WARDEN OF THE EAST,

lady　alayne　arryn　.ᐟ

[highonour]

LADY ALAYNE ARRYN; ruling lady, warden of the east, former hand of the king. written by meg in association with dragonsrot

¹ info ² pinterest

[illuminvtes]

for a moment, petyr said nothing.

he remained by the window, staring out across the vale as though the answer might be written into the mountains themselves. then, with a quiet breath through his nose, he turned back toward alayne.

"of course we are."

there was no surprise in it, only the weary certainty of a man long accustomed to the crown's poor sense of timing.

"a week of celebration," he repeated, the words dry as dust. "how generous of them to summon the entire realm under the guise of merriment."

his mouth curved, though there was no humor in it.

"their dragons are dead, the king's mind is a ruin, your sister has been locked away, and now they mean to ask us to smile for it." he gave a slight shake of his head. "i've seen less absurdity in a fool's performance."

petyr crossed the room then, taking the letter up again only long enough to skim it once more before setting it aside with clear disdain. his gaze then settled on alayne, sharp and steady.

"if we refuse, the realm will notice and i can only imagine the consequences the king will be happy to reap on us. if we attend, we walk straight into whatever game maelor has decided to make of this." his jaw tightened. "what do you make of it?"

[highonour]

If she happens to laugh, it is entirely humourless. Lacking in any trace of mirth, devoid of warmth: her husband has succintly summed the whole travesty up, proficient in his appraisal—it would appear his years of ruling the Vale in her stead truly have shaped his into an accomplished political mind, well-rounded in his capabilities, multi-faceted. She ought not have ever doubted it.

"No better than a mummer's farce, that much is certain." Quiet treason that she dare only voice in the sanctity of the Eyrie, her husband its only witness. There is much to consider, much to plan, but Alayne finds her mind either unwilling or unable to focus. Thoughts linger still on Alys' fate: it has been over a year since she last heard from the Queen, or indeed, saw her. Hard as it is to be a Hand dismissed, cut off from the court and the King, it is harder still to be a sister kept from a sister.

Aware of his presence beside her, standing tall as he is, she lifts a hand and finds his own, fingers weaving in between and gripping tight, still not daring to meet his gaze. She's never liked not knowing her own mind or the feeling of uncertainty, and she curses the day Maelor was born for more reasons than one. "It is too early for us to openly defy the throne." Words are slow to come, but by the time they're formed, they're steeped in conviction. "Better we play along and gain a better view of the board before making any moves."

[hellbcunds]

" nonsense, you know i love to say it to their face. " though there were certain comments that she would only make to company like alayne, someone she knew she could trust not to get her in trouble. playful smile starts to split her mouth, always happily surprised whenever alayne decided to indulge her. it was a rarity not to see her straight backed and serious these days. " rude is who you would be. " she quips in return, taking a long drought until her goblet emptied before she stands, looping her arm with alayne's before she starts walking towards the exit. " i've missed you, you know. i don't get to see you nearly as often as i'd like. " not with everything going on in the north right now.

[highonour]

"You always have been combative." What might be a scathing rebuke of anybody else, coming from Alayne, sounds only like affection now. Perhaps it is hypocritical of her, to allow her sister grace where she would not anyone else, but it is her right, for she watched Lysara grow up, as opposed to growing up with her. Not as a mother, for whom she had to discipline and prepare, but as a guardian, a role model, a sister, a friend. Who else in the world is there for Alayne to indulge if not her? "Gods forbid I be labelled rude." Brows arch dramatically, dark chuckle escaping her at the mere suggestion. (She has been called far worse during council meetings, in truth.) Little attention is paid to the wandering gazes and whispers exchanged as they progress toward the doors, aware as she is of the infamy still afforded to her dismissal, all those moons ago. "And I you. It is the only benefit of this celebration, if you ask me: that we are reunited once again." Even if their sister remains imprisoned, goes the bitter addendum. So close, yet so far.

[hellbcunds]

𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃: alayne arryn ( @highonour )

she's been seething in her place near the front of the hall, far too close to king maelor for her liking, and far too distant from their sister. alys' face is notably absent, a sadness and hatred welling within her at the sight, and it leaves her seeking out one of the only people who would understand it. alayne and her couldn't been more different, but family had always been important to her, and alayne had always been sat upon the pedestal that lys placed her on back in childhood. even now, annoyed as she is that her sister isn't willing to wage war at the atrocities their family have endured, she loves her just the same. sidling up to her, lys drops into the empty seat at her side , goblet of wine in hand. " come on, let's go for a walk. it's getting rather stuffy in here, don't you think? "

[highonour]

"I would almost think that you just want to talk about people behind their backs, Lys." Wryly does she offer up a lopsided smile, some small smattering of affection beginning to cloud over the indignation and rage that she's been stewing in all evening. It's hard not to be warmed by the presence of a sister, even if it's not the one that she knows they both wish it was. "Still, who am I to turn down an invite from the Lady Stark?" Pale eyebrows waggle suggestively for a split second, teasingly so. She sets down her own goblet, still over halfway filled (for she wanted to stay sharp on this, the first night of a suspicious gathering), the Arbor red within gently sloshing with the movement.

