what is honor compared to a woman's love? what is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms… or the memory of a brother's smile? wind and words. wind and words. we are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. that is our great glory, and our great tragedy.
dependent multimuse affiliated with @103ac.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ the hand of the late king welcomes grover tully, the lord of riverrun, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be carefree and enthusiastic, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their coarse and impulsive tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of the finest leather boots unrecognisable for the mud ; running as fast as the wind, as though to stop would be to get caught. what by? who can say ; a shock of cold water upon skin, the laugh it elicits ; steel upon steel ringing together in a song older than words—this is what it means to be alive. they themselves dream of any house but tully on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
basics.
name grover tully. titles a lord of riverrun; one among many. age six and twenty. alignment chaotic neutral. motivations have a good time, make some friends, win some fights if any occur, get good and properly drunk.
visuals.
height 6'0. eyes deep black. build well-muscled, though not particularly bulky; a decent athletic build, with a practiced physical form, and calves developed from horse riding. notable features hair usually tied back and worn long-ish. a fish pendant he never ever takes off... and scars! so many scars. scars on his arms. scars on his knees. also see: his beautiful smile <3
family.
father lord mordhred tully. mother lady nayana tully, née rivers Ⅹ. cousins lady amerei mallister tully, older cousin ; aila tully, younger cousin. aunts & uncles the oldest tully; sabitha tully; priya tully, mordhred's siblings. grandfather old lord balan.
timeline. always a wip
tw for illness, familial death (mother) and mentions of violence
i. a cheerful young boy, the grandson of the biggest fish in the riverlands, with a cousin already present & slated for greatness. the tullys need not doubt questions of inheritance. this one has no tie to the responsibilities of a future lord, a future heir, a future spare: only freedom, freedom, freedom. love and affection abound in this place of joy and laughter. swimming in the rivers, training with wooden sword, rolling down the stairs to the sounds of laughter below. this is the life!
ii. no stopping tragedy or time. illness comes to the house, and takes where it will. nothing quick or easy about this. the stranger stalks beyond the doors of his mother's room for a time he barely thought to measure before. all life ceases to a halt. love and affection go nowhere, but rot in this miasma. one might as well all be under the stranger's grip. what thought can be given to other pursuits, the little joys of life, in this place?
ii. there is a change. perhaps it is in the boy; perhaps it is in the home. what is riverrun less one rivers? where do the pleasures of childhood go when joy itself has been stolen? and what of the father and son, the left-behind? who are they to turn to but each other? a father's peace of mind; a son's need of support—it is the perfect match. a life: sidelined. there is nowhere else grover tully would rather be...
iii. but one can hardly stay home forever! time passes; grief dulls; and boy turns to man having seen no more of the world than he had at five. a proposition is made: perhaps one might travel? to step foot beyond the bounds of tully lands seems a risk—yet to stay further seems to be to suffocate oneself on the stale air of home. from those who love him best there is only encouragement: an eagerness to see growth where for years there has been only stagnation. a step away, just the one; just another. a few weeks, perhaps. or a few moons. or a few—
iv. if you don't look for other pursuits, they find you. a sword makes its way to his unknighted hand; coin gathered and spent, bargained and lost. new friends! new enemies! the only thing better than fucking is fighting, and the only thing better than fighting is winning. one remembers what was lost, all those years ago: in one word, pure and simply, fun. without the expectant eyes of family, it's easy. without the weight of sandstone and grief and rivers, it can be everywhere, and it's high time to regain it! all the world awaits, after all, and everywhere is a happier place than home.
summary.
the current generation of tullys are here to have a good time and not work hard, and gro is no exception. occupies some of the worst stereotypes about sellswords: careless, carefree, and with a penchant for violence that he's really pretending is perfectly normal. a bad tendency to get attached REAL quick, but a habit of moving on equally quick - if he hasn't written, oops, sorry - he was just distracted. has been a second son for the past four years, gallivanting around essos, and he has no intention of returning to that good house tully lifestyle. hit him up if you wanna party, wanna fight, or wanna fuck - but leave him out of this 'politics' nonsense !
shiera waters speaking with her aunt, elissa westerling @faatedones
early during the mourning feast
She stayed well clear of the wine. The poisoned wine had long been taken away, sent to the halls of Oldtown and distributed amongst maesters here to formulate a cure, or tipped in the river where it would endanger none but fish... but Shiera stayed clear of the wine regardless, where it glinted a pale gold upon the tables of the feast. She thought perhaps few did, with the memory of Cerion Lannister's procession stark in their minds yet. How strange, for someone like their Master of Laws, who had been a member of this small council for near as long as Shiera could remember, to be gone... and how. She had seen councillors change before, but few had been felled in an act such as this. He was the first one ill, she remembered from that night, well before she herself had been consumed by the fever. Poison, she thought, staring at the cup. Had she herself been so close to death under the grips of that fever? Had there been a true possibility for the strange visions and sights she had seen under those heat-dreams, to be her last sight in the world?
