the dark blue of her own gown. Floris has not forgotten Lannisport, but she has forgiven Alysanne. Moons spent thinking of when she would ever see her again forced her into rationalizing every word she had said to her, She was scared. She was unwell from the war. She was worried about her, perhaps. She had imagined a million and one things to tell her sister when she was reunited with her, but all of them melt away under the heat of her oddities. Why does she compliment me so?
"You sound well." Too well. Her head tilts to the side, eyes studying her face, how different it looked from her own. "What has you in such a good mood, sister?" Her hand refuses to let go of Alysanne's, as if even loosening her grip would lead to her drifting away along the seas that separate them. "Why were you looking for me?" The flicker of a smile curves her lips.
Trista Mateer, from a poem featured in her collection titled The Dogs I Have Kissed
it shouldn't have surprised lynora as much as it did. but to hear her lord husband not only engage in conversations , but guide her rather command her , was something that hadn't happened before. they'd talked before , sure , but it was always laced with anger from both sides. this felt almost civil. almost … nice. "i will be polite ," lynora replied , almost sounding like a protest if it hadn't been for the lack of poison underneath. "and lady rohanne needn't be bothered. i will be fine , my lord." she didn't want to drag lord celtigar's sisters into the depths with her. they had been kind to her , despite the rocky road that started off their relationships. still , lord rickard was trying. lynora didn't know why , but if he was , she could try as well. "i will do my best ," she replied softly , moving her breakfast around on her plate. there was no fight in her to even protest. "my mother … i've always had a talent for embroidery." she had never imagined it would be used to embroider the bridal cape of a future queen. much less someone from a family who had claimed anothers land as theirs. "and you … will be careful ? during the hunt , i mean."
"It will not be a bother. Lady Rohanne has a duty to this house," A pause, as he looks at her pointedly, "And you are a member of this house." A house is only the sum of all of its parts, its cogs and gears keeping it turning; if one were to falter, the entire unit could collapse. Rickard has never been in the habit of allowing the machine he resides in to reach a breaking point.
He hums in approval at her reply, choosing to indifferently, as well as politely, ignore the mention of her late mother.
Though, her question gives him pause. He is almost finished with his breakfast, and with the way she seems to be playing with her food (As has been her wont, he has noticed, since the late Lady Lysa's funeral), he had been of the assumption she is simply waiting for his departure. He....supposes it is only courteous, to ask after her husband, though there is no audience to their conversation for her to perform to. "I will be careful, yes, though I am hardly the one most likely to find themselves in trouble within the coming entourage." Her brothers, for one, will be in attendance. And, King Aerion himself, while skilled, worries him in just how exposed he will be during the hunt. House Tully, perhaps, have settled...But has everyone else?
He looks pointedly at her meal, "Eat. At the rate you are going, you will wither away before the nuptials."
Adrian was not sure how he had ended up here, how he had ended up letting Orion Hightower talk him into this with him, and yet somehow here they were.....he was certain lost in what looked like the edges of flea bottom. The other had sworn that he knew the city like the back of his own hand.....and yet......not fully paying attention as he listened to the other try to explain himself out of the mess he'd caused, Adrian heard a splosh, and felt a wetness on himself. Looking down he was standing in puddle....he only prayed was water........pulling his foot out, he had been wrong. Grimacing in disgust.
"You owe me a new pair of shoes after all of this....Orion. For your sake pray that no other foul substances from this city you know and love so much do not end up on my person."
@gniodnu
The Severed Hall, Orion had been told, was reputed to have some of the most celebrated bards in all of Westeros perform. Now, had Orion's sources themselves been particularly....reputable? As he looks through a hastily drawn map, certainly not one sketched with the use of an artist's eye, Orion realizes, Perhaps I was purposefully misled. He turns it upside down, for perhaps he had been looking at it wrong the entire time, but that does not help him one bit.
I suppose I haven't been here in quite some time...He cannot fault himself for trusting the words of a lord who was well into his cups when speaking to him, and especially not when the man spoke of an apparent...kerfuffle his brother had gotten into with Orion moons prior. But, he had missed King's Landing dearly, and a week spend in the Kingswood was not enough to burn out the high energy that strummed through his bones....