[sentrysvoid]

When truth leaves us, when we let it slip away, when it is ripped from our hands, we become vulnerable to the appetite of whatever monster screams the loudest.

Andor Welcome to the Rebellion | 2.09

[kusatta]

location : arryn chambers ⏲ day one , post welcome feast from : sora arryn , lord of the eyrie to : alayne arryn , ruling lady of the eyrie [ @highonour ]

his jaw aches from clenching his teeth throughout the evening. in his head, he has thrown off the table and stabbed a few guards before coming to the dais, pulling off that horrific mask and breaking it into shards across the floor. the inability to do just that had made it harder and harder to make it through the evening, but they had all made it. without causing a scene, without letting something slip through his lips that he knows should have kept sealed. he isn't stupid enough to blow up at the flicker of a light, but facing the culprits firsthand made it incredibly difficult. after all, the mask of etiquette did not come as easily to sora as it did to many others, quite apparently so. he did not know how everyone could act as if that speech did not happen, as if this man was not a nut case about to break open. it would require the smallest of sparks for him to explode, and tonight had made it even more clear. now that they are back in their chambers and away from prying ears and ever-seeing eyes, he lets out a deep breath and waits for his mother to enter the main room. pacing across the room only elevates some of the tension, though when she enters, he stills. inquisitive gaze searches her expression, concern seeping into his. "mother." a step forward towards her, he realizes he is still clenching his teeth. "are you... alright?"

[highonour]

It strikes her as being darkly amusing, the exhaustion she feels after only day of being back among the Red Keep. Some three weeks on the road did not tire her out this way, the winding journey along the the High and Rosby Roads, anticipation building all the time for what was to come. Now that they're arrived, and the first night of their stay is upon them, Alayne is not entirely sure what to expect. It's almost as if she is waiting for the other shoe to drop, for some grand horror to be unleashed or some heinous scheme to begin to unfurl. With the King the way he is these past few years, there is nothing she would put past him,.

"Yes." When her answer finally comes, it's on an exhale, wearied and worn, not quite as truthful as it is obligatory. Her concerns are not ones that she wants to share with her children, for she does not want to burden them any further: it is bad enough that the family name is tainted by her dismissal, their table at the feast set at the very edge, intentionally excluded; that their aunt is still imprisoned, essentially, unable to receive real visitors, family or not. If she were to share every little worry that infects her at this moment, well-founded or not, then none of the Arryns would surely know peace. No, now is not the time to voice the thoughts that crease her forehead, that deepen the lines already deep-set in her face—she suspects things will only worsen as the festivities progress. "Or rather, I will be." Wishful thinking, Alayne already silently accuses herself of, but the truth will not be any more helpful. "But what of you, Sora? You seem ill at ease."

[highonour]

the masquerade, eager to reassure the court that neither she nor her house have suffered any sort of reputational fall, despite her dismissal and the queen's most-apparent absence, alayne makes something of a statement in a light blue gown with bishop sleeves and a structured bodice with copper-colored trim, a mix of feminine and masculine; militant elegance, almost. the mask is simple enough, feather details as often accompanies most of her wardrobe, and in the arryn colours of blue and silvery white. pearls dot throughout her braids, wound around the length of her face, and topped with a circlet of sapphire and pearls.

[soulrcts]

another  northerner,  or  perhaps,  just  someone  else  that  sees  their  days  filled  with  snow  and  cold  and  has  little  reason  for  the  flowery  words  that  they  had  heard  since  being  in  the  keep.  she  was  used  to  sharp  words  and  even  sharper  tongues,  searching  for  validation  in  the  form  of  a  mountain  with  many  faces  and  all  turned  away  from  them.  erena  thought  nothing  of  it,  only  seeing  recognition  in  an  expression  that  they  had  seen  reflected  in  mirror  more  often  than  not.  “  do  you  wish  to  be  alone  ?  ”  that,  they  understood  more  than  anything.  not  one  for  much  conversation  to  begin  with  and  content  to  circle  the  gardens  until  the  tension  in  her  chest  loosened,  silently,  yet  the  other  had  no  way  of  knowing  that.  it  was  a  big  keep  and  erena  was  sure  that  there  were  other  places  that  had  not  yet  been  overrun  by  them  all.  

[highonour]

"No." Softly spoken, as though regretful of her incivility just a moment earlier. She blames it on the long journey, days and weeks of anticipation riling her up, loathful of being summoned back to the place she was so rudely discharged from. "No, there is no need." King's Landing is not a place made for solitude, not unless the King wishes it so, and Alayne is intimately familiar with the fact. A year returned to the Eyrie is not enough to make her forget what the capital is like, not when so much of her life thus far has been centred around what it means to exist within the walls of the Keep. "One must find these pockets of peace wherever and whenever possible. Something tells me they will be quite rare over the next week."

