Who: open to everyone
Where and when: day 2 of the celebration, crafts
The Blackwood had assisted with healing the sick and poisoned during the last event, and narrowly avoided accusation herself with her wide knowledge of poisons and medicine. The line between medicine and poison was sometime non-existent. Still, the head of Wylla Greyjoy haunted Shizuka's mind whenever she dare close her eyes.
"We shouldn't be celebrating" Shizuka mused despite taking care in her wreath. She bent the wood of her wreath and placed her flowers around it. The flora she picked was unusual, but matched her personality for both healing and hurt; foxglove, daisy, primrose, and lavender. It was a shame that mushrooms did not hold together well when being woven into wood, it would have complimented the foxglove so well.
She held the half-finished wreath out to observe it. Nightshade, this wreath was missing the purple of nightshade. "We should be mourning those who have been lost and make sure nothing like that ever happens again" How stupid did you have to be to try and poison the entire court instead of one person. Shizuka went back to weaving, her thoughts swinging between the wreath and her reaction to Wylla's death. "And worst of all" There was a bit of a whine behind Shizuka's words. "I have absolutely no clue who I am going to give this to"
Even without a maester's chain around her neck, Priya had tested her skills in the aftermath of the poisoning and though she had mainly dealt with remedies and antidotes, she found herself utterly fascinated by the poison, wondering whether it was native to the Iron Islands or if Wylla Greyjoy had sourced it elsewhere. Unfortunately, there would be no answer to her questions as the perpetrator's head had been detached and her lips forever sealed.
She found herself among other ladies at the wreath-making circle hosted at Amerei's behest. She found herself quite puzzled at the initiative but figured out of the many celebrations held here this was perhaps the least grotesque of them all. It didn't stop the heady scent of flowers that filled the air, or the more audacious color combinations on those wreaths, from being a bit overwhelming. She appreciated the chance to busy herself however, knowing that should she be at the citadel her schedule would be fast-paced and would leave her little time to dawdle.
Reaching for a dark blue flower, she's called to by another and the scolding tone raises her hackles instantly. She won't pretend she agrees with every choice being made here but as far as managing chaos goes, she can't say she would have done better. "These celebrations are just a distraction. It won't bring back the dead but I'm sure it's better than the alternative. After all the mourning, won't get to return home until after the kingsmoot has concluded. Should we all haul up in our rooms until then?" She responds, with calm and coldness, barely raising her gaze to meet the other woman's.
the lot of bracken horses nearly fill the entire stall. they are less offering than they are a display for this kingsmoot, and MYRIA BRACKEN has taken care of every single one at some point in their life. she massages the last of oil into one of the black stallion's neck, gaze never leaving the horse as footsteps draw closer. // accepting replies
the scent of lavender washes over her. taking a deep breath, she trails circles up the stallion's neck to behind the ear, slow and methodical. "if you want to request a horse for the joust," she starts, dipping her fingers into the oil well as she moves to the other side of the horse, "i'll need to assess your riding. i imagine the last thing you'll want is to be thrown off before your lance even touches your opponent's."
ah. now that didn't sound welcoming, did it? no matter. she would choose the fate of rider and horse, if a horse is what someone desperately wanted.
makoa's preferred horse for jousts has been left back home, at the arbor. there hadn't been any reason to bring the animal when their stay was about the kingsmoot and the kingsmoot alone. the youngest redwyne finds himself in the stables now looking for a suitable replacement but he knows the steed will not make much difference in his performance as his horse riding skills are well honed. he's noted the presence of many bracken horses, he does not expect the lady of the house to be present here as well, ready to assess him or anyone else who wish to request one of her horses.
a chuckle escapes him and he approaches one of the stalls, back turned to the woman. "and what does that assessment might entail? would not being thrown off the horse upon mounting suffice?" he jokes.
where: outside the gates of the red keep
when: after the execution of lady wylla greyjoy
with: open to non tullys-! (0/3)
Sabitha's relatives had claimed her heart to be full of hatred, acted as though her fingers were being pointed crudely, unjustly. There is a naivety to them that she cannot fathom. They, who were more well traveled than her, who embarked on journeys with others not only from all regions but also all classes. I had the right of it, She thinks to herself, but that brought no sense of satisfaction. As she watches Lady Wylla Greyjoy's head be hoisted onto a pike to be displayed for all to see, all she can think is, She has such beautiful hair. Certainly, if one could ignore the scarlet of drying blood clinging to it like a second skin. Within her now pale head, her eyes are closed, as though if she could not see her fate, it would not come to pass. Her hair blows in the wind of the oncoming autumn. I had the right of it, Sabitha thinks, but her insides have not stopped churning since the halls of the Red Keep had been filled with the echoes of the woman's denials and pleas.