"Listen here, my lord. We may be lost, but that is simply one of life's many tests for us as men. You have to remember; it is not the destination that matters, but the journey." A journey consisting of filthy alleyways and mysterious liquids, but who can fault Orion for wishing to support the arts! He hums, and then shoves pushes the parchment right under Adrian's nose, "Can you read that? One would think a man drawing a map would have legible handwriting, no?" He laughs, but it would be a bit of a problem were they to miss his grace's wedding because they completely lost their way the day before...
ANTHONY BOYLE as ARTHUR GUINESS and LOUIS PARTRIDGE as EDWARD GUINESS HOUSE OF GUINESS // 1.01
where: the Great Hall when: during the feast celebration King Aerion's and Queen Consort Ysabel's marriage with: @ofashandichor
Her eyes are looking elsewhere as she speaks, but her chatter is just as animated, for she is quite excited to be seeing Lady Aoife Frey once more. Oh, how wonderful it is that her brother had learned the value of loyalty! Granted, it had taken the corpses of his family and the ashes of his house's lands to come to the correct conclusion, but the change of heart was worth celebration, in her opinion.
"Oh, Lady Aoife, that lady's dress is quite marvelous, is it not? I should like a dress like that, when I finally start as a lady-in-waiting to her grace!" It felt so odd, calling Ysabel her grace, but Cassandra knew better than to simply forgo titles because of her relation to the queen consort. "I suppose I will learn more about the fashions of King's Landing! Though, perhaps she is not of the Crownlands...."
If they had a kid: Flovanie!!
name: lady ysilla dayne. general appearance: she is characterized by unruly, thick curls that not even her mother's braids can contain, with fiery dark eyes that hold the baratheon spirit within them. ysilla is small for her age, with a sweet rounded nose and a cock of her brow that never seems to leave her. that fire is neatly tied in bows and pink dresses, in updos and braids that last an hour at most before she is unravelling them for a moment of respite. personality: her personality handed down by floris overshadows the reserved nature of her other mother. ysilla is insatiable, with an appetite for seeing others squirm from the discomfort of collecting secrets and deploying them at the perfect opportunities. there is an element of sweetness, captured in her heart from evanie and caught there, but it is mostly used as a means of deception ; soon she is teasing the poor, heart - eyed nobles that believed they would ever have a chance at the youngest lady dayne. special talents: ysilla is a secret keeper. she can move almost unnoticed, and in that comes an ability to listen in on conversations she should not be privy to. there is a wealth in forbidden knowledge, and she knows this better than most. her siblings, parents, family members, and every other heartbeat in dorne wishes that it was appropriate to tie bells to her ankles to alert others of her silent footfalls. who they like better: neither. at the stage in her life where she is entering into early adulthood, ysilla sees parenting as less of an act of love and care and more as a block in the road. she does what she can to circumvent it, to avoid noble obligation and run with the wolves — or the deers. if she was held to it, though, she would answer floris, as it is easier to sneak away beneath her watch than it would be beneath evanie's. who they take after more: ysilla is a star with antlers. she is both of her mother's daughters, although the personality easier spotted by outsiders is that of floris. the high emotions, the tendency to bite back — she is undoubtedly a baratheon, and there was never a moment where their dear daughter tried to hide it. in some moments, it is as though she is floris but amplified. yet there is still space for her to be evanie's daughter too. she feels sadness deeply, as though it settles into the notches in her bones. every loss, rebellion or crown alike, chips away at ysilla as though they were family. she may not mourn as publicly as lady dayne, but that does not mean the morose isn't there. personal headcanon: when she was one and three, ysilla was gifted a pet mouse in an attempt to teach her a shred of responsibility. she kept the pet close, as though it was a best friend, and when it passed away of advanced age it was the first taste of death she had ever known. it was then that she understood why evanie wears black gowns and veils, even years after her losses. for a week she paraded around in one of her mother's oversized dresses until she was afforded a replacement pet. faceclaim: ruby barker.
