𖥻 𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐊𝐒 SET IN 103AC , annals of history of liege(s) : QIAN CORBRAY of heart’s home , MATTHOS TYRELL of highgarden ... scribed by cain [ he / him , twenty5 ] , dni unless affiliated with the group.
they had gripped each other like that before. steffon’s hands had traced all of qian, he was sure of it ; his body was more familiar than any map, than any river or road. for a moment he simply bathed in the warmth of it, the comfort of someone who had once cared, but it was short lived. since his return to the eyrie the only living, breathing entity whose stomach didn’t turn at the sight of the liege was his sister. it was not the same, the affections of brothers and sisters and the affections of … well … what had they been ? not friends. not lovers. something messy and dirty and undefined, existing without end in the void between two things. once shielded behind the obelisk, steffon closed the slim space between them yet did not force touch. to make qian forgive him, to coax him like a cat from beneath a wagon, was not what they wanted, not if it wasn’t true.
“but you do hold it against me. you do. you did not used to look at me with those eyes. no, you had a different pair. they were soft, they were … we were … ” it was moments like those where steffon cursed the way his mind had been stitched. it was as though, when him and lyanna were sharing a womb, something vital had been missed in his construction. a faulty foundation, a brick mislaid. sharp, frustrated breath whistled from their open mouth as the liege attempted to string together a sentence worthy of qian corbray. “i do not wish to forget it. can you truly say, seeing me again, that you desire me to disappear ? if that is what has hurt you … ” there was pleading in his eyes, now, a shimmer like a coin reflecting light at the bottom of a deep well, “ … surely it is only making the matter worse, if i leave once more ? ”
WE WERE. if only steffon was hearing themself right then they would know exactly what qian was trying to get into their head. for there is not only a distance between them but a long stretch of time lost. a time during which qian had spent killing the memory of steffon like killing a part of himself. and such act cannot be undone on a whim. not with desperate pleas. no one comes back from the dead , not his parents , not steffon , not the version of him who had both. “ i never desired you to disappear , never did , never will ! “ qian’s voice hitches , hurt begins to etch its way on his face. “ it is you who left , steffon. it is you who desired to disappear. do not burden me with what you have done … “ to us. a lump in his throat is beginning to form.
“ and will you coming back make it better ? “ he scoffs. steffon is being led by their impulses once again , and qian has had enough of these games. they are not kids anymore. they have not been for a very long time. “ i wish you well , liege steffon. good night. “
WHO shiera waters ( @liver-y )
WHERE red keep sickrooms
WHEN some time after the harvest feast
THERE IS STILL HEAT from where there was fire , but at last , qian can open his eyes without the sensation of his head being pounded down by the weight of the world. time had been a blur , as was his surroundings , and between the moment he fell and now felt like a hell that seemed to go on eternal. for a second , he was almost tempted to accept the gaunt hand of the stranger reaching out to him , just so the torment stops. but not a moment too soon , the fires ceased and he has awakened. the remnants haunt but he is alive and breathing.
he cannot tell how long he had been ridden by this bed , but his bones ache , begging to be severed from their prison. the world spins when he lifts himself up , but qian tries his best not to hurl as his empty stomach churns. bloody gods. only then after a moment of respite he begins to make a clearer sense of his environs — grey vestments going in and out of the chambers , a few afflicted others confined to their own beds. the scent of poppy permeates , lending him comfort and nausea at the same time. not too far beside him , a lady , most likely as he , just waking up from the nightmare. “ you’re the hand’s daughter , are you not ? “ his voice comes out coarse , hours without water have made his throat raw. “ do you know what happened ? “ he coughs.
she can feel her cousin approach before he even does. had felt the icy breeze many times in her life whenever he got too close, the chill traveling down to depth of her bones, but over time she had learned not to shiver, to stand up straighter and hold her chin up high in the company of someone who wished to see the world fall out from under her feet. it is what she does now when she feels the sensation, hears his voice filter into her ear, an edge that she does her best not to show him. she turns dark eyes toward him, her hands tightening briefly into the silk of her dress before she lets go. "do you hope to humiliate yourself and our family by always speaking so crudely?" falyn's voice is thin as she speaks, an anger that seems to only unmask itself in her cousin's presence. "your jesting makes no one laugh, lord tyrell." the idea of even saying his name leaves a foul taste on her tongue. her posture straightening despite it not doing much for her height as her chin has to raise to look at him, "it is conversing, not kissing arse as you so eloquently say. they are amongst the crowd doing just the same i would assume. have you done any or has it been jests to everyone and not just myself?"