Movement by her elbow distracted her from the flutterings of nausea that seemed to follow her everywhere these past days. Somebody was attempting to look on, as the High Septa spoke. "Did you know him?" she asked, and only then realised it was her aunt she was speaking to.
after nearly three decades of breaking her fast with maelora celtigar, daenys had quickly learned what was the easiest to swallow whilst ruminating on the words, be it instructions or lectures, that left her mother's mouth ─ oat porridge, sweetened with a bit of honey and nothing else, was what currently sat before her, thickening up on her spoon as she stirred it absentmindedly. sometimes, not even experience could temper the unease that settled onto her shoulders whenever her mother was near and that made daenys feel almost guilty. what daughter would feel this way around her mother ? there was something wrong with her, surely, to prompt such dread and when her eyes lifted as her mother spoke, finding the ruling lady already watchful, the feeling grew larger.
❝ westerling's own daughter, last i heard ... my chambermaid was called away to help sober the fool up enough to attend to his bastard get. ❞ that alone seemed to imply that the lord hand might finally be moved to proper action, though daenys could not speak on the love he may or may not have for his illegitimate children. her spoon lifted, mouth closing on a bit of porridge and she made a face ─ cold already ─ before pushing the bowl from her. daenys was not certain of her mother's tone and desired, more than anything else, to inject some concern into her words, though she knew the warning was likely more practical than anything else. ❝ you needn't tell me that, mother. daemian, on the other hand ... he is friendly with vaiora and he can be a fool. i am sure he will find his way there, if he has not already. ❞ she supposed the illness may bring some good fortune, if it spared vaiora redwyne and endeared her brother to the idea of the marriage.
❝ what do you think of the baratheon claim ? i cannot say if lord baratheon will be suitably distressed by his wife's illness enough to drag his three daughters back to the stormlands. the man did marry ever - so - quickly after the death of his first wife, after all. ❞
Pathetic. There was nothing like knowing one's hosts, however temporary and assumed such position was, were in such poor condition. Though Maelora preferred not to think of Alester Westerling as her host, now or ever. One thing was certain: he had proven to everybody here once and for all that the golden hands about his neck were nothing more than ill-fitting jewellery. "Hardly surprising that Westerling hasn't the consciousness to attend his bastards. I'd be more shocked if he had things well in... hand, as it were." Incompetence surrounded them—and perhaps it was important for the gathered realm to see the current state of things, if only so they would seek order again. A true claim. A settled connection. "I shall speak to Daemian and make certain he doesn't risk all our healths by some mad wish to visit his betrothed now, of all times. Though Gods know what sort of diseases he's picked up gallivanting about Essos." Hmm. Something to consider for there, too: she wouldn't like anybody pointing fingers towards the Celtigars any more than they already were towards all the houses free of illness. As though plague contracted itself after consulting with genealogies.
The Baratheons' claim did intrigue her. She did not expect it of old Lord Chayton, though perhaps she ought to have. There was a history of blood there, Valyrian blood, that could mean more than they knew... the only question was if he was a madman addled by grief—perhaps doubtful, considering how quickly he'd replaced his late wife—or one more of the number taking advantage of an opportunity. She would not object to an alliance with the Baratheons; but she would not entertain any delusions on their part, if they truily did intend to claim the throne.
"I don't see anything in it," she told Daenys. "If he has any wisdom he only intends to eke out the strongest contender and throw the Stormlands' might behind them. Have you any connections to his daughters? They may well be looking for a friend in these... trying times. They may be willing to speak on their father's intentions, or perhaps persuaded to leave this city before more illness claims the lot of them."
word were stilted, as if they were coming out of alysanne’s mouth like thick treacle. she could barely stomach the niceties, was struggling to keep her face straight and her shoulders poised in an attempt to hide the disdain. it wasn’t anything personal to shiera herself, the targaryen was simply against anyone who was considering making any sort of play. it set her in unfavourable stead, especially whenever her mother spoke of betrothals. why would she ever pick out a suitor, she thought, when they could be the very snake that would bite her ankle and steal her life away ?
