the old song

multi-muse blog for @dracoregnitm

[hozina]

rohanne celtigar – intro. threads. musings.

maron martell – intro. threads. musings.

lucas whent - intro. threads. musings.

osric tully - intro. threads. musings.

[draconianmuses]

laurentia did not shift her stance when he came to rest opposite her. she measured him instead, with the patience of someone long accustomed to calibrating danger in men who carried it well. osric had always been this way: compact, deliberate, built not for display but for consequence. grief had altered him, yes, but not softened him. if anything, it had refined him. the memory of their last closeness pressed at the back of her thoughts, uninvited and persistent: the echo of bone against bone in a narrow corridor, the brief disorientation of impact, the bitter discipline required to remain standing when it would have been easier to collapse into the shape of her guilt. she had not stopped him then. she had allowed the encounter to become what it needed to become, because neither of them possessed a language for loss that did not first pass through the body. lysa’s name still existed between them, not as a word but as a condition. osric’s anger was not rooted in the war. it never had been. it was rooted in the fact that it had been his sister, and laurentia understood that distinction with an intimacy she would never confess aloud. in another alignment of the world they might have stood together and achieved things the realm would still be struggling to survive. the knowledge did not comfort her. it merely explained the shape of what remained.

his mention of the stag reached her exactly as it had been intended to. not the beast itself, not the bloodied triumph of the hunt, but the second quarry of the evening, the one that had slipped every tether: alysanne. laurentia felt the recognition settle behind her eyes with the calm of a solved problem. he knows i am not grieving her flight. of course he does. osric tully had never been built for ignorance; too many corridors of the realm bent toward his listening. she caught the brief glint in his gaze and understood the measure of it at once. the provocation. the test. the invitation to admit satisfaction. she would not. there was something almost companionable in the awareness between them, not of friendship, but of likeness: two minds trained on the same dark architecture of consequence. he would have done the same in her place. she knew that without resentment. she turned her eyes from him, briefly, as if the city itself required her attention more than his insinuations. “they are prone to that, aren’t they?” she said, her gaze drifting briefly beyond the stone before returning to him with the smallest tilt of her mouth. “galloping away.”

she offered him no further illumination. he had not come to her for wine-talk or the slack theatre of post-feast civility. she knew the shape of his waiting. he was gauging whether she would step first onto the open ground. she refused him the privilege and drank again, letting the silence extend until it belonged fully to him. and in that pause, the larger pattern finished arranging itself. he knew already of alysanne’s absence, far too early for accident. lord jon mooton would only now be moving, carefully, desperately, hoping to seal the breach before it reached the crown. yet osric stood here with the information intact. so the old net remained. the one lysa had once served. the one laurentia had always suspected osric himself was part of. that made him dangerous. perhaps the most dangerous remnant his house still possessed, not because of armies or lands, but because of how cleanly he navigated the unseen.

which meant, the box had reached him the way she had intended to. of course it had. no man like osric tully remained quiet in the face of such a thing unless he had received exactly what he had been waiting for: retribution. the absence of reprisal was not forgiveness. it was acknowledgment. and yet here he stood. too near. too present. “you did not come for cheap talk,” laurentia said finally, voice even, restrained by the old discipline of command. “nor for the pleasure of remembering me.” she turned toward him then, fully, allowing him the unguarded precision of her regard. “if you intend to speak of what still breathes between us, then do so. but do not expect me to pretend we are anything other than what we have already proven ourselves to be.” she shifted her weight as she crossed her arms. “so. what is it you want?”

[hozina]

The agreement between the Lannister and the Mootons had not been etched in Laurentia's hand, and nothing could have made it so clear as her wry comment. Where is that Lannister pride, my lady? Where was the frustration of a prize, no matter how little she was prized, lost to her house... and further, to be mocked for it by a rebel who may well have a hand in this elopement? How intriguing. Not her wish, then, to see her brother saddled with a lady from a house that had nothing left to it. He had been furious, himself, when that betrothal was first announced, when Alysanne was made a ward of the Mootons, as though the Tullys had no dominion over their own vassals; and then a bride to the Lannisters. But it had fallen to the wayside after—everything.

He was happy for her, he supposed. He might have helped her escape the lion's clutches if she had indicated she needed the aid. She had not; they had never been friends of that sort, and he thought he might come before Cedric Lannister in her view of betrotheds only because he was not a Lannister. Well, that must be named at end, as certainly as their own betrothal was, though the circumstances could not be more different. The Tullys were dead fish forced to flop on their bellies for the esteem they were due; but the Lannisters need not take this lying down. No, he did not imagine such a jilting would go unmarked.