IT IS NOT BENEATH HIM to be impressed , how falyn has grown unflinching in the face of his bids of chipping away at her confidence. there was a time when it was easy to intimidate the lady , that flashing his canines was enough to elicit a jolt from her. yet here she is , snapping back , donning a bravado that is unlike of a delicate rose. but of course. matthos can only surmise mors has been steadfast in making his daughter appear more formidable , more heir-like. “ how you wound me , cousin. i was merely acting on courtesy. you asked a question , i humored you with an answer. is it not how it goes ? “ falyn’s fiery response has only made him more ardent. rarely do they ever see or speak to each other in highgarden and he expects nothing less from this reunion. “ careful now , falyn. your father expects you to keep your calm and you have already lost it to someone as little of consequence as i. what happens when you inherit all this ? when your enemies grow in numbers ? “ his tone has only become more mocking , his lifeless eyes challenging hers. “ will you tell them off too , like some aggravated child ? “
"it truly is remarkable, is it not?" lady falyn had directed the question to the person standing beside her. they had not been in conversation yet, but her father had always taught her to be the first person to say something. it will make a good impression to be forthcoming, she can hear her father's voice in her head and see him across the great hall. he was in his own conversation, laughing the laugh that makes other people look his way and ponder what he is speaking of. an eloquence that makes people listen and wish to learn why he is laughing so jovially. falyn had known it was a ploy, he did this often and with anyone, but she also knew that it would have to be her one day — that it was her now. her duties as the heir had started far before this moment, but it was now that they were the most important. a kingsmoot. something that had rattled the whole of westeros, however she would not let it show that she was apart of that. "to have so many lovely faces here." dark eyes flit to the person next to her, "i have been hoping to see the bay while i am here, to compare it to the beauty of the sunset sea. are you hoping for anything in your time here?"
CLASPING HIS HANDS behind his back like claws retracted , matthos marvels at the sight in front of him. not for the reason that he hasn’t beheld a grandiosity such as this ( the reach boasts far livelier celebrations ) , but for the sheer number of warm bodies filling the belly of the red keep like fodder. what joy , what folly ! soon , it is how these numbers be culled he will see and hopefully , partake. and when that day comes , he himself will feast. for now , he’ll settle for a small game — the heir of highgarden is sticking out like a fawn in plain sight. matthos sidles up to her. “ i am hoping to witness your father choke on his spit and humiliate himself to all of the seven kingdoms. “ his mouth shapes to the usual grin he wears , exposing jagged whites. “ oh i merely jest , dear cousin. “ it is no secret that he disdains his uncle and he only thinks of his cousins lowly. falyn is as unfit as she is unripe. perhaps , it is through his derisions she might learn. “ tell me , falyn , where is your twin ? are they out there merrymaking while you are here relegated to kiss these nobles’ arse ? “
qian acts as though he buries them, enacting as gravedigger instead of lord. his tone emphasising the title, jostled by the wheels of their wheelhouse, which narrows the longer these minutes stretch. an iced heat floods through their stomach, accelerating their heartbeat. once they told him it was no more their choice than their sibling's, and then this, and then that, and his mind remains smooth as the mud, and stubborn as a goat's ass. in a way, they appreciate no mysteries about his emotions, and yet, it awakens their own perilous beast, that feral northerner no vale's waters can chase out, which may make him right. “ i wouldn't say it's conversations that there are debts to me for. ” tip of tongue finds the point of their canine, pressing for a grounding sensation of discomfort. “ but it's because i and your sibling take the brunt of attentions that you and mei go free. ” in council, in meeting, in kingsmoot, in living. such is the harshness of reality no matter the family, this is not personal and yet it will be seen personally. ( because it cannot be removed from them. ) “ if our house is to rise to the throne, you'd best start giving a damn. ” the colours of both vale and white harbour rest upon their person. his tone makes them continue to believe they are a farce, but by r'hllor, this was their farce and their part to play on this wretched stage. “ you being anything other than full of venom would befit me. ” and therefore, you won't do it. but he asked ... they watch him out of the corner of their dark eye, despite staring pointedly out the window. keeping arms uncrossed.