closed starter: @gniodnu to: floris baratheon where: in the red keep, hours before the royal wedding cerimony.
the morning light in king’s landing was bright enough to hurt, all gold and clamor and promise, and myriah sat beneath it like a woman being carved for display. her ladies worked dutiful fingers through her curls, weaving blossoms into the dark coils, pinning jewels where sunlight would catch. the room hummed with soft chatter, silk rustling, bracelets chiming, the scrape of a chest being opened for final adornments. a wedding day’s energy: bright-eyed, trembling, sparkling with some collective breath held between excitement and dread.
she loved it. gods forgive her, she loved weddings. she loved the pageantry, the vows, the silk and ceremony and hopeful foolishness of it all. but she kept her face composed, her smile small, because floris sat only an arm’s length away. floris, who should not have had a lady to braid her hair today but did, because myriah had insisted. floris, who wore one of the many gowns myriah had gifted her, and jewels bought by the princess herself simply because it matched her eyes. floris, whose hair was threaded with tiny white blossoms, delicate as breath. floris, who glowed despite herself. floris, who could not bear the thought of a dondarrion wedding.
mariah swallowed her excitement with a trained grace. she let it dissolve behind her ribs. “the needlepoint circle was lovely,” one of her ladies was saying as she smoothed the fall of myriah’s sleeve. “princess, your embroidery was the finest among them.” mariah laughed lightly. “hardly the finest. the dowager queen praises everyone as if we were all master seamstresses.” still, warmth flared in her chest. she had stitched apricot petals all afternoon and thought of love the entire time. “but the bride’s cloak… it turned out beautiful.” she felt floris tense. only a breath, a tremor, but myriah felt it.
so she softened her voice. “the cloak was heavy with work from every corner of the realm. it felt… sacred, in a way.” she looked toward floris then, unable to help herself. “i suppose every bride deserves to wear something made with such care.” and gods help her, the thought came uninvited, sharp and sweet as citrus peel: floris would be a beautiful bride. white blossoms pinned into storm-dark hair. silk falling like obedience, like rebellion. floris’s mouth trembling not with anger, but vows. floris standing beside her before the gods and men. but maron’s no was still echoing in her bones, cold as the stone of nymos’ tomb.
she tried to push it away. she failed. her gaze lingered too long on floris’s profile as the girl tilted her head for another pin to be placed. something inside myriah pulled taut. yearning, hope, fear, a thread ready to snap. can she wait? can floris? she did not know anymore. love had made her reckless and patient in equal measure, a contradiction she had to live with. “you look beautiful,” she murmured to floris, soft enough that it did not travel past the ladies bustling around them. “perfect, really.” her smile trembled into existence, private, blooming. “you will make the sept itself look dull.”
myriah felt her heart bruise with wanting. she will make a beautiful bride, whispered the foolish, hopeful thing inside her. if only she could be mine. the princess lifted her chin for another pin, hiding her expression in the movement. two hours until the ceremony. two hours until vows that were not hers. two hours of pretending her heart was not running ahead of her, back toward sunspear, toward gardens and heat and the impossible dream of floris baratheon in a bridal gown. “shall we be ready soon?” she asked the room, her voice warm enough to hide the ache beneath it. only floris, if she looked closely, would see the truth flicker in her eyes.
"But the bride’s cloak… It turned out beautiful."
But of course. Only the finest for the daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. For the soon to be queen consort. For Ysabel Dondarrion, rising out of the ashes of her grief to claim the flame of Westeros. Floris's own loss offers no such privileges, though she forces herself to ignore the twinge of envy, the thread of loathing lacing through her spine, as she listens to Myriah's sweet voice.
"I suppose every bride deserves to wear something made with such care."
Orys Baratheon looms over the back of her chair, a most fearsome sight between the delicate ladies that have deigned to weave her curls into something more presentable than she could manage on her lonesome. It has become a skill, one she had slowly and surely mastered, ignoring the titters and jibes of Myriah's ladies, spoken where their princess had no ears. She is the only one who means anything in this keep. She would think to herself, and it remains so, here within the cursed Red keep, as she is decorated like a doll for a wedding she would rather swallow glass than attend. Orys' hands clamp onto her shoulders, and Floris pretends to not feel them through the midnight blue of her gown, another one of the princess's precious gifts. The color of his eyes. Much more bearable than what could be mistaken for Targaryen black.