"The Father is just." Sabitha says, as the woman's head and the men who right it when it tilts slightly so upon its final perch blur into the clouds hanging over King's Landing. Her own hair, left to roam freely from its usual confinement of braids and pins, whips at her cheeks, but her head does not move an inch. A shawl of red and blue hangs limply across one shoulder as it starts to slide off the other, but she does not seem to notice. "Violence must be met with violence." The weeks of confusion, panic, and sorrow should melt away; the cause behind them now burns in the seven hells. She will not be sent to sea. Her own breakfast begs to rise up her throat. Sabitha should be stronger than this. "Perhaps I should join the lists," She jokes, blinking once to relieve her eyes of the dryness they gained from staring so long, "A Greyjoy executed at a kingsmoot. A kingsmoot held by the small council. The world feels almost....outside in." Will she change, the way the world has?
The execution had been such a spectacle as to almost overshadow the justice being dealt in front of all the noblefolk of Westeros. Not that Makoa could bring himself to feel much sympathy for Wylla Greyjoy as he had watched her head being detached from her body. She had made her choices, risky ones and they did not pay off. It was foolish of her to think she could poison anyone within the red keep and not be found out and he can only think this was some sort of suicide mission and her motives would be unveiled eventually. He did feel some pity for her family as there was no reason to believe they had a hand in any of it and as the executor had held the deceased's head up, a trail of blood in his wake the whole affair had taken on a cruel and sordid feel. Most of the execution his eyes had been trained on the crowd, searching for his sisters. He had been in no mood even for their company. He'd call his mood appropriately somber and they sullen no doubt.
As he made his way out much later his thoughts were rudely interrupted by a woman to his right and he eyed the woman, wild hair and shawl so colorful he wondered if she'd worn it hours earlier and he found himself laughing before he could think too much of it. "The Father? Don't you mean the Stranger. He has been reaping more than his share these days." He replied, not weighing his words or their offence. The fact that they are openly speaking without lowering their voices is offensive enough as it is. "Perhaps you should. If anything, violence is often a formidable outlet." If they were to be stuck here while investigations carried on, a bit of fun could not hurt. He had every intention of joining the lists himself. "The world will soon right itself. Once the kingsmoot has been concluded and the throne has a worthy successor."
✶ ⸺ 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫, the gardens of the red keep. uncapped, for the moment.
the gardens had been quiet enough that dove had found herself in them liberally since arriving at the red keep. one of the few places, so far, that did not have a thick and lingering tension hanging at each turn and little reason to play decently with one another. others busy with trying to find the culprit or attempting to not look suspicious rather than traipsing about picking flowers. “ ow ! godsdammit ! ” an idle pull of one of the roses to add to the generous amount of blooms that she had already gathered earning her the swift prick of thorns. “ my apologies for sitting without invitation, but i will only be a moment. ” crossing the path to the nearest stone bench to sit towards the far end ( offering them plenty of space ) as she placed the other flowers beside her gently to peer at the pins of blood on her index finger.
priya had been unsettled the very moment she'd stepped foot into the capital, wishing for the familiar confines of the citadel or even her home in riverrun and although she could not have conceived of the death and disease that befell the lord lannister and so many guests under this roof, she couldn't say she was surprised. if anything, she dreaded what might come next. until the culprit was revealed, weren't they all sitting ducks? she wondered if the death of one would embolden whoever was behind the poisoning to act once more or if they might be too busy covering their tracks. either way she could not wait to leave. feeling as though she might suffocate in the room she stayed in she had made her way to the gardens with a book, dark hues unfocused as she re-read the same line over and over. her mind would not quiet down not even in such an idyllic place, with the sweet scent of flowers in her nose and she closed her book, one hand rubbing at her temple. she barely felt the shift as someone sat next to her but she smelled blood before she saw it and shook her head. "the gardens don't belong to me." she replied, not knowing what else to say in response to the other's floundering. fishing into her pocket she produced a handkerchief. "this might help."
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ the hand of the late king welcomes priya tully, the lady of riverrun, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be patient and generous , but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their meek and indecisive tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of skirts soaked in river water, stones and dried flowers lining a windowsill and the sound of a dagger as it flies through the air. they themselves dream of house tully on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
𝙎𝙏𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙎𝙏𝙄𝘾𝙎.