“ ATTENTIONS ? WAS IT NOT what you endeavored when you married my sibling ? “ is the corbray name too heavy of a brunt to bear now ? it feels as though yesterday how ardent they were adorning themself with it , like it was their jewels to inherit. now all that he seems to hear from them is the sound of choking from being strangled by the very thing they were enthused to wear. gwyneth keeps chastising him for being ungrateful when, the way he sees it , they are but any better. “ the throne ? “ qian makes an incredulous face. “ of course , this is what it is all about. this carriage , this excess , this spectacle. all your machinations ! “ never once did he desire for the throne , much less the power that comes with it. for all his misery , he would rather his life in heart’s home than his house ascend to ruin. gwyneth can take the red keep for themself. “ i will not have it. house corbray will remain in heart’s home , and that i shall make certain. “
as was the way of a little brother, they did not relent. their urging only intensified. steffon’s brows downturned, and they shuffled through the crowd until the pair emerged out into the quieter, less oppressive corridor. qian was taller than they remembered, his features meaner, the softness of youth worn away ; had their kindness only been a trick of the light, or had his disappearance truly wounded him as much as it seemed ? to the older, there had only been one focus ; lyanna. getting to her no matter the cost, getting to her even if it meant losing his own life on the journey. there had never been a push, only a reason to leave that was so terrible that a moment longer at the eyrie would have killed him.
because, in spite of an affection that had been budding, nothing could touch the love of a sister. the love of a twin. steffon had been severed, cut in two ; as he looked upon the unmoving face of his old companion they realised understanding had not survived their time apart. nuance of conversation, expression, was often lost on them — a boy with a mind crafted like no other, pulled apart and arranged in ways not even the maesters could decipher. “i wish to speak with you.” their voice came softer, “it has been some time. i am … getting the sense that you are unhappy with me.”
lyanna was the half of the arryn twins who was better trained at speech, at keeping her back straight and her curtsies low. steffon played with his fingertips, a low sound swelling from the back of his throat at the weight of discomfort. “if it is because i left … ” of course it was. what other reason would there be, for that newfound ice ? “ … then i am sorry. truly. it was never you. you were … ” were the only person without shared blood that had ever made them feel whole.
SO MUCH OF THEM had withered and it is only just that they both will the past to oblivion , but steffon’s voice comes out so tenderly , so soft , and though he does his best to keep a hardened facade , guilt and pity and a fondness that was once were wash all over him at once. an urge to lay down all his arms just this time , for the boy who used to be his when nothing else in the world was ( nothing still is ). “ not here. “ qian heaves a long sigh as he finally lets himself , closing the distance between them as he reaches for steffon’s wrist and pulls them to where no soul can bear witness , as though sacrilege.
what a strange way to be — to be the one leading by the hand , to be the one carrying the other’s faith like a delicate thing on his back , that he may lead them to whichever they seek. qian still does not know what steffon seeks. forgiveness ? but who is he to ask ? what power does he hold over the liege of the vale to stop him from disappearing that night ? he knows they had their reasons , and though it wounded him for being none the wiser , he was but only a companion , their paths were fated to diverge sooner or later. “ you have nothing to apologize for , as i have nothing to hold against you. “ he situates the both of them behind a pillar. “ let us just forget it , steffon. forget everything that ever was between us. “
"one of many things that is beginning to." daemian's words are short, said with a venom that requires no rise of his voice, but a chillness that he had perfected in the last years of his life. he had never been known to be kind and he was not planning on starting today in lieu of potentially offending some random lord that daemian clearly did not care to remember the name of, if he even knew them at all. the rubbish of westeros that he had done his best to escape from, only to be pulled back into with his parents' vie for some throne made of dead people's swords. "do you believe yourself to look good in chains?" the lord celtigar questions, head cocking to the side while a sickening image begins to take shape in his head, something vicious and cruel and it makes his heart beat harder inside of his chest, "have you ever seen someone in them?" daemian asks, a curl of his lips makes him look like he had come from the seven hells.