His fingers are where a cloak would be. A Baratheon cloak, a stag of sable woven into gleaming gold.
She imagines it being lifted, replaced by one of sunset orange, and his fingers tighten upon her shoulders, his distaste palpable.
She pays it no mind, though he is harder to ignore than the the princess's ladies, always in the back of her mind, in the corners of her eyes, nestled deep in her heart, his fury inherited years too late. Not wanting to be seen as rude, she responds, "Yes, my princess." Though something slithers down her throat, anticipation for something unknown.
Her praise is not novel; words fall out of the princess's lips like dripping honey. The feeling in her throat will not abate. "It is your eyes, my princess, that are beautiful and thus see beauty in all." The flattery does not require any form of thought; she is a lady through and through. Perhaps, had they been afforded some privacy, she would have allowed the blood to rush to her cheeks, a genuine smile to graze her lips. For now, all she can muster is a tight upturn of her mouth.
"Shall we be ready soon?"
One of the princess's ladies tsks as Floris's head turns sharply in the direction of the princess, ears hearing something wholly absent. "My princess, you must be quite tired from sitting so still. If I may suggest, may we take a few moments of reprieve? Perhaps I can fetch us some drinks to have together, so that we may be able to remain alert during the ceremony?" The together has a clear inflection. She asks for privacy. Something is wrong, has been wrong since the day had started, and it is not merely the lizard's wedding. Her heart is hammering like a war drum, her father a storm cloud above her head.
where: the Great Hall, the Red Keep, King's Landing, when: during the feast celebrating King Aerion and Queen Ysabel's wedding with: @ghostlydrifts
Floris has been, surely and steadily, sipping elegantly at glass after glass of wine. Dornish reds and Arbor golds, some she has heard of hundreds of times and others from foods she did not know could even be turned into wines. It loosens her tongue, just the slightest, for she is not one truly ever get into her cups....But she deserves it, does she not? What a joyous, momentous occasion! Blessed be the bride and groom. Shall she raise a toast to the newlyweds? Perhaps throw a glass at-
"I daresay, though the wines are simply marvelous," She supposes they are, anyways; her tongue can hardly tell what glides over it anymore, "The food leaves much to be desired from such a large celebration, no?"
Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, Carmilla
Intended for @gniodnu for Rickard Celtigar Where: Feast, before hatching
Raela stared grimly in front of her stuck in her own thoughts. Now that the wedding was done and over with, the feast was in full swing. Unfortunately the people Raela was avoiding by working on the needlepoint were now sitting close to her. She picked up a fork shakily and guided some venison into her mouth. Lysa's death was months ago. The riots were months ago. And yet she could not shake the guilt that hung over her like a storm cloud.
She noticed Rickard Celtigar's approach to the seat nearby. After being pestered by Alida earlier that day she would have preferred to not talk to another Crab. Especially one that had married a Tully. Maybe if she kept her mouth shut and stayed perfectly silent then he would find conversation else where. Of course, Raela was not known for being silent when she ought to be. "Lord Celtigar, how is your wife?" She stopped herself from saying anymore and sat awkwardly in silence while wondering why in the seven hells she lead with that question? The question that immedietly had to do with her friend's death by one of Raela's schemes gone wrong.
Rickard.....had not had any intention of conversation, but he is nothing if not proper, and he bows his chin in direction of Princess Raela in greeting. "Good day, Princess Raela." Her words catch up to him slowly, wading through the molasses of his confusion. Perhaps, with all the hubbub about Great Hall, he had misheard her...For what reason, pray tell, does Princess Raela have to ask after his lady wife?