“thankfully, i have two mothers,” the princess finally retorted, “so i will not miss the hand that the keep is offering. the relief of ownership will bring more peace than the sensation of returning back to where i have always meant to be. this shall be a final trip, for we shall not be going home.” it was then that she allowed herself to break, that facade she had held for so long for the sake of her mother. alysanne smiled, something warm and true. “perhaps only briefly to gather our things. i do not wish to move into the red keep without my silks and blades.”
she tucked her hands together, rested them neatly upon her skirts. “i hope that you enjoy the festivities,” that was hira talking, the angel perched upon her shoulder that reminded alysanne that she was the face of her mothers as much as she was a representation of herself. “what will your plans be, when the decision is made ? ”
Curiosity sparkled, as it did with all those new to the court. Shiera could see in the princess this bulwarked state, a defensiveness few who were familiar with this place would dare to display. Would she remain so in the coming days, steel plate facing the world, sword in hand, brazenly demanding what she would not receive if she remained so... unsubtle? Or would she learn to gild and enamel, drape and festoon, adorn herself well enough all forgot she wore plate?
"You are fortunate indeed, princess; I have none," she said meaninglessly, watching her closely. Do you think to own this place, you who have never set foot in it? Valuable, perhaps, to to discover whether this was merely the misplaced confidence of the hopeful, or there was some secret knowledge held within her that would make it true.
"Well," she said, smiling wanly. "If that is so... I have the good fortune to be the first to welcome you here for good. It is always so wonderful to have more company at court. The Red Keep is a daunting place when empty. My own plans are not my own: I go where my lord father is. As long as he remains here, this is where I will be," she said, the picture of a good daughter. But even in saying it, dread pricked its way up her spine, and Shiera bit her tongue. The Gods listen, she imagined the High Septon saying. Do not listen now, she bid them, so as to make it untrue.
where: the sick rooms where lady baratheon resides
when: days after the antidote has been administered
with: lady helvis baratheon ( @liver-y )
There is nary a doubt about it; Davos has been avoiding the entire wing of the keep where the sick lie dying. He knows it is poison, now, but he cannot stomach the idea of men of women lying upon beds of white, sweat trickling down their foreheads to their necks, raspy voices stuttering upon heaving coughs, the smell of....of pestilence, as it were. The picture his mind's eye paints is based upon not the current reality, but the one he had stumbled into moons ago, unable to do anything but hold two bundles of pure desolation, one in each arm, days before-
Anyways. He is not needed by the sick. There is only one individual who takes residence among them who is of any importance to him. He takes a seat on an old, rickety wooden chair by her bed. The sun streams in from the glass windows, opened to let the bad air out. Her sickly form is, well, sickening, but he tries to hide the swoop of his stomach with the hint of a smile, "Even in your sickbed, your eyes sparkle in the sun, Lady Co-" A pause. A grave mistake, in that it adds another memory to his already miserable state. "Lady Baratheon." He puts a hand along her side, upon the bed; available, should she wish to take it. She used to take it many times when he was a boy essentially under her care, her late husband's squire. "You have given the entire realm quite the fright." An exaggeration, but who will look into it? "I beg you to tell me: the antidote has worked well?"
It had been a long time since such flattery had truly made her laugh. Helvis offered a meagre smile, let the persistent fatigue to make her excuses for her. The pall had not quite left her face, though the fever and sweats had; when she looked into the mirror, she saw half a corpse, with dull eyes and cracked lips. It did not seem to matter to her body that her mind was well on its way to recovery. For the better, then, that she had been strictly instructed to remain abed: this was not a sight she would like exposed to the court at large. "Your lies grow practiced, Ser Davos," she said, leaning back upon her seat. "I apologise for alarming you, if I have." She had not anticipated the number of visitors amongst court, not when so many others had been taken ill. There were few she would call close friends amongst the Red Keep at this time... but it seemed less strange when she thought it was Lady Baratheon that they visited. Chayton had handed her a handful of notes, small well wishes from those who had not themselves recovered. Helvis had plenty of her own to write... once her strength recovered. “It has worked well, I assure you; I am right as rain. And what of your house, Ser Davos? I hope dearly none are afflicted.” Not so soon after their other cruel losses.