He would be glad to see Jon Mooton cowed, even if the cowing came from her.

He only laughed and took a sip of his drink, let its sour tang spread into his mouth, until it would look like he'd been bloodied if he spat. "Cheap, Lady Lannister?" he asked, laughing. "I did not think a stag would come cheaply to you! Nor go cheaply, at that. Who should be so unwise as to steal from the Lannisters! Perhaps they thought you had forgotten to sharpen your claws. Well, I know better." Didn't he just?

She straightened, then, and he slouched further into the wall, refusing this demand. "What breathes between us?" he asked, then waved a hand at the balcony spreading beyond. This was no covered passageway, hidden between two buildings so well nobody would think to look for blood on its cobbles. He had heard a dozen explanations for what put the bruises on his face after the riots, but none of them had involved Laurentia. Not so here: they stood in as open a place as to be seen from without the keep, yet hidden, just out of sight, a wall at each of their backs. Nothing personal about this, nothing secret. “Only the sea breeze and drunk belches. What could I possibly want with Lady Lannister, a poor man like myself?”

What could he want from her. The possibilities spooled out, as though waiting, but Osric had already chosen. "Coin, of course," he said, sloshing his wine nearly out of the cup. "What do any of us want with our Mistress of it? Silver is a fine consolation prize, in lieu of the real thing. But... I believe you did what you could," he said. And despite it all, despite how little he liked the woman—despite his absolute confidence that this gesture was one for her own sake, from some misplaced guilt, for some lie she told herself about what had passed between her and Lysa—he found he meant that. Osric had never been one to dither about means. The end was one that satisfied him. If it was only her pride that had brought it about... it was more than he, in this state, could do. "And we must make do when the scales are so unevenly weighted."

[threadedjade]

it  sometimes  felt  that  the  whole  of  storm's  end  and  its  visitors  were  only  an  audience  to  those  girls.  if  she  wished  a  competition,  selyse  could  certainly  weave  a  connection  between  her  and  the  queen  better  than  most  ladies.  but,  lucas  was  right.  she  would  not  debase  herself  in  the  same  way  the  queen  was  to,  the  same  way  lucas  had.  there  was  only  one  family  who  would  have  her  true  loyalty.  the  lord  whent  knew  this  and  kept  in  her  company.  it  was  this  that  made  her  believe  that  there  was  some  hope  for  him  yet.  "i'd  call  it  uninspired,  perhaps."  she  felt  bolder  with  the  red  in  her  system,  veins  thrumming  with  a  fire.  better  than  whatever  selyse  could  do  without  a  doubt,  but  her  brother  had  skewed  her  expectations  of  such  hunts.  swollen  them  to  the  point  that  she  wondered  if  lucas  had  even  tried.  "was  it  a  great  quantity  of  them,  pheasant  slayer?"

[hozina]

Lucas lowered himself into the seat beside her with a half-hearted raise of his shoulders. "Perhaps there was not much to inspire in the Kingswood. Or perhaps I am simply not the inspired sort," he said. It was a half-truth. There had certainly been nothing that would go unmarked in bigger game. To pursue the hart was foolish for one who did not want the crown's further attention. To fell stags or boars was a danger of its own, and Lucas could not risk mortal injury. "Five or six; I lost count. Enough to feed a few men for a few days, and enough to keep my horse always stocked with caught game." He would not have it said he had not partaken in the king's joy and the crown's festivities, even if the only ones to question it might be others in the Riverlands itself. But that was not why Lady Selyse asked; he leaned back and looked at her, brow raised, to ask, "Would you be impressed if I said I had felled a clean dozen? They would still be only pheasants."

[hozina]

where: prince's solar, sunspear who: delonne allyrion @violetamaisonx

The lords and ladies of Dorne had often enough come and gone from Sunspear's court in past years that it was nothing strange to see one or the other of them there. To see Lady Allyrion, however, was unusual, at least in recent years. It had been years since the Hand of the King had the time to spare to see to his own holdings, and years more since he had had a moment to visit Sunspear and pay his homages and obeisances. The same was, by extension, true of his wife. Maron did not begrudge Lady Allyrion her preferring to remain with Keegan; but it was nonetheless a satisfaction to see her visiting Sunspear, however briefly. "Lady Allyrion," he said, welcoming her into the balcony. "It has been far too long since we have had the opportunity to sit at court. My father will be most pleased to see you."