“ I— “ THERE IS A SHIVER that runs down his spine , and if he’s trying not to flinch , he is failing. it dawns on him that , after all , what he is is a petty lord in king’s landing , a fry thrust into a feeding ground. the threat of death is always looming closer than he thinks. this lord could very well strike him down right there and then and swiftly , and with how little house corbray is of importance , his demise would be tantamount. yet , some part of him refuses to yield , as if the fires he has stoked hasn’t burned him yet. qian dreams of no funeral but if he was to die , then let him be carried by the rivers of the vale unto the narrow sea. it is the tides that should deliver him to the thereafter , not the stone cold floors of madmen. “ do you think you can frighten me ? i have faced wilder beasts. “
THE HAND OF THE LATE KING welcomes matthos tyrell , the lord of highgarden , to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be waggish and candid , but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their mercurial and sadistic tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of thorns as red as the rose ; the one who bleeds gets to relish the beauty / the first you notice in the room and the last you'll ever forget / the hyena will laugh before it devours. they themselves dream of house tyrell on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress , and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
𖥻 STATISTICS
name matthos tyrell. nickname(s) matt. age two and thirty. date of birth 71ac. place of birth highgarden , the reach. gender cis man. pronouns he / him. sexual orientation bisexual. religion the faith of the seven. title lord of highgarden. languages common tongue. affiliation house tyrell.
faceclaim diego calva. hair color black. hair style short. eye color brown. height 182cm. build muscular. distinguishing characteristics a menacing grin plastered on his countenance ; deep-set black eyes following your every movement , like predator stalking its prey ; jaws that have stood the test of time
THERE ARE TYRELLS that are born pleasant , much like the flowers which adorn the roseroad. there are that are as prickly as the briar bushes found between the battlements encircling highgarden. and there are that are kept from the rest — like rot buried under the thicket.
when marianne tyrell perished at the hands of the stranger and her lord husband mace decided to abandon his post in grief , their youngest , matthos , felt nothing. such tragic turn of events would have left a child wailing but never did the young lord shed a tear. they say it was innocence , that the little mind of his could not grasp a loss of that magnitude , and with mace hardly ever present for his children even before , no love was truly lost between them. be that as it may , there has always been something so inexplicable about the boy.
those beyond the walls of highgarden would assume he is just like any other children. playful , if tiresome , and not without the juvenile antics. to an extent , he is. but those who live within know that there is more than meets the eye. he is sweet but his eyes are hollow — cold and dark as though he was never a child of the southern sun. and gods only know what he does in the gardens all alone. red-stained digits , and the smell of carcass follows his trail like a faithful. but if no one dares to ask why or where the wild hares have gone , it is all just child’s play , is it not ?
matthos grows up to be a virile young man. a true tyrell , he is inducted to knighthood as early as six and ten. righftully so , the lord possesses the strength to hold a lance and the acumen required in hastilude , in which no one would dare to go up against him. but as ferocious as house tyrell is in tourneys , there is a bigger reason why. behind the handsome countenance is a terror in the lists. every duel is nothing short of a bloodshed.
soon enough , whispers hound him. whispers that turn into tall tales. that the lord could not be a tyrell , for he fights like a madman , wanton and brutal. that his visor is cursed , that a beast takes over once he puts it over his head , seeking carnage , seeking spillage , seeking destruction. whether they are true or not , the champion of the reach always finishes the match with no opponent left unmaimed. and a mirth like no other.
something bedevils him. what once was morbid curiosity has now grown into some sort of appetite , a pang for violent delights , of which even he is not completely in control. it plagues him , gnaws away at him and it can only be sated by the sight of pain. pain in another , from which it derives its glee. and he cannot say that he does not yearn for it too.
the kingsmoot looms closer. his uncle is a craven man , but one who is astute as far as the security of his station is concerned. his sibling will not go down without a fight for their claim. and matthos’s position will meet its reckoning. by then , who will he be ? a weapon ? a monster ? and to whom ? he has only ever heeded the call of his bloodlust , but politics is an even bloodier affair. the kingsmoot looms. a long war is nigh. who will he be ? he is only hungry.