the princess stops as a heartbeat. shadowed, with the celtigar mistress not yet turned around to see her, the darkness upon her face rabid and working. it tenses her jaw, flashes through her eyes to thus blacken them near, like thunder across the keep. tension slices through the encounter, and delfina curses herself for not looking where she was going, for not changing direction when she realised. ( you're just like me, delfina. you crave to be anything but, and yet here you are. claws out, teeth bared. how does it feel to be pushed into a corner? to see the only way out is through the narrow bars? ) then the sideways look comes, and by that time, delfina has fastened her expression into a pale, thin smile of greeting. she inclines her head, for regal status demands equal respect, despite any internal disrespect she wishes to give her. “ someone who wishes to play us as fools, to sit back and watch. you and i have a close relationship with the games of puppets, don't we. ”
with maelora celtigar, little is a question now. once upon a time, and perhaps not as distant as either lady would prefer, their houses were regarded as staunch allies and stronger friends. how rotten blood grows when left to bleed out. to satiate the concrete beneath their feet, and now wishing to be gnashed upon the iron throne, and they both know there can only be one. still — she does not leave. she joins maelora fully, hands clasped in a demure position at their waist, unlike them, and yet entirely somehow in character. “ i think relieved is a harsh feeling for this, lady celtigar. you must understand. my wife and daughter both have come through to the other side. i hope neither this nor the fact that i'm without illness disappoints you. ” terse, but not impolite. it would be easier one for the other's claim if one perished in this.
“ you're also without illness. how did we get here? ”
already she faces chains, gold and otherwise. she dare not throw around a true accusation, but perhaps it's agreed upon without saying that there is a heavy dose of suspicion upon them both. how odd, delfina thinks, clenching until her right hand's knuckles whiten, to be united in this.
Maelora laughed. No humour there, only a dry acknowledgement of shared ancient histories. Yes; they were both quite familiar with the puppets and puppeteers that emerged in this court, the invisible strings they all danced upon. Maelora was quite finished dancing tunelessly, back bowed and limbs akimbo. "They will not fool everybody for long. No poison can be left without a trace." Clever, of course, to taint the Redwyne barrels being rolled below, which everybody was guaranteed to sip at least once. Yet dangerous: impossible to narrow down to a single target. Whoever had done this had been careless, either heedless of all those caught in the crossfire, or seeking nothing more than chaos.
The question was then: who stood to gain from that chaos?
She had seen plenty of fingers pointed in the last week, each more dubious than the last. She could dismiss almost all without a thought. Justice would serve her purposes well, but the appearance of it would serve just as well. Ultimately, Maelora cared far more for the consequences than the perpetrator. "You wound me, Your Grace, to take my inquiries with such malice. I have no enmity with your wife and daughter," she laughed, leaning upon the balustrade once more. Nor no care what you think of me now. Yet it was a laughable notion. What would Hira Royce or—whatever the daughter was named—have to do with her? Neither changed a jot about their circumstances, unless they plunged the princess into a chasm of grief so deep she resiled herself to Dragonstone.
Small chance of it. Yet she had heard those rumours as well, of Targaryens and Redwynes and Lannisters having poisoned their own. The mindless fear plagued the Red Keep worse than the effect of any poison. Perhaps those that said it ought to be checked themselves for hallucinations. "Without illness, but not untouched. My son's betrothed lies retching in a bed somewhere—a Redwyne, as the Gods would have it. Morn and night I tell him to pray for her recovery, and ignore the fingers pointing to us. Do you doubt me? I would have chosen my targets with more care if outright murder was to be my method. Should I ask of what wine you drank?"
who: maelora celtigar @liver-y
where: the red keep
when: the pestilence
"My lady," began Lord Strong, hastening a touch to match stride with the woman. "A word."
Lady Maelora Celtigar was an impressive woman -- from her astonishing height to her imperious resolve to her surfeit of ruling pluck, nothing in her suggested a woman to be taken advantage of, but rather, one to be revered. Whatever might come of the Kingsmoot -- and, in truth, Balon did not countenance the chances of any House neither Targaryen nor Paramount -- there was this truth, at least: Maelora Celtigar carried herself like a queen.
Day was quick retreating, its limpid skies shining the same amethyst-plum of a deep bruise. All the world had been laid low, it seemed, with the affliction hanging over King's Landing like a wrathful dragon. Balon, however, had other notions as he hastened across the corridor to meet her.
He'd been eager to meet with her since the start. This matter of the pestilence, its fetid green hand spreading a pall over the proceedings, was only a hiccup. He had no intention of abandoning his task.
"I am glad of this opportunity, at long last. Would my lady consent to a stroll? I hope to speak to you regarding the matter of the canal, and trade. I believe, whatever else may come, it will still benefit us both, and gods willing all touched by it, a very great deal. It may