[hozina]

where: common room, a tavern on the kingsroad, the riverlands who: minisa tully @torturedpoetx

The closer they grew to Harrenhal again, the easier Lucas felt, as though its walls might offer a sense of protection from something that was no threat, even. He knew what waited, in Harrenhal; what would come, inevitably. But disappointment was a state he was accustomed to. Everything that occurred when he ventured away from its walls and to the realm's celebrations were... not. There was something to be said, after all, for the familiar evil.

The sight of some of the Tully guards had him slowing nonetheless in his path, a cup of ale in his hand, as one stumbled halfway into him on tired legs with barely a word of apology. "Watch where you go," he muttered, shaking his head, and turned to find the seat he had occupied for himself earlier, and naturally found it full. Lucas felt his irritation bank as he made his way to the table regardless. "Lady Minisa," he said lightly. "I suppose I ought to be surprised to see a Tully gracing a tavern on this side of the Riverlands."

[hozina]

where: the gardens of the red keep, a few days after the wedding who: orielle lannister @bybloods

A brief summer storm blowing in from the sea had turned the air cool but humid the night before, and Rohanne found herself in the gardens looking for a hint of fresh air. That was, at least, what she had been telling everyone who asked, though she must consider if she might be offended by so many asking about her presence in the gardens. Rohanne was not so indoors a creature as that! Well, she was not that much in the habit of lying to herself; curiosity had drawn her out like the proverbial cat... and, she thought, spying her target, if it rained again, some satisfaction would bring her back.

"Lady Orielle," she said with a smile, swiveling in her steps so she might join her by a bench and brushing away her guilt at how terribly mercenary it all was. It was because she had taken a liking to her at the circle that she was here, in truth. If she had not, she did not suppose it was her she would be speaking to at this minute. "How lovely to see you again; I quite enjoyed speaking with you at the circle, and hoped I might find your table at the feast, but alas, there was far too many distractions, and I am quite susceptible to them. But that evening is past! May I join you now?" 

[draconianmuses]

closed starter: @hozina to: osric tully. when: at the end of the wedding feast.

the feast had collapsed into its own aftermath. not silence, exactly, but a thinning. laughter dulled to murmurs. bodies slumped into corners like abandoned costumes. servants moved with the tired precision of people already rehearsing tomorrow’s cleanup in their heads. laurentia stood near one of the open balconies, shoulder to stone, a cup of red in her hand and a sugared almond pinched between her fingers. the sweet cracked softly between her teeth. wine followed. she savored both, unhurried, indulgent in the rare pleasure of a night that had not demanded anything further of her. the musicians were gone. the worst of the nobles too. what remained were drunks, ghosts, and consequences waiting patiently for morning.

rumors drifted like ash. alysanne baratheon gone. lord brom greyjoy vanished with her. whispers already sharpening into theories. elopement. abduction. ironborn filth. laurentia almost smiled into her cup. good riddance. the match had been a rotting thing from the start, arranged by a dead king with a talent for cruelty and no patience for dissent. she had swallowed it then, grieving, exhausted, loyal to a fault. later she had hated it. then weighed it. then reshaped it into something useful. stormlands unrest. baratheon blood as leverage. a future bought in installments of resentment. all of it undone now by the cerimonial binding of fire and storm. but cedric was free. blessedly, finally free. and the stormlands could choke on their nostalgia. the realm had chosen its winners. the dondarrions wore the prize. dragons crowned it in fire. the rest was noise.

she took another sip and leaned her head back against the cool stone, eyes half-lidded, thoughts drifting where they pleased. aerion had been insufferable tonight. radiant, sharp-tongued, too pleased with himself. she trusted him. mostly. she remembered the hunts. the taverns. the way he used flirtation brazzenly, especially with mielle, sometimes-- especially when he wanted to get under laurentia’s skin. bastard. friend. king. all true at once. complicated things survived on contradiction. she accepted that. most of the time.

movement at the edge of her vision tightened something low in her gut. she did not need to look to know. the weight of it announced itself. the way some presences always did. she exhaled slowly through her nose. of course. seven hells. here he comes. lord osric tully stepped into the thinning light like a memory that had not finished bleeding. sturdier than she remembered, or perhaps just harder. grief had a way of sharpening people into weapons. the last time they had stood this close had ended in fists and blood and woeful cries she still heard when the nights went too quiet. lannisport. the riot. lysa's death. the feel of osric’s knuckles cracking against her jaw and her own answering in kind. grief colliding with guilt and anger and betrayal until something had to give.