“ yes, ” sharper. “ your silence is a privilege because i speak when you refuse to. ” when you fucking leave me in the lurch — their fingertips steeple with more intense pressure to the softened wrinkles of their forehead, and the wheelhouse rocks, and it refuses to lull either of them towards sleep. the pressure bubbles up within their chest, a northern pride and flare of temper apparent in the otherwise dark umber of their gaze. they keep most of the hostility for the piss and shit that can be smelled a mile away, unblocked by the sheer of the gossamer curtain separating them from the awaiting changes. one would think this would bring about a bonding, but perhaps through loathing, the same thing is achieved. “ … never mind. ” to his apology. “ it's been years, and still my liege. ” in a mutter, not even gwyneth. the marriage has long since lost the beauty of the honeyed moon and gwyn, a resident of the vale, entrenched in its waters, and still qian froze them out in a manner worthy more of a stark moniker than anybody else. “ we must pretend to not be spent by the time we step out of this cursed wheelhouse. ” they adjust their skirts. the white beads upon their shawl clink together. it feels as though even this simple noise takes up far too much space for his liking. lord of light, defend us … the night is dark, and full of terrors … and the day has no friendlier face.
GWYNETH ACTS AS THOUGH they birthed him , comporting themself as such , like it is their burden to iron out every wrinkle they see in him , from his attire down to his bearings. it is pedantic as much as it is pretentious , and no way is it getting them in his good graces , if that ever was what they were attempting to do. “ am i to be indebted to you ? for chatter ? “ and what privilege is to be found in his silence when it is forced upon him every time he so much as squeak in his sibling’s court. qian’s eyebrows furrow even tighter. the sheer hypocrisy he finds all too ridiculous. “ what else befits you , my liege ? “ the latter part overstated in indignation. “ you are my sibling’s spouse , are you not ? “ and that only , he intends to convey. gwyneth can pretend they’re a valeman for all they want , wear their clothing , and drudge should it bring comfort to their conscience , but in qian’s eyes , they remain as they were — a foreigner. no forced arrangement can change his mind. “ i can be as spent as i like to be. i care not for the people you purpose to flatter when we alight. “ he leans back , more exhausted than he ever was.
they had thought of qian, in the lonely places of the world, when the wind came off the mountains and his only companion had been their thoughts. how could steffon have so easily forgotten the softness of his lips, the touch of fingertips against flesh, the stifled giggles and assurances to his parents that, no, this was nothing beyond the usual hijinks of young boys. but there had always been one thing more important to steffon than the gods themselves. his sister was more valuable to him than all of asshai's rubies or sapphires from the summer isles, than even the iron throne ; it had been no surprise that the curiosity of fresh - faced things had also fallen away in favour of his dear twin. “what do you mean, no ? ” hissed the little bird of arryn, reaching to grab the cuff of qian’s tunic. it was an unfamiliar word. never before had they uttered such denials.
to onlookers, it may have seemed as though steffon had consumed one too many wines. let them whisper. he scuttled after qian, through the crush of bodies, noblemen, serving girls alike, eyes pleading for him not to leave.
they had never been normal. a stain on their house, a black sheep, someone who was not befitting of royal title, of inheritance, of much of anything. his sister’s great shame, the son no maester could teach to read nor septa teach to pray ; hardly a liege at all. qian, for a time, had been one of the few who believed the boy of being capable of something. now, looking up into those familiar yet distant eyes, they wondered whether all they had had grown stale ; time had cooled their hearts, although steffon could still feel an ember within his. “let me speak with you in private. please.”
SUCH IS THE NATURE OF DANCING with the winds — one always runs the risk of a fall for having tempted fate one too many times. qian had been in acceptance that steffon was as ephemeral as he was sweeping , that the windows of their youthful trysts were only meant to be gazed into. but often so he wandered into them too closely , grazing edges like how his fingertips did every inch of steffon’s skin and their delinquent soul. almost as if taking a misstep was well within his intentions , relying on the winds to catch him when he finally abandons his good senses.