He raises an eyebrow at the inquiry, revealing his curiosity. "My lady wife is well, thank you. And yourself?" To start her conversation asking after her before himself even...Had something occurred during the sewing circle? Something neither Lady Lynora nor Lady Rohanne had thought to inform him of? Seven, she had three entire women who would have gladly removed her from troublesome situations. He cannot think of any particular gripe with or grudge against House Tully either House Velaryon or House Targaryen would have, except for, perhaps, that which is most obvious. "May I ask after the nature of your inquiry, princess?"
fated for semi - open / @threadedjade, @gniodnu, @draconianmuses & @ofashandichor .
pinpoint the feast, after the hatching of the egg .
jon hoped that assuming the role of husband would mellow the king some, but even the hopes of an age wisened man were rarely realistic. his majesty was indisposed currently, trapped beneath the slight weight of his bride and drowning in spirits distilled across the narrow. there would be no discussion of princess caerella's dragon tonight — at least that which included the king. the implications of the dragon's presence, of the comet that had passed overhead — jon had difficulty believing that the two were not correlated. he wishes to discuss it with the grand maester, with any of his fellow council members, with his wife — but instead he paces the great hall slowly, observing the feastgoers. when he knocks his peg into something — someone, he discovers with despondency, his travels are interrupted. " my sincerest apologies, " he begs their forgiveness, placing a gentle hand on their shoulder. " i hope i've caused no pain. it would not do, on a joyous day such as this. "
She knows he has not seen her yet, for her locks of ivory, intricately woven into a long braid for the special occasion rather than left to flow freely about her shoulders, would have given away who she was almost immediately. "Even at a wedding, they have got you hemming and hawing over some issue or another, my lord father." The crimson sleeve of her gown falls back as she raises an arm to settle a hand upon the man's shoulder.
A smile, sweet and wide, graces her lips as her other hand offers him an odd little cake she had found upon the desserts table, a chewy thing, dark brown in color, with a light dusting of sugar upon it. "Try this, will you? It is unbearably sweet, but I do believe that is exactly what is needed for such a happy day." Her poor father, always thinking, thinking, thinking. She has watched as his hair grew as white as hers over the years and past the war. (She hopes against hope that being a lady-in-waiting is nowhere near the burden of that of someone on the small council!)
He used to think that he wanted to be good, he wanted to be kind, he wanted to be brave and wise, but it was all pretty difficult. He wanted to be loved, too, if he could fit it in.
{ bethany antonia + seven and twenty + female + she/her } welcome to westeros CASSANDRA of HOUSE MOOTON + MAIDENPOOL! it is quite well known that they are HONEST and DARING, though behind closed doors the people whisper that they are also DREAMY and INSECURE. whenever i think of them, i am reminded of white curls cascading over dark shoulders, the juxtaposition of always being less yet constantly wanting more, head in the storm clouds dripping rain into peaceful rivers, ribbons of red and gowns of ivory clamping shut around a heart that tries to beat its way out of its cage, dark brown eyes sparkling with the reflection of the moon. may they prove their worth in the game of thrones.
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connections. (WIP)
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something in the flippancy of his tone signals teasing, but vera can't force down the small thread of anxiety tugging in her stomach, feeling like she'd already broken an unspoken rule. she had heard king's landing had many of those. she could hardly be a good lady to the princess if she could not grasp something as basic as the guidelines. if only her brother had agreed more swiftly! then she would have had been days earlier to king's landing. "lady vera lefford," she murmurs in introduction, all but mumbled into herself as she curtseys towards him. "lady in waiting to princess viserra." well don't repeat yourself, idiot!
before she has time to beat herself over the clunkiness of her speaking, vera's mouth falls open into a neat circle, impressed by the introduction far too easily. the lady had never laid eyes on the targaryen without pressing herself to the tips of her toes, only glimpsing his golden crown from across the great hall when he showed his face in westerlands society. truly, orion could have told her that he had once polished the king's boots and she would have likened that to hanging the stars in the sky. "you squired for the king?" vera echoes reverently, never having personally known anyone to have reached such levels of success at such a young age! the hightower hardly looked any older than her. her voice is soft as she marvels, "you must have been well trusted." vera envied the thought, wishing to run towards the vision of she and viserra becoming the best of friends.