she had let him hit her. she had hit back. she had gone after the ones who took lysa's life and ended them with the efficiency of a woman who knew exactly how much violence the world would tolerate in public and how much it required in private. eight heads in a box. proof. apology. confession. boundary. he had not written back. nor should he have. she had told herself that was the end of it. that it deserved to be.

laurentia straightened slightly, setting her cup on the balustrade, fingers resting against the stone. her pulse did not quicken, but it changed rhythm. calculating. braced. what does he want? a word? a fist? absolution? another reckoning? she rolled her shoulders once, subtle, settling herself back into her body. if he struck her now, it would be a scandal. if he spoke, it would be worse. she turned at last, meeting him without flinch, expression composed into something neutral and sharp-edged. lioness at rest, not unaware. “lord tully,” she said, voice even, unadorned. neither warmth nor challenge in it. just truth. the night held its breath around them, and laurentia waited to see which past he had come to drag into the present.

[hozina]

It was that hour of the evening, of any feast, when its leftovers and its people began to turn sour where they sat. Sleep and wine addled wits and loosened tongues alike, and merriment could be just as much a precursor to anger and misery than anything else. Nobody dared begin a fight on this grand eve of celebration, of course not, not even with the king and their new queen retired... but Osric had watched people slowly start to stumble away, hesitation on their skin, with growing discomfort. Osric was more than familiar with this part of a festivity: when those that remained behind took on a sense of camaraderie, the last standing flames keeping the night from being truly at end.

Some actions grew meaningless, then, easily assigned to inebriation. Not so words.

He passed from fellow to fellow, letting true and false stumbles mingle between themselves, letting his loosened tongue speak for him... before he stumbled to a stop before Laurentia Lannister.

Osric had seen her some, in passing, at the hunt; or at least seen the top of her head here and there, and for the most part turned and walked the opposite way so they did not clash and draw attention he did not need. This time he did not attempt to disappear out of her sight again, letting his footsteps make himself known. She turned to watch him with some wariness, if no true challenge. He supposed none of them were in any condition to fight again, even if Osric had wanted a rematch. Never let it be said that he was a sore loser, though he often was. No, no; he had no scrap with her for the moment... only a debt or two he might happily unload to the wealthiest woman in the Seven Kingdoms. She did offer coin freely enough.

"Lady Lannister! Do not stand on my account; I am liable to fall over at any moment." He let the wall catch his weight, until he was leaning on the balcony wall opposite to hers, elbow digging into its stone, and offered her a lazy, drunken smile. It would be intriguing indeed to learn if she would believe that jape twice... though if she did not, it may be of use yet. Something to consider. For the moment, he raised his cup. "I hear congratulations are in order. The word is you caught yourself a stag!. Hmm, and lost one too: a fair exchange. Fear not; I do not dare to judge you for it, when I lost one myself, once."

[hozina]

where: by the dragon gate, king's landing who: open to all ( / 3)

Two hundred years before the Whents were granted Harrenhal, a daughter of its walls had been accused by Maegor the Cruel of treachery, and upon her death, mounted on the gates of King's Landing. The spike above the Dragon Gate was sandstone red, and stained with red from the many others that may have been mounted there as well. The dragon carvings that decorated the gate's walls sat, unconcerned, wings spread and maws open. He had made a choice, moons ago, to choose to shelter under those wings rather than risk the spike.

He had not expected those wings to be so literal. "Dragons, again. Of all the things none could have expected," he said softly, looking up at their towering wings. One had a column of flame emerging from its open mouth. A figure showed their face, and Lucas let a bland smile take the place of whatever was earlier upon his face. "Though it is much smaller than this one here. I suppose even those were, once."

[draconianmuses]

laurentia considered the question longer than courtesy required. not because she lacked an answer, but because answers, like gifts, were judged as much by what they concealed as by what they revealed. rohanne’s voice lingered with that bright sincerity she wore so easily, and for a fleeting instant laurentia wondered how much of the realm moved through life without ever learning the discipline of armor. it was a dangerous thought. she set it aside. her gaze returned to the celtigar lady, steady, appraising, softened only by a trace of something like fondness. “a saddle is an inspired choice,” she said at last, and this time there was no irony trimming the praise. she inclined her head slightly. “lady ysabel shall like it very much. i'm sure.”