“ leave me be. “ qian weaves through the throng with urgency , as steffon has refused to take his no for an answer , tailing suit like an imprinting gosling. persistent like they had always been , he would have found it endearing under a much dissimilar circumstance , but between then and now , nothing is the same and he is only determined to lose him as he had , though unwillingly , before.
but the nauseating throbbing in his head only grows more unrelenting by the minute , so does steffon. qian makes it past the doorway , but half of his bearings had been lost on the way. he could only imagine what his sibling and their spouse would make out of him if they had witnessed the small commotion. “ steffon , “ he growls lowly , turning around to face those curious eyes once more. “ what is it that you want from me ? “
a moment. he keeps repeating this to himself, a mantra tucked under his breath. time stretches to more than one moment, and torwyn understands that time is one of the few things he cannot mold into his control. aiysha's still within the hall, curls bouncing as she dances 'round and 'round. he must return to her; they must display themselves as capable to the rest of the realm.
but they all would not have gathered if not for the tradition of the iron islands, of his home, and standing amongst them left him unmoored. torwyn sits, the music from the hall distant enough to ignore, and he focuses on one breath, then another.
until the mantra is broken by another.
gaze narrows, sliding to the newcomer. silence falls thick, until torwyn shifts to peer at the other.
"i take it i am not the only one who cannot stomach the celebrations." spoken like he was confessing to a septa. a beat. and then a risk: "did watching them sicken you too?"
HE CANNOT SAY HE WAS NOT surprised nor perplexed to hear such a sentiment come out of a highborn’s mouth. then again , things have never been stranger since the late king’s death ( something tells him that the night has yet to conjure all its mysteries , whether he likes it or not ). “ you could say that. “ there is an ease brought about by the other’s impression — bold but unimposing — but perhaps all that he was seeking tonight , if he ever was , was a fellow , someone of a like-mindedness for once. “ it is a wasteful farce , for certain. “
yet , as soon as he says those words , he feels bare , unarmed. he cannot know for certain that this man sought the same — confiding to him might just cost him his head. his countenance falls. no one is to be trusted , most especially now at the times they’re in. “ how certain am i that you will not use this exchange against me , my lord ? “
throughout the years , there had not been many people that lyanna had missed. her twin was a missing limb , the rest of her family she could give or take. another one was qian , who so often followed the twins around as if he was the third person rounding out the wilderness haunting the halls of the eyrie. he had left before lyanna came back , and his absence had been noticed every time she wanted someone to talk to and steffon was busy. it was obvious that something had soured between the two , but lyanna had chosen to leave it be. she’d find out soon enough.
after dancing and eating until she felt as if her feet would fall off , lyanna needed to get some air. and the night decided to bless her further when she realised that the boy she’d missed so much had appeared in front of her , as if he’d heard her longing. lyanna embraced him instantly. “bless the seven , you’re taller than the mountains.” she cared not if he found an embrace unfitting , she needed him to be close. “you’re so grown. last i saw you we were the same height.”
QIAN NEVER THOUGHT THIS DAY would come. lyanna was quite a sister to him , a balming presence back in the day when he was a ward in the eyrie and was yearning for home so. he freezes in her touch , if only a second , before he melts , arms wrapping around her back as he rests his head atop hers. “ lyanna — lady lyanna , how ? when did you get back ? “ qian breaks away first , making certain that she is real and not a figment of his imagination. he was there , in their wild adventures , bearing witness to the flower of their youth. and he was also there , when the cold winds had taken her away — when he saw something died in steffon , and perhaps in him as well.
“ oh , my lady , it is truly you. “ for the first time since arriving , or perhaps , for the first time in a long time , a swelling joy fills the cavity of his chest , his exhaustion seems to have lifted. “ where have you been ? “
daemian was not one to sulk and he was not sulking now, he was just... enjoying a quiet moment! yes, that was it. a quiet moment of solitude away from the raccous laughter and clinking goblets of the strongest wine the realm had seen. it was easier out here, he did not have to keep his back straight, he did not have to engage in conversations with lords he had never met and ones who did not know their place to keep away from him. he did not have to entertain their assumptions of him and their congratulations on his betrothal. even thinking of it made him sick. instead he got to take a second to breathe in the air that filtered through the stone windows of the red keep, the smell of king's landing wafting through to him. something peaceful, which he seldom got. "your breathing is much too loud," daemian speaks, his ears trained to hear a pin drop from ten doors down. "is there no where else you can make that ruckus?"