Orion has to dip a not inconsiderable about to hear any of her murmuring. Unbecoming of a lady in waiting, but he supposes she will learn soon enough. Lady Vera Lefford...He knows House Lefford, naturally, a consequence of years and years of memorizing house names, sigils, significance....Thouugh, his education had stopped at a Lord Evran and a Lady Aylin. Lady Vera....No, the name ignites no spark of recognition. Though, he supposes the third(?) child rarely ignites any sort of spark at all. Westerlands... The name Lannister is written all over any house from the Westerlands, naturally. But why a Lefford when Lady Agatha has been here for years?
...Her previous handlers matter not; it is her new master that interests him. "Right, of course." He politely ignores that she has already provided this information once before, though he does not believe Princess Viserra will take too kindly to the bumbling. It is only for a moment that he quirks a brow; even to his own years, his previous occupation is nothing worth true admiration. She is a bit simple, no? "Well trusted, yes. And I assume you will come to be as well, in due time." The flattery is barely thought of before it leaves his lips, and is not thought of at all a moment after.
"I wish you a most wonderful time here, Lady Vera." He bows to her in farewell. "If you will excuse me. Urgent business I must tend to." The princess...He turns upon his heel and leaves the lady in waiting, making his way back to the main gate of the Red Keep. Very urgent business.
where: the Great Hall, the Read Keep, King's Landing when: during the wedding feast of King Aerion and Queen Ysabel with: @threadedjade
Floris sits upon one of the many tables placed within the Great Hall of the Red Keep, as far away from the dais as possible, as she had numerous times moons ago. She nurses a goblet of Dornish red, a sour drink that she forces herself to swallow while maintaining a neutral expression. Long sleeves of midnight blue sweep across the table; she had forgone wearing a dress of black, the idea of sharing a color with the king making her sick to her stomach.
Just as she sets her glass down, a familiar figure passes, and it takes her a split second to turn in her seat and thrust an arm out behind her, fingers locking upon her victim's hand. "Alysanne." She says, quiet voice almost inaudible within the din of the hall, a stark contrast to the swiftness with which she had grabbed for her sister. I have not seen you in so long. She wishes to say. You did not come to see me before the hunt. It does not matter. Her fingers tighten around a pale wrist, brown eyes reflecting the light from the chandeliers above them, yet somehow still empty.
"We have always shared things, she and I. Ribbons, secrets, dresses."
Floris has? Had? Has? Had? a friend like that once. She knows not if Lady Selyse will forgive her, and, if she does, what form of friendship they would be able to retain. Lady Selyse will return to the Stormlands, and marry someone from within the region, perhaps, now that that filthy Mooton is gone...And Floris will return to Dorne. How can such a close friendship survive conditions such as these? The string that ties girls together has never been strong. She thinks to herself, It frays and frays when they become women, and then it breaks. Though, it seems the same can not be said for the princess and Lady Evanie. Tch.
(Whether she is jealous of Princess Myriah for having such a loving friend so close to her, or whether she is jealous of Lady Evanie for having Myriah, she does not wish to know.)
"But you must not think I look at everyone the way I look at you."
Her breath hitches in her throat, at the touch upon her clammy skin, at the words leaving the princess's lips. Can she feel it? She asks herself, The way my heart beats under her fingers? Her previous desire for a fight melts away. I am so easy. Like a dog lured by the smell of food. Like a girl chasing after the promise of love.
Love?
"And you never asked whether I might want more than titles like that allow."
Her heart beats staccato. What can that mean? What can that mean but one thing? She is a worthless woman, a lady of nothing. What can that mean but marriage, and how can it mean even that?
"I mean to court you, Floris, not win a horse race."
She jests, but Floris is in no humorous mood. Her hand reaches to one of those that cradle her face, slips her fingers into the princess's own, allowing them to intermingle, to feel each other out, finger over finger over finger. "You mean to court me?" She had never considered being properly courted, not since she was a little girl, one who believed in the chivalry of knights and the romance storied in songs. "Me?" The last word comes out a whisper, and is that not so so so horrid? She is Floris Baratheon! Though she had not expected to be courted, why ever would she be surprised at someone wishing to put such thought into her? Such dedication? When had she stopped seeing herself as everything one could covet, and started seeing herself as an undesirable burden?