as for herself, laurentia let her eyes drift, briefly, toward the hall beyond, toward the invisible web of coin, favor, and consequence that hummed perpetually at the edge of her awareness. gifts from the mistress of coin were always expected to be clever. symbolic. dangerous, if mishandled. “i will give a chest with many fine silks,” she said, voice lowered, measured. “so that our dondarrion queen may arrange with the royal seamtress to be fitted in the fashion of our court,” a pause, deliberate. “i did not know her measurements, let alone her preferences for bodices and skirts, so i didn't take the liberty of ordering the making of a gown myself, but i trust she will know what to make of it,” her mouth curved faintly. “i only have a few gowns myself, and they no longer fit me. last time i donned one i was seven and ten. i felt horrid.”

laurentia broke the stillness herself, not with words at first but with a minute shift of posture, the kind born of discomfort she rarely permitted to surface. rohanne’s gaze had not wandered. it lingered, attentive in a way that felt neither rude nor accidental, fixed just above laurentia’s eyes, at the line of her hair where the hunt had left its quiet signatures. laurentia’s mouth curved, faint and self-aware. “is there something in my hair, my lady?” she asked lightly, almost amused, though the question carried a practical edge. she was acutely conscious of the blood stiffening at her collar, the way it pulled at fabric and skin alike. it would soon turn from proof of victory into something less forgivable. i should bathe, she thought. before i start smelling like a cautionary tale. that lady celtigar did not recoil, did not flinch or pale, struck her as both surprising and telling. either the girl possessed a steadier stomach than most, or nothing laurentia had become could truly unsettle her now.

she exhaled, slow, collecting herself. “forgive me,” she added, quieter. “i’m lingering longer than is wise. the woods cling.” her eyes flicked once to the stains on her sleeves, then back to rohanne, assessing without apology. it was, after all, a rare thing to be seen like this. rarer still to be allowed it. “but since you do not seem alarmed,” laurentia continued, a glint of mischief threading its way into her composure, “i must ask.” her head tilted slightly. “what did you make of carmaella?” the name was offered with deliberate innocence. malice, refined and affectionate, stirred beneath it. “have you finished it yet?” she asked, brows arched.

“i confess i devoured its pages on my quick voyage to lannisport,” laurentia continued, “when i went to visit lord felyx’s newborn babes.” her smile deepened by a hair’s breadth. “i much prefer this volume to the author’s earlier work. it is a touch less gruesome, though that is scarcely a mercy. a lake named death remains one of the most violent readings i’ve endured this year.” she paused, letting the contrast settle. “carmaella, however, is more… enticing. evocative. the prose grows seductively poetic, even as it circles subjects that are undeniably ghastly.” laurentia’s gaze held rohanne’s, intent, unreadable. “did it scandalize you?” she asked softly. “or did you find, as i did, that the most unsettling part was not the cruelty at all… but how easily hunger masqueraded as devotion?”

[hozina]

A chest full of silks. It was a tad impersonal, but of course it did not need to be personal, coming from Lady Lannister. It was a good gift nonetheless; she was one of those at court who could afford a chest full of silks fit for a queen without wincing at the cost, and it meant her gift was far more likely to be made full use of than those that might offer a fine veil or capelet if it were not to their future queen's taste. No doubt Lady Lannister had considered carefully where those silks were sourced from as well. 

"A clever choice, all considered," she said, then bit her lip. “I hope it is not too unkind to say I could not imagine you in a dress; your tunics suit you quite finely, Lady Laurentia. I do not think I, or half the ladies of the court, would look so graceful dressing as you do.” It was not too much of a compliment, nor unearned; Lady Laurentia was one of few enough that it could not be taken as such. "Except, of course when you have come directly from the woods and they have left such a bold claim. Yes, you have... there is some blood. Just there." She raised a hand, half in indication, half an aborted attempt to wipe it away herself. Laurentia had such soft, fine hair; the memory of the time she had offered to let Rohanne touch it had stuck fast, and she could imagine so clearly what it would be like to feel the meaningless imprint of its strands. A simple brush would not do the job; one would have to tug away the dried blood, careful not to pull out the dirtied strands.

Rohanne laughed as the question came. They had left their reading away as duties and a wedding dictated their times away; which would have been no matter, but for the nature of the book. "You must know better than to ask me my literary opinions when you must be away, my lady. Well, I shall make an attempt to be brief. I cannot pretend I was not somewhat taken aback..." It was an understatement if ever there had been one. Rohanne had devoured the pages herself, though that was no oddity. It was more the writing, the vivid way the Red Woman's hunger had shown itself. She was not unfamiliar with romances, though they had never been her first reading of choice. But there was nothing chivalric about this tale. "The red woman's desire for sacrifice at her own altar was intriguing; one form of appetite masquerading as another. There were times it struck me that even she did not know what it was she truly wanted, for she could not have both, not in a lasting manner. It is a common enough affliction."