full name: priya tully title(s): lady of the riverrun, daughter of the ruling lord age: thirty birthdate: the sixth day of the ninth moon place of birth: riverrun, the riverlands gender: cis female pronouns: she/her sexual and romantic orientation homoromantic homosexual religion: the faith of seven languages spoken: common tongue, valyrian, allegiance: house tully, riverrun
father: ruling lord balan tully, 99 mother: lady hema tully née dayne , deceased siblings: tully a, lady sabitha tully marital status: unwed children: none related: house tully, house dayne
traits: patient, generous, industrious, diplomatic, meek, indecisive, neurotic interests: takes particular interest in all crawling creatures, from the bugs on the moss covered forest floors of the riverlands to the snakes in the tall grass. from a visit to dorne she brought back a yellow and cream colored snake she has named dahlia. demeanor: withdrawn, prefers to dwell at the edges of rooms as social interactions tend to drain her considerably. has a habit of picking at her nails when particularly anxious which is why most of her fingers are adorned with rings providing a way to divert that habit. extremely fast learner, priya cannot devour enough books and loses hours to her reading to the point of forgetting to eat or drink often. weapon of choice: is not much for fighting but has a knack for throwing daggers. she hopes she won't ever have to use them to defend herself but she typically keeps them somewhere on her person. an easy ice breaker when she is cornered.
height: short of stature hair & style: black wavy hair, worn down most of the time complexion: dark brown eye colour: dark brown, notable features: full lips and several beauty marks fashion: favours blues and greens and cold tones and breathable material. avoids restricting pieces such as corsets. wears gold rings on her hands but is otherwise very minimal with jewelry.
𝙃𝙄𝙎𝙏𝙊𝙍𝙔.
you're born the last child of balan tully, another girl only a year separating you from your sister sabitha. your elder sibling is too far out of reach both in age and in status, they stand to inherit. the title, the responsabilities they will all fall to their feet one day and the burdens that come along with it all. you do not envy him, you have the luxury of the youngest. you're showered with attention, fawned over and only expected to marry well one day to further the influence of your house. the thought of marrying and birthing children especially makes you queasy. there are babes aplenty in your family but you regard them with the same curiosity and repulsion that most people afford the pets you collect from the neighboring rivers. it's not that you dislike children but the idea of being tied to a screaming, crying and demanding creature frightens you. nurturing doesn't come naturally to you either, not the way it's supposed to for women. it's a relief then when as you blossom into a young girl your desires tend towards other girls. the very idea of birthing is put from your mind then and marriage is a faraway maybe, a future you're safely removed from.
your youth is a blur of climbing trees and collecting herbs and beetles, making what you call potions at first and come to qualify later with knowledge as poisons and elixirs. you tend to every wounded creature you find despite the protests of your parents and siblings. once it's a rabbit with it's leg askew and the next frogs you found on some dry patch. your sister does not seem to like your antics but when she isn't picking fights you've noted she doesn't seem to like much. tenderness is most felt for you with your mother. lullabies, hair braiding and listening to your rambles about some book or other. these are the ways she shows you her care. when she dies you are inconsolable. you withdraw even more, you don't eat for days and sleep evades you, the only times your eyes close you're plagued with nightmares.
you make a decision then to leave the riverlands for a time to go study in the citadel. you could earn a chain, you've got a bright mind all your tutors have told you as much and you need to get away. your siblings faces and even your nephews and nieces all remind you of her, it makes you sick. awakes a violent rage that you do not know how to quell yet. oldtown becomes a second home remarkably fast and you take to the citadel like a fish to water. the ravens from home carry words of the mounting tension between your eldest sibling and your father who still refuses to abdicate. you do not understand his stubborness or his pride and you write back with words councelling your sibling to be patient and gracious. you do not know how much more patience they have in them and you're afraid this infigthing could bring the whole house down.
king aegor dies suddenly and the realm is thrown into disarray. the hand deemed unfit to succeed him, a kingsmoot will decide the next regent. a tradition borrowed from the ironborn. a mad choice, a call to chaos and bloodshed in truth. you know you cannot remain at the citadel and it's with a heavy heart you journey to king's landing with your family. you know your sibling wishes to put his name forth but the shadow of your father looms still and you for one can only hope to escape without your family being marred with shame from the ordeal.
status: closed starter for @hclvedhearts
setting: during the harvest feast
god be good, they were so damn bored. her face hurt from smiling and having to bite her inner cheek to stop the usual spew of words that came if she let her mind wander. and unfortunately, with the clanging of utensils, the mind numbing choruses of never ending conversations, music, movement, aila deeply wished for the quiet of the courtyards, to trade the goblet in her hand for the hilt of a blade. they brought the chalice to their lips and took a long drink before a familiar voice nearby catches her attention.
turning to face them, her suspicions were confirmed when aila managed to catch makoa's eye, a genuine smile returning to her lips. knowing him, there was a kindred spirit who'd also want some reprieve. aila gestured to one of the side doors, inviting a companion to a mutually beneficial escape, even for just a short while.