[illuminvtes]

closed for @highonour

petyr knocked once against the open door, though he scarcely waited for permission before stepping inside. a letter rested between his fingers, the parchment bearing the unmistakable three-headed dragon stamped into dark red wax. "forgive the interruption," he said, though the lack of apology in his tone suggested otherwise. "i've brought you a gift from king's landing." his mouth twisted into something between amusement and irritation as he crossed the room. "whether it's an insult, a demand, or merely another reminder of how highly they think of themselves remains to be seen." he extended the unopened letter toward her. he had recognized the seal immediately, but had not broken it; whatever arrived from the crown was hers to read first. once the letter had changed hands, petyr moved away without another word, settling himself beside the nearest window, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked out across the mountains surrounding the eyrie. "if the gods are feeling generous, perhaps they've finally decided to release alys and restore a measure of sense to the realm," he said after a moment, tone tinged with bitterness and mockery. a pause. "though i've never known the gods to be particularly generous where targaryens are concerned." his gaze remained fixed beyond the glass. "well? how angry should i be?"

[highonour]

"Far be it from me to look a gift-dragon in its maw." Softly murmured as he strides across the span of the study, ledgers abandoned entirely as her attention shifts. Alayne has never thought herself an optimistic woman, and certainly never to the point of fantasy, but for a split second she holds hope that it might be word from Alys, cryptic or sparse or what-have-you. Anything that might indicate she's okay, she's healthy, she's unharmed.

She tries to temper that hope, tries instead to prepare for the worst news that King's Landing could send out—nothing is beyond the realm of possibility with how Maelor is now, all fractured sanity and volatile fancies. Petyr makes no attempt to hide his feelings about the situation, and she's not got it in her to try admonish him for it. Whatever loyalty she had toward the King has dwindled and dried up now, and there is no need to feign allegiance here in her own domain.

Weight shifts forward in her chair so she can better grasp the letter, turning it over and over in her hands for a moment, considering it; trails a finger over the seal, unaware of the little curl her lip takes on at the dragon imprint in the wax. Finally, she snaps it broken with a flick of her wrist, unfurling parchment and keenly scanning its contents.

Some part of her is aware of her husband's bitter words in the background, his stoic positioning by the window, the tension that lingers in the room. Alayne finds herself reading the letter's contents once, twice, thrice before finally tossing it aside, letting it land carelessly among invoices and correspondence alike.

"We're being summoned." Her voice is eerily steady, even-keeled and tempered, a sure-fire sign that she is feeling anything but. "All of us. A week of celebration, to honour the enduring greatness of House Targaryen." Some rancour seeps in then, almost mocking the letter and its author, its subject, its entire premise.

[soulrcts]

their  silent,  stilted  trek  through  the  keep  wound  them  through  to  the  gardens,  so  far,  the  most  quiet  place  erena  had  managed  to  find.  a  sort  of  nervous  energy  had  crept  to  lodge  both  in  pit  of  her  stomach  and  notched  in  their  throat  since  the  decree  had  been  received.  in  the  bowels  of  the  targaryens'  keep  it  had  risen  to  a  peak  that  left  them  feeling  close  to  choked ;  quick  steps  from  the  allotted  chambers  before  anyone  could  say  otherwise.  bustling  bodies  streaming  in  either  direction  dodged  easily,  face  downturned  as  they  first  reached  what  looked  to  be  the  kitchens,  out  to  the  foliage  lining  each  sides  of  them.  it  was  the  first  true  breath  they  had  taken  since  leaving  the  dreadfort,  inhaled  deep  and  caught  somewhere  between  nostrils  and  mouth  when  she  realized  they  had  nearly  walked  upon  another.  “  my  apologies,  my  liege.  ”

[  open  starter,  open  to  0/5  replies  ]   

[highonour]

It's been some moons since her untimely dismissal from court, yet her familiarity with it all has not faded an inch; she still knows its passages like the back of her own hand, could trace a path from the Barbican to Maegor's Holdfast with her eyes closed, still has a mental map of the tunnel networks that run throughout the Red Keep. Perhaps it is this exact familiarity that has led her to the gardens so soon after arriving, displeased with the assigned chambers, and disgusted with her inability to see the Queen. Alayne has long since found solace in nature, in bracing winds and gentle birdsong—in a place like King's Landing, neither is very easy to come across, so one must make do with what they can find. "I have not laid claim to the garden nor its serenity. There is nothing to apologise for." Clipped as her tone may be, it is out of weariness more than anything else. A tight smile tries its hardest to be seen, gaze raising from where roots of trees trail along the ground to land upon Erena herself, near expectantly.

[dailytvwomen]

STACY CLYBURN THE MADISON (2026-)