MUST BE ONE OF THOSE LORDS of southern breeding. he has yet to engage with one but their reputation precedes them , thus has been confirmed since his arrival in king’s landing. ornate doublets and an entitlement one cannot mistake as otherwise , qian wonders had he been a boy raised around these parts , would he be just as excruciating ? “ does my breathing offend you so gravely , my lord ? “ he straightens his spine , eyes squinting as he tries to ascertain the other man’s features. ornate doublet and all. just as he expects , though he fails to remember if the princess had a son or if this could be one endeavoring for the iron throne , gallivanting as if the red keep and everything in it were his soon-to-be playthings. “ would you have me chained and thrown into the black cells for it then ? “
WHO closed ( 3 / 3 )
WHERE somewhere in the red keep
WHEN during the feast
AN ACRIDITY HANGS IN THE GREAT HALL , something that only qian can taste in his mouth. a harvest feast … it is as if a mockery of the hands who had sown the seeds and tended to the flock sprawled out on these highborns’ tables. his jaws tighten at the thought , fingernails digging into calloused palms and in the wake of it , sore evidence of his catharsis. his appetite had already taken its leave long before they were served food and perhaps he should too. the corridors of the red keep reek of the same putrid odor as its streets but there is comfort in its liminality — something forbids him from overstaying lest the walls spill their secrets , but he finds it all the more tempting. as he finds sanctuary upon a balustrade , a lone shadow stirs nearby. perhaps just a few minutes will suffice before he returns to the worst of the realm , and so long as they maintain their distance , they will all be fine.
「 ⚔ 」 STATUS ﹕ closed.
「 ⚔ 」 LOCATION ﹕ the feast.
「 ⚔ 」 WITH ﹕ @hretiks ( & qian )
history was something not many men could claim. the average existence — even of those with noble blood — moved through reality like a steady, sorry wind, but qian and steffon had history in abundance. it had fallen through the cracks of late ; their mind had been steeped in more pressing matters such as chasing cats across the rocks, catching fish with their bare hands, showing lyanna all the crannies and crags of the eyrie that they had discovered since she had been gone. he would have shown qian, too, if he had been there. instead, their closest friend had become little more than a ghost, said to have returned home soon after steffon's own ... unexpected departure. the familiar shadow was not noticed, not at first. the youngest of the arryn children ( and the stain, it had been said ) was too preoccupied with the great feast to pay mind to much else. hard cheeses, candied fruits, dried meats that were foreign to those of the vale, all found their way into their deep pockets to enjoy in the comfort of their solitude.
with weighted trousers that strained to hold the weight, steffon peeled away from the table to weave throughout the crowd like fleeing vermin. then, they stopped. eyes bright, wide, staring — they focused upon the face of the man that had once been their exploration. as young boys they had trailed each other's bodies like maps, stowed away beside the vale's streams, hidden beneath the canopies of trees. in that moment, it was all reduced to one sentence ;
“follow me. i have plums.”
LANGUID YET NOT A DROP OF WINE has grazed his lips , qian wades through the flooded hall of drunken lieges , desperate for a clearing in which he could relieve himself of the hazy furor. the night has been punishing. a masquerade he is forced to partake in , twisting his countenance into that of someone he does not recognize. house corbray is to present a united front , flaunt to the realm that they are just as viable as everybody else in this godsforsaken pageant , curb whispers of leeching off of the manderlys’ coffers. he wishes it to be easy , to cripple all his sensibilities and fall into a stupor. but bile is starting to form at the back of his throat — he wants none of it and he longs to disappear.
yet as soon as he does , he is found quickly.
steffon arryn was nothing but a vivid vision in the middle of a chilly vale summer. they would claim that they didn’t belong there , oh , but they did — they do. for no one was as wild as the winds as steffon , how their mousy flagrant hair loved to dance , and even here and now , they appear like they’ve been kissed by the breeze. and those eyes … still curious , as though they’re seeing him for the very first time again. as though the night hasn’t punished him enough. “ no. “ he turns on his heel and starts walking away.
kianamaiart
yousharknotpass
romaincrisis
annaxmalina
dededos
izzy806
gummygunk