they step into the hallway first, feeling the pressure ease off tense shoulders and the dull ringing that replaced the deafening roar inside the banquet hall. "You have no idea how much of a relief it is to see a friendly face." Not merely friendly, but someone that aila at the very least felt would not intentionally engage in the political games of sweet talk and press her for information. Though she was not naive enough to think makoa would not do whatever in his power to support his house and brother, she would not blame him in the slightest, but she hoped they could speak plainly, talk of things more interesting like sailing, or swordplay, or share what she learned about lady arryn's new shrieking arrows. "i'm hiding from my sister and a lady whose skirts I may have ruined by dropping half an apple tart on. i hope the feast has been treating you better."
platitudes after platitudes had chipped away at makoa's patience for the whole affair and as he had rationed his wine, determined not to make a fool of himself by drinking more than he ought to, he found himself unable to smile convincingly as a man whose name escaped him blattered on about gods knew what. a passing tray of food was his excuse to step away and with his hand full, he turned and before he could step too far caught the eye of a lady of house tully, goblet in hand and seemingly as fed up with the festivities as he was. a tight lipped smile to answer her own he followed her gaze to the side doors and followed shortly thereafter.
"it is for me as well. i'm starting to wonder whether i simply have a bad memory or i've simply being cursed to encounter only strangers until now." he responded, dark hues alighting with amusement. it wasn't often he found himself in the riverlands but the few times he had the ruling house had been very welcoming. he'd come to enjoy his talks with the lady aila. "my, you've had an eventful evening. i'm sure you can blame the tart incident on jitters. the feast has been dragging on if i'm honest. how long are we expected to pretend we came for wine and scintillating conversation?" the charade had been going for far too long and he could only assume their hosts were delaying the inevitable with this harvest feast. it was certainly not the most subtle attempt but he supposed desperation didn't always breed ingenuity.
closed starter for: makoa redwyne (@hclvedhearts)
location: the great hall of the red keep
music floods the great hall in endless waves, bright and honeyed and dangerous; inviting your distraction, your softness... you grant it neither. not beneath the dragon banners. not while they all covet a throne that ought already belong to your mother. but court demands performance as much as politics, and so you begrudgingly oblige. you aren't nearly as charming as alysanne or as gracious as viserra, but you try your best to not prove yourself lacking. you dance and you smile, following the choreography you have been taught for the tune being played, as you are carried from one partner to the next, conducting ladies through elegant turns before falling neatly into the hands of waiting lords. sheer black silk unfurls around you like smoke. rings and earrings glint. the three-headed dragon worked into your bodice looms. but it's no use just looking the part; words draw more blood than blades in halls like these. so you watch for the threat beneath the pleasantry, who could be dissuaded into an allyship and who to list as an enemy of house targaryen. many times have you danced in halls like these, enough to memorize the steps, yet none imbued with stakes so high. when the next turn arrives, you know precisely whose colors await you before you fully lift your gaze to glare at the face. redwyne. of fucking course.
your hand settles against makoa’s as the dance carries you together. your eyes readily drop to his mouth to check for the damage you had left behind, the memory of his jaw bloodied beneath your gauntlet, during the last tourney you shared, nearly had you smirking. pity. you should have struck harder. "well, well," you hum, lips curling into something dangerously close to pleasant, "i see your jawline healed nicely after the tournament, pretty boy," you permit him to lead you reluctantly, his hand steering you into the next rotation as courtiers whirl past in jeweled blurs. "did you lose any teeth, in the end? i truly did feel terrible about it." you did not. not remotely. the music refuses to falter, which prologs your predicament; the nearby nobles who chose wine over dancing watch the swaying pairs with cheers and easy laughter. that's when your fingers tighten slightly against his, maybe a tad more forcefully than what was intended, before courtly grace urges you to release it again. "though i suppose a knight of house redwyne can survive a bruised face well enough. ambition seems to cushion the blow these days."
standing as still as one of the columns of the ballroom gives makoa the perfect viewpoint to observe. the red keep swarms with people this night, dancing fools all of them and he counts himself among them, knowing full well his family might come away from the kingsmoot empty handed. no crown, no glory. still he likes to think his sibling has a greater chance than some of the more daring nobles who have travelled here. dark hues flit from one guest to the next until they rest upon a familiar face. he's used to seeing the princess with marred skin, grime, blood, and sweat all complimentary to the sharp features of maekara targaryen. he doesn't dwell on the other glimpses he has caught of that face, the more vulnerable ones. if all goes well, there will be no such moments between them. he likes to think of them as weaknesses the next tide will wish away.