She inclined her head, looking up at Laurentia with some curiosity. "You have more knowledge of this writer than I do; which would you have expected her to choose, in the end, if the Septon had not destroyed her for true? Her hunger for that which she needed to survive, or the... devotion, as you say? Or do you think that was all pretense?"

[threadedjade]

𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒕𝒐𝒏 ( @hozina ) 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒂 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒕𝒐𝒏 ( @gniodnu ).

𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒕, 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕-𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈.

fingers  dig  into  the  gap  of  scarlet  fabric,  adjusting  the  band  so  quickly  it  hardly  needs  the  privacy  to  do  it.  the  dress  is  ill-fitting  but  that's  hardly  anything  new  to  the  baratheon.  it  is  taken  in  so  severely  at  the  chest  that  the  extra  fabric  creates  ripples  along  the  sides.  either  that  or  leave  a  gap  so  wide  you  could  gaze  directly  down  to  alysanne's  rosy  buds  if  you  were  blessed  with  enough  height.  it  is  not  so  bad  when  the  second  problem  presents  itself:  the  sleeves.  the  velvet  sleeves  were  of  a  fashion  some  years  ago,  when  it  was  the  trend  to  slit  them  with  pink  satin.  it  took  far  too  long  until  the  court  started  to  compare  them  to  cunts.  alysanne  was  proud  that  until  this  night,  she  had  never  given  into  the  trend.  but,  she  cares  little  about  what  she  wears  now.  she  will  change  before  going  to  the  water.  after  flipping  off  ysabel  behind  her  back.  after  seeing  florissa.  after  bequeathing  their  great  antlered  helmet  —  the  only  remaining  baratheon  heirloom  of  any  worth  —  to  her  twin  for  safe  keeping.  after  one  final  round  of  tedium.

as  she  was  employed  to  stay  tight  to  jon,  assisting  in  all  matters  that  he  declared  pertinent,  it  felt  similarly  as  if  alys  must  stay  at  the  side  of  the  ladies  of  the  family.  even  if  they  did  not  like  her.  even  though  she  did  not  like  them.  "a  dragon  and  a  queen,"  alysanne  declares,  tone  flat  and  unenthused.  "it  is  always  a  blessed  day  to  add  a  new  pet  to  the  family."

[hozina]

The day's surprises had not come to an end, it seemed. The wedding feast had transformed quickly from a wedding into a series of conversations that centred entirely around the dragon egg and what it meant. All it meant. The Gods had smiled upon the Targaryens, to be certain; but Aelinor misliked that it was not the king's egg, the very centrepiece of the table that showed the Targaryens' finest treasures, that had hatched... but his sister's. She would not say it was an ill-boding for Ysabel, but there was a part of her that felt nervous, watching the small creature, barely more than a winged lizard yet, be carried away by the princess.

Alysanne's remark did not make her discomfiture any easier. "Watch yourself," she said sharply. One would think in the face of the Gods' own showing of their preference, the Baratheon girl would be quiet. "It is a sign of the Gods' favour of this union. And of His Grace, to be certain. The less you say about pets in the family..."

[draconianmuses]

the princess did not answer him at once. silence gathered around her, not dramatic, not staged, but dense with the kind of thought that presses inward rather than spilling out. so this is it, she thought, not with anger but with a weary clarity that felt almost adult. the shape of the world had been decided elsewhere, by hands that did not bleed when they closed. heir. hostage. future. the words sat in her like stones. she had known, somewhere beneath the hope, that this would be his answer. still, knowing did not blunt the cut. she turned her gaze inward, already rehearsing the ruin to come. what do i tell her now? floris would not hear nuance, not tonight, not ever. she would hear only abandonment. she would think herself foolish for believing tenderness could survive in a predicament such as theirs. she will hate me, myriah thought, and the idea hurt more than maron’s refusal. she will think i played at love only to drop it when it became inconvenient. she will never look at me again.

she lifted her eyes to him then, and there was no accusation in them, only grief refined into something quieter. “you speak as though healing were guaranteed,” she said softly, as if careful not to disturb something already brittle. “as though affection were a well one can simply return to and draw from again.” her voice did not waver, but her hands curled faintly at her sides. “but i learned long ago that some losses do not circle back. some mercies arrive once and do not repeat themselves.” she did not say floris’s name again. she did not need to. it lived in the space between her ribs now, constant and unignorable. and then came the word sensible from his lips. it stung like a wasp sting. “alright,” she continued, quieter still. a small cutsey followed. “if that's what you wish, my prince. forgive me for overstepping the boundary of my duty.”