"I do not want this to go at its own pace. Not yet." Her words remain soft, and if not for their closeness, Myriah would not be able to hear them. "My princess..." She pauses, and her hand squeezes the princess's tightly, "Myriah. You would have me for a wife?" She must know. Lady Aelora Baratheon had not raised her daughter to be a common whore, to warm the beds of those with brighter futures and higher prospects. If one covets her, they were to ask for her, in front of the gods and men.
She speaks of jealousy as if Lady Evanie were not a sight to behold, beauty and grace and a bleeding heart. Floris's heart only weeps for itself.
"I will stay the night, only if you promise me that is your intention. I am..." Worthless. Discarded. Nothing. "I like you, my princess," The title slices her lips as it comes out, "And I appreciate our closeness. You are kind and jovial and patient," And I wish we had met at a different time, years ago. I wish our fates had been entwined in a way that is nothing like this; warden and ward. "But I will not be tossed aside, when something," Someone. "Better comes along. I refuse to dig my own grave." Though her heart has already picked up its shovel, mucking up soil at every glance, every touch, every kindness, creating a hole the size of her fist, perfect to rest within.
And the prince. How can she forget the prince? Her princess has suffered, Floris knows, but she is ever so naive. She turns her head, presses a singular kiss to the princess's palm, light as a feather, more than she would ever have given someone else seeking her favor. The prince will never allow it. She ignores the voice in her head, looks forward, instead, to the light pushing away her darkness.
(Still. Still. Still.
She sees, out of the corner of her eye, a hulking figure. Blue eyes. Dark hair. A beard. Gold upon black and black upon gold.
Can she allow it?)
the princess did not breathe when floris’s fingers threaded into hers. she felt it, the tremor beneath the bravado, the frightened longing dressed in thorns. she had always loved flowers with thorns. her gaze softened, the kind of soft that could undo realms. “yes,” myriah murmured, as though floris had asked something sacred, something one whispered in a sept. “you.” the word landed like warm rain, unhurried and absolutely certain. “whom else would i mean?”
floris baratheon, titleless, landless, bristling as a cornered fox, looked at her as though the world had suddenly tilted. myriah did not let her look away. her free hand rose, cupping floris’s jaw as though handling a holy relic. “i mean to court you properly,” she said, voice low but steady, “with patience and ceremony and the sweetness you deserve. with flowers, and song, and every tenderness i can coax from this world.” her thumb brushed floris’s cheekbone. “i do not chase whims, my sweet,” a faint smile ghosted across her lips. “and i do not waste my heart.”
you would have me for a wife? those words struck myriah like a blow made of light, bending her inward, exposing something new and unbearably gentle. she touched their joined hands to her own chest, right over her heartbeat. “if the gods are kind,” she breathed, “yes. i would have you for a wife.” the admission trembled through her like gold poured into a mold. “you are not ‘nothing,’ floris. not discarded. not forgotten. not replaceable.” her voice thickened, full of too much feeling to fit cleanly into words. “there is no ‘better’ coming along. i choose you.”
she accepted the kiss to her palm like a vow. her eyes fluttered shut for one heartbeat, then opened, darker and surer but myriah was no fool; love had not made her blind. she knew the dragons’ shadow stretched long, that her brother's disapproval was just one rumour away from reaching his ears-- if she didn't tell him the news first. she leaned closer, her forehead brushing floris’s, a gesture so intimate it felt like a tether being tied. “there are battles ahead,” she admitted softly. “my brother is steel. my father is stone. the court is cruel. but i…” her hand tightened in floris’s. “i am the sand that outlasts them all.”
her lips brushed floris’s knuckles, mirroring the reverence she’d been given. “i intend you, floris baratheon. wholly.” she drew back just enough to search floris’s stormy eyes. “the gods have been most gracious to return you safe and sound to my arms. for sparing you from becoming a shroud of torn silk in a mob’s hands,” she added, voice gone breath-soft, “so i'm not letting your run through my hands like water. not if i can help it.”
end.