but he's never been one to stay away from things he might regret and the childish desire to taunt her rears its ugly head. like the few times he's bested her and could not keep himself from a smirk, a taunt. he has to give it to her despite her lofty title she never did lord him over his head, like a damocles sword over his head. of course, though the illusion that they are equals outside of tourneys is a fragile one. for now she is still a princess and he a simple lord. he has to think it offends her seeing so many like him come to challenge her family for the throne. what can defeat fire and blood after all? makoa can feel the phantom pain of her last punch to his jaw, gauntlet still on those lovely hands. he'd thought for a second she had broken it and he had thought through the pain, blood painting rivulets down his neck. the smile on maekara's lips as she greets him tells him he isn't the only one reminiscing. "so it did. the bruise attracted attention. i think fawning might be a good word for it." he shoots back with a smirk of his own as his hand grasp her waist more firmly as they turn. it's a miracle she's allowing this closeness at all and up close, through the sheer black garb and the glinting jewels at her throat, she's distracting. maybe that's the point. he smiles widely, shaking his head in the negative. "truly your concern is ever so touching, your highness" he mocks and spins her once as the music swells. "a knight of house redwyne may have his ambitions, as does the rest of the realm it seems. but house targaryen can withstand a challenge, can it not?"
where: a balcony of the red keep
when: a day or two after the announcement of lord lannister's death
with: open! (1/4)
It is not his intent to dress in funereal colors, neither now, nor moons ago, nor three years ago. House Swann boasts a sigil of white and black, and white can be oh so difficult to clean, especially when one spends...spent their days riding through the stormlands, rounding up bandits, making due with filthy inns and filthier roads after the heavy rains caked the ground in mud. Here, however, upon a balcony hanging off the Red Keep, he stands in pristine condition. Even better, he blends in with the heartbroken noblemen that have filled his field of vision for the better part of a fortnight.
"Despite the somber veil hanging over the Red Keep," He speaks, fingers moving in circles along the hilt of short sword, now almost permanently attached to his person (Though, how he means to fight off poison and illness with the sharp end of a blade is not something he wishes to ponder), "The ruckus of the keep remains ever the same." Servants scramble around the courtyard beneath his perch, their commands and alerts to each other rising up, building into a cacophony that swirls into the ever present ringing in his ears. "Will a funeral be held here? That would certainly postpone the kingsmoot. Giving way to more tragedy, I should think." His mind's eye conjures a vision of rushing after his mother's white skirts, never with a speck of dirt upon them, so that he may pull at them and tell her of the great troubles that face him. Poisoning. A dead Lannister. A dead paramount. A dead master of laws. A dead mother. How trite.
The sickness arrived like a thief in the dead of night, as spirits were high and mouths were otherwise occupied with gossip or wine. Makoa finds himself grateful to have followed his instinct as he eyes the wreckage now. All in all, it seems whatever has caused this plague has not affected many. The sick count themselves on one hand, and there are dozens and dozens more in the keep. It could have been infinitely worse, and he wonders whether that was the goal of whoever is behind this or if the villain had only hoped to remove one pawn off the board. If so a member of the council is a worthy target. He tries not to think of the alternative, of his brother lying lifeless instead of Cerion Lannister. Being a council member comes with risks, he's always known this but he isn't sure he's comfortable with the giant target it has painted on Desmond's back now that the kingsmoot approaches.
His hand rests upon his dagger as he walks, the hallways empty now and he makes his way onto a balcony. Secluded enough but not wholly empty. He recognizes the lord Swann, whose attire already matches the ill-fated occasion. He opens his mouth to advise him to retire to his bedchambers, but the other man is intent on spectating from afar. It's all turned to chaos beneath their feet, and Makoa stubbornly refuses to see it. The kingsmoot will happen regardless; even death cannot stop the change that is coming. Looking back will only leave him more vulnerable for the next attack, and so he doesn't, listens instead, and after a moment finds his words. "It likely will not. I don't think the Lannisters would take well to burying him where he died." Regardless of who was to blame for his death, he couldn't fathom any of the Lannisters choosing the keep as a final resting place. Were he the one grieving, he'd sooner tear it all down instead. "Or hasten it. The threat of danger might urge us to get on with the proceedings faster, don't you think? After all once the kingsmoot is done with, most of us will not remain here."
cedric looks to the lord now standing next to him, as if sizing him up. he knows that he recognizes him, yet the name is evading him at the moment. oh well, he will simply have to fake it for now. it's not like he hasn't done this plenty of times before. so he forces a polite smile, and nods his head. “that you should,” he agrees.
“it is quite good. better than what i've tasted in the past, though i suppose that is no surprise considering the occasion.” he imagines the lord may take it as a slight, though it really is not meant to be. “why don't you indulge, my lord?” he asks, noticing his hand is lacking for cups.
"regardless of the occasion, the arbor provides the finest wine in all of westeros. our southern neighbors may boast differently but my sister has made sure to bring enough barrels of it to convince even them." makoa replied, his expression easing into a relaxed grin. he appreciated that the lannister lord was making their exchange an easy one. no jab, no pressing questions about the kingsmoot. it was better this way as he was in no mood to lie about where his loyalties lay. nor his intentions.