as she rose, the ache behind her sternum sharpened, but she kept her posture gentle, contained. “i understand your burden,” she said, because she did. she always had. when jynessa and nymos died in the same year, and aron was away, they only had each other in their grief. the only two people who truly understood, at least in that moment. “i understand what the crown would ask, what dorne would whisper, what future you fear to fracture.” she inhaled, steadying herself. “but do not ask me to belittle my feelings for her just because you deem them weightless. that i won't do.”

she stepped closer then, and at last she reached for him, resting her hand on his shoulder with a familiarity earned over lifetimes. the touch was warm, deliberate, affectionate in a way that did not ask permission. “i wish you so many descendants, maron,” she said, her voice soft, almost fond, “that they stretch across the horizon like water, endless and loud and impossible to count. i wish them so numerous that when you look for me among your kin, your eyes never find me at all.” her thumb pressed lightly, a benediction edged with longing. “only then will i be free from the shackles of your shortcomings.” she drew her hand back slowly. “i plead that you marry. i plead that you love your bride. and more than that, i plead the gods grant you happiness when it finds you.” a pause, barely a breath. “because i fear i have just been told i must let mine go.” and with that, the princess started walking away.

[hozina]

Maron had not felt in years that it was possible to regain hope, or love, or the sense of things lost. But he had seen the permanence of loss, when it came in the Stranger's form; when it came with war and bloodshed on its doorstep. They might seek solace in the Gods, but the Gods did not make promises. The future remained a gaping void, bleak and uncertain, offering only that which he must do, not that which he would. For his own part, Maron had accepted that he would never again find what he had lost; not the companionship, not the comfort, not the simple joy in the everyday that Jynessa had taken with her. He was resigned to it; it was nothing more than fact.

But Myriah? He could not imagine that her hope was dead, had died with her son. She was young yet. Nymos' loss may remain a wound forever, but she may have other children; may love, and find happiness. He had not anticipated—but that was a moot point, now. What was done was done. Yet that prince was an injury in itself, when he had never once been her prince before he had been her brother. Were he but one or the other—but Maron must always be both. It is only because she feels so deeply, he told himself. She would not aim to cut if she did not. "I am your brother," he said, making his spine yield so he did not look upon her from too distant a height. “And, yes, your prince. It is why I tell you this, Myriah, for your sake.”

But she knew this: knew that were it a stranger, some lordling, any other man or woman in Dorne, Maron would not have cared to offer explanation. But then, were it a stranger, or any other man or woman in Dorne, Maron may not have needed to deny. Perhaps she would be happier if he were only her prince. What had the Martells seen, of late, but loss?

This injury, this latest impossible—affection—would heal in time, until she would think no more of it than any other passing fancy. He watched her, waiting for something more than this gentle remonstrance, this unkind well wish. He had no wish for his own happiness, to taste the sort of joy he had lost again, with the knowledge that he could not share it with those he had lost. If the gods told him he would have not a drop of it again, he would not blink for lack of surprise—he would not see the same pressed upon her. "I have no wish to tell you what to feel. I only bid you not insist upon your own unhappiness. That is the last thing I wish, Myriah." But Myriah only turned, her own piece said, unwilling to hear, or listen, or both. "Myriah," he called to her retreating back, once... but she did not turn.

The graves kept him company for a long time yet. Maron found himself imagining the future of his line as she spoke of it, and all but recoiling at the thought of others in this mausoleum that took their name from him. Maron moved until he was not before Nymos, who would only have teared up for seeing his mother's sorrow... but Jynessa's. He rested a cold palm against it. Its walls were as unyielding to the living as to the dead. "Do you think she will see, in time?" he asked her softly. He dared not ask if he had been right. She would have offered her own remonstrances, he thought, as to his manner; would have softened the blow, had she been there to see it done. Or perhaps she would not. Perhaps she would have told him to let Myriah have what they—had.

The tomb was, as expected, silent. Tired, Maron rose, and left.

end.

[hozina]

whatever you do , do not stray from the path (from aron to maron)

They were Martells; paths had been laid out for all of them from an early time, and they had been taught well to see both the obstructions in those paths and the diversions that would take them away well. Aron had forged his own road, and Maron had always been proud of him for it. He would not do that a disservice by pretending he had not wearied of walking, from time to time; but the heed was unnecessary yet. "I know well what my path is," he told Aron. He did not lift a hand to treat him as he would his brother; Aron was first a brother of the Kingsguard, at least when he spoke in this manner. His white cloak flared bright over his shoulders. "Have you ever known me to stray from it? No; I know what I must do. I hope your own is clearer than once it was."