"oh i have. but too much wine might prove unwise as the evening unfolds. unless of course you trust everyone in this room." caution was far from the word makoa choose to live by but even he had his limits, knew when to stop himself from playing the utter fool. drinking more than his ill in this room full of adversaries would surely count. perhaps, cedric lannister simply thought himself strong enough to best all of them. he had heard little tale however on the man's prowess in combat but then again what would a lion of the rock be without his pride.
vaiora hardly flinches at the closeness, the arbor gold tasting like a laugh on the painted petal of her lips. there was once a time his steps took an unsteady, plodding weight to them — now, although even when larger than he was as a babe, he took a hunter's quiet gait. "you are too paranoid, brother," the redwyne says sweetly, pressing her cheek against his in greeting. she offers an apologetic smile to her original companion, waving away the lady with a gentle dismissal before turning her full attention to makoa.
round eyes earnest, she defends herself to her siblings for the second time this evening, "i kiss wines with all." a toast offered to each, the fill of their cups sloshing into each other's. if poisoned, a poison to be shared. never once thinking that she was the strange one between them. she was never concerned with her reputation in that manner, coming only as she was and trusting they would see the same. "where have you been?" her curiousity falters, picturing it now. dark hues narrow — "not hiding on your lonesome, i hope?"
"what you call too much paranoia, i call being prepared for the worst, sister." makoa replied with the utmost seriousness. he could feel the tension in the air even as the guests clinked glasses together and laughed heartily. they had all come here with the same goal and prepared to argue their cases and the civility that held between them all would no doubt give way to violent outbursts. he preferred to keep his wits about him until then.
some lord made way to join them and kiss wine as vaiora had so poetically put it and makoa simply stared the man down, his glare driving him away much to the youngest redwyne's amusement. "i've noticed. you leave yourself too open. and i can't watch you all evening. if i do not at least pretend to be sociable, desmond will never let me hear the end of it." he replied after a beat. he ought to try to get to know the people of this city, he'd make a lousy commander if he insisted on staying on the outskirts, watching from afar. he didn't have the easy charisma of his brother however, a fact desmond seemed intent on ignoring. "where is that crab lord of yours? i think i'd like to look upon my future good brother."
located in just within the red keep's walls, as the last of the wheelhouses are making their way through the gates & fated for any who wish to respond.
the muscles of his back are tensed against the warm southern breeze. it pulls at the pink fabric of his doublet like caressing fingers, and it brings with it the stench of rot — of unwashed bodies, of blood. king's landing was a cess pit, and jacks bristles once more at the notion that jorah had ordered him here. his stomach is knotted not unlike the handiwork of a hangman, his jaw clenched as if it were forged together by a blacksmith. inside its cage, his tongue pokes at the metallic surface of his left inciser. it tastes familiar, like something he'd eaten in a dream. a flash of movement to his right brings him out of his miserable reverie, sets him on high alert. men do not bare their teeth in greeting. " you walk with the misplaced confidence of a southerner, " he accuses, back pressed tightly to the side of the bolton wheelhouse. he flashes a grin that is more animalistic than it is a display of mirth. jacks considers it a healthy compromise. " and too close to what is not yours. "
makoa's eyes never leave the paved road as he waits and waits to spot his family's wheelhouse. he wonders if mela had insisted on not arriving too early so as to not show their hand, seem too eager. if that's the case, he can see the strategic value in it, but as always, understanding does nothing to ease his worries. the constant stream of his fellow nobles arriving at least offers him a distraction; the sheer number is astonishing and of course there are what he could term as underdogs if he was in a charitable mood. men and women wholly unfit to occupy a ruling position in their own regions and even less so that of king. clearly it doesn't stop some of them strutting around as if they already own the place. he's spotted such a man stood next to his wheelhouse as if trying to mold itself to the vehicle, so still he is and so makoa walks up and down the paved road as he has done now for several minutes and does not mind where his feet lead him, curious to know if the man seemingly made of stone will show sign of life.
the stranger does not disappoint and makoa takes a beat to look him up and down, answering the man's snarl with one of his own. he knows men like him. intimately. the poor restraint, the rigidity that could pass for stoicness with more practice, and the threats, always with the threats. the way the other spits out the word southerner as if it were poison clues him in to who he might be speaking to, and he takes one measured step forward. "and you speak with the tone of a northerner with an inflated sense of his own importance," he replies, tone even. brown hues flit from the man's face to the wheelhouse behind him, no trace of a sigil in sight. he frowns. "a word of advice, my lord. tame your tongue before entering the keep, king or no i'd wager the guards will not be as tolerant to your particular brand of candor." his words drip with mockery and he deliberately looks away, hand finding the pommel at the dagger at his belt, an unspoken warning of his own.
vaiora smiles brightly, as if stepping into the role of hostess — as if king's landing is her home, already. the chandelier of wax and iron reflecting the lady of the arbor's warmth, amber candlelight allowing a halo of light in the darkness, the seven smiling down on her. it feels nice against the deep plum of her silks, drinking in the light's rays, warming the bare of her shoulders, imbuing the collar of rubies fastened to her neck with a gentle sparkle. “do be sure to imbibe," she advises sweetly, palm outstretched to hold. the other nurses a gold patinaed goblet inlaid with a matching scarlet, swishing nearly half empty. "we brought near to a hundred barrels for the occasion. the arbor's finest, of course." vaiora resented the favour of dornish reds. "they will not drink themselves!”
makoa watches from where he has found respite on the balcony as vaiora entertains the guests of the feast as easily as she would if this were their own home. a bright smile, an outstretched hand. his sister already looks perfectly at ease in the keep. he does not have to try to picture her as a permanent fixture in it but the thought of that crab lord hanging limply at her side makes his brow furrow in disdain. she deserves better. better than a celtigar who if whispers about the man are truthful, loathes his own kin. he knows of his sister's talent at making friends, at charming but he cannot help but wonder if the man is a challenge too great for even her.
he does not say a word of it as he approaches, a fond eye roll at her speech and when he comes to stand next to her the hand on her shoulder lands softly as he leans in to whisper, watching the retreating back of the lords she was peddling their wine to so dilligently. "keep this up and they'll think we've gone and tampered with our own wine." he warns. a thought conjured up by a mind lightly touched by paranoia and yet he hardly thinks he's being unreasonable. not to suspect some foul play from at least one of the attendees here would be naive, wouldn't it?
the lord of casterly rock makes his way into the hall with his head held high, as if he's so sure that at the end of all of this, it will be he who bears the title of prince. just like a lannister to think so highly of themselves, for sure. he is quick to swipe a goblet of wine from a nearby serving girl's platter, sipping at first before gulping it down. arbor gold… not his favorite, but it will have to do for now. he much prefers dornish red.
he looks down for a moment, swirling the little liquid left in his cup round and round before finishing it off. when he looks up, there is someone stood in front of him, as if waiting to speak with him. when had they approached? had they already been talking?
“apologies… if you said something, i must've missed it. what was that?”
makoa abhors the red keep. always has. no matter how many visits he's made it is the only place in all the capital that almost makes him wish he were breathing in the fetid air of blackwater bay. he's never been able to quite place his finger on why he finds the building so suffocating. now he thinks if the targaryen banners were torn down he might enjoy it more. he can easily picture the colors of house redwyne instead. it's easy enough after all desmond has been keeping the coffers of the king full long enough and in the feast hall though houses from all around westeros gather, it's the gold and the burgundy of the arbor's fruits that his eyes find first.
but there are others. contenders for the throne. all manners of skills and merits. not all the heads in this room worthy of a crown upon their head and he supposes there's something to be said about blind belief in one's ownrings however meager those may be. some might call courage, less gracious adjectives come to the redwyne knight.
he spots one of the lion cubs of the rock just as he himself is sipping from a cup of arbor wine, a charming smile upon his lips as some lady he does not recognize chatters next to him about the kingsmoot as if it's some grand game. he watches on as cedric gulps it down like a fish and excuses himself, sidling up next to the man, an amused glint in his eyes, wondering if the rest of his household knows their bright lord is treating the feast with such nonchalance. "that's quite alright, it appears you were too absorbed in your cups, my lord." a pause, a deliberate look to the empty goblet. a flash of disapproval shining in dark eyes even as a boyish grin forms on his lips. " i should relay your compliment to my lady sister. she'll be most pleased to hear you find the arbor's wine to your liking." he thinks meanly that if the lion wants to gorge himself on wine, slow down what rattles in that thick skull of his then who is he to stop him.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ the hand of the late king welcomes makoa redwyne, the lord of the arbor, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be reliable and decisive, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their stubbornness and unforgiving tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of a galant figure removing their helmet to reveal a snarling mouth, unblemished hands crushing overripe fruit at the dinner table, the scent in the air during a thunderstorm in a long summer. they themselves dream of house redwyne on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
𝙎𝙏𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙎𝙏𝙄𝘾𝙎.