[hozina]

do not fear me … everybody else fears me . - rohentia

Though Laurentia was prone to the odd thread of self-mockery from time to time, often aimed at how intimidating she was or was not, these words were more grave than Rohanne had come to expect from her. Perhaps it was that they were not said as a jape, nor were they braggery of the impressive figure Laurentia knew herself to make. No, only... a request, Rohanne thought, drifting closer without entirely realising that she had. "I do not," she replied, half a smile that she put away so Laurentia would not think she was smiling at her. There were other things she had been afraid of in her presence; her own sense of mind, for one... but fear was not what she felt around Laurentia."You know you have intimidated me now and again, but fear? True fear, as though I were facing some beast in the woods, or certain doom, or snarks or grumkins? Well, I cannot say I find grumkins frightening; you are only a lady and a lion in comparison." She feared the point had quite gotten away from her. "I do not fear you, Lady Lannister, and I do not see why I would!"

[hozina]

"Old stories are like old friends You have to visit them from time to time." - Lorent to Osric

Osric laughed, slouching further into his seat. "And what tales have you been revisiting of late, Lord Tyrell?" he asked with a grin, then waved a hand over it. For all it was no more than a platitude, this was a friendship better maintained, for Osric to continue to return to the Reach as often as he wished. He clapped Lorent on the shoulder. "I will accept your recriminations; I do not visit Highgarden near as often as I would like, being as has is the finest wines and, yes, the most cheerful company in all the Seven Kingdoms! But it is a great shame how distant Highgarden is from Riverrun. Tell me, Lorent, have you considered moving your seat further north? Not Highgarden itself, but perhaps a summer palace north of Goldengrove? That I shall visit thrice as often, and more often yet if you promise you will not boot me out."

[hozina]

Why do the Gods make kings and queens if not to protect the ones who can't protect themselves? - aemma to rohanne

Rohanne rested her chin on her hand, thinking. The Gods had made kings that were the Father incarnate, it was true, who were fonts of justice and peace and all the kingly qualities... but there were plenty of poor ones they could all name, who should not, all being just, have been kings. And yet there were others who would not have seen a jot of power had the line of succession remained intact, but had due to one disaster or the other; who had learned from their predecessors and brought prosperity to their kingdoms. "I suppose some kings are made to be protectors, and others to be cautionary tales that future lords and ladies will look to and remember what not to do. That is not to say they must not all attempt to be good kings and offer shelter to those who have none, of course... but every tale of goodness and valour must come with an evil to be defeated! How can Aemon Dragonknight shine if not beside the darkness of Aegon the Unworthy?"

[hozina]

by  the  pricking  of  my  thumbs,  something  wicked  this  way  comes. (Rickard to Rohanne)

Rickard paused at the completion of the line, and Rohanne could not help it any longer. She sat upright as well as she could, shaking her head before Rickard could continue. "Rickard..." she began, sniffling to sound pitiful so he would have mercy on her poor ears. "I just think... it would sounds better if you intone a little more. As it is a witch that is meant to be speaking you might put on a witch's voice, something high or cruel-sounding, like by the pr—" but attempting to sound like a witch was certainly too much for her poor throat, and she was overtaken by a fit of coughing. "I'm alright, I'm alright, I promise! But if you just said it cruelly, then we would all know it was a witch who was speaking! And perhaps each witch could sound a little different to the other as well? And you could—no. No, don't go! No! I don't want to cough over the book, we only have the one copy! No, the maester said—fine. Thank you for reading to me. Yes, your voice is appropriate. Thank you."

[hozina]

❛ ours is a solitary existence. it would be good for you to have a friend. ❜ laurentia to maron

Maron gave her a tired smile over the rim of his cup. It was not a lack of friends that disturbed him, but perhaps the nature of those that would approach him to make overtures of friendship now. It was quite wrong, but... Maron felt too tired to make new friends. "I have a friend; I am sitting with her, am I not?" Hers had been a solitary existence for a great many more years than him. Maron did not know and had not ventured to ask after the full extent of what had made it so, but the Laurentia he knew was a practical person. "Perhaps I ought to say the same to you, Laurentia. I know you have your reasons, but our responsibilities do not wait. The company of a friend, if nothing more, may well make things... easier."