full name: makoa redwyne title(s): lord of the arbour, sibling to the ruling lord age: twenty-five birthdate: the twenty-second day of the seventh moon place of birth: the arbour, the reach gender: cis male pronouns: he/him sexual & romantic orientation: bisexual religion: the faith of seven languages spoken: common tongue, low valyrian, summer tongue allegiance: house redwyne, the arbour
father: ruling lord unnamed redwyne, deceased mother: lady unnamed redwyne née estermont, deceased siblings: ruling lord desmond redwyne, lady mela redwyne, lady vaoira redwyne marital status: unwed children: none related: house redwyne, house estermont
traits: decisive, reliable, stubborn, unforgiving, quiet, insecure, volatile, interests: there is a joke that resonates within the walls of the arbor that the youngest boy is more fish than man, that he might have more tully or manderly's blood in him to be so attuned to water. makoa's one point of pride is his skill when navigating the sea, he spends most of his time sailing and when he is not tending to the widlife of the island. when he stays within the arbor he has taken to painting, although he doesn't believe himself to be of any great talent (his own worst critic, though so who's to know?) demeanor: learns slower in topics that he is not interested in but will stick to a task out of sheer spite until he's reached or exceeded his own expectations. prefers solitude and is often drained from social interactions fairly easily which has earned him a sullen reputation that he despises weapon of choice: proficient at the bow and lance and prefers long-range weapons in general but has spent most of his youth with all manners of weapons in hand as a means to channel his more turbulent moods.
height: short and wiry hair & style: long dark hair, oft kept haf up in a messy bun complexion: a golden tan eye colour: brown, notable features: mischievious eyes and a scar on his brow bone fashion: favours his house colors and loose fabrics, has one hook-shaped earring carved from fish bone that is always on his person, more superstitious token than accessory.
𝙃𝙄𝙎𝙏𝙊𝙍𝙔.
you're born the second boy of your house and to you, your brother is a towering giant, a gentle giant but one nonetheless. you come into this world in a quiet night, the first rains of a particularly arrid summer the first melody you hear before even your own mother's voice. that quietness characterises you even as a babe. an easy child, your mother and nannies say of you and of course it could just be that after three children they know what to expect and you're not any easier than your siblings. you follow them all on unsteady feet and strangely find yourself most attached to vaoira with her wild ways, you follow her on her adventures and slowly come out of your shell.
you're lucky. your brother and father never attempt to shape you into a stronger man, do not treat you like clay to mould into a shape they recognize. when you pick up a sword for the first time the weight of it feels like a lock clicking into place, it steadies you. the blood that runs down your face when you earn your first scar in a fight outside the walls of your home is like battle paint but you can go home and rest, braid your sisters hair as you tear through the arbor's latest harvest and laugh heartily and that alone saves you a thousand times over.
you're slower to learn in some ways than your siblings and you know this, court etiquette does not stick not because it doesn't make sense but because the rules require lies, easily digestible ones too. pick an identity and stick to it. you can fight and well so be the brute. you can navigate the ocean, be a traveller. do not be too fluid, be comprehensible in a sentence or less. or be useful. that, you understand is the only way to matter beyond the arbor and your family name. not that you yearn for any great purpose, that is the whole point, you are still figuring out what you'll be. it doesn't help that you compare yourself to desmond, his intellect and his ability to charm a crowd easily. your brother is like the gold idol you pray to now, someone to serve and you're an undisciplined but eager guard dog next to him.
even after the few years you've spent aimlessly, letting the winds and the waves carry you where they may, you're still only a son, a brother. you do not know yet if you've potential enough to be more than what you feel is required of you second by second.
but you make one choice for yourself just as you're on the cusp of becoming a man, at ten and six you pick your weapons and that song running through your blood, indiscernible but tempting all the same and you let it lead you to a path that you tell yourself is right. the faith of the seven is an easy one to embrace when one of its gods calls so fiercely and who, you think would not want to follow the warrior's path, the fighter's path. the defender's. you care very little to fight or defend anyone other than your own at first and yet your raw talent can be molded easily.
you follow orders well, always eager for a bit of praise, for someone to affirm your choices or make them for you. there's a well-trodden path that opens for you as you are finally knighted at twenty. you could join the kingsguard, serve the king, serve the realm. a fork in the road. you do not go. instead you turn back towards home, seek refuge there even though by now the hearth of the arbor seems colder, with your mother buried. you still go there, lose yourself in adventures at sea, drink more than you should and only return to king's landing to participate in tourneys. always managing to impress just enough to dissuade the foolish from questioning where the knight of the arbor was off to, doing god knows what, dishonouring his oath. your name protects you from too much shame and you only hope your family can forgive you for how you err in grief. too long. more like a child than a man.
the targaryen king's passing comes as a blessing. a sign from the gods themselves. it's almost poetic, one death had almost driven you to madness, and this one returns it. you remember what it is you wanted when you first recited that sacred oath. to serve. it did not matter who really.
and so it's easy to lose yourself in the goal desmond sets for himself, to become king. he has served the council well in his time. your house has gold, a fleet, a pristine reputation. it makes sense. so much sense in fact that you pack up to be at his side as he grasps for the highest office in the realm. you feel a restlessness ache deep in your bones now and the glint of the weapons you know so well call to you and you think you could be a great shield, a commander perhaps, looks to your hands and think you could help shape westeros into something ordered too if your brother would let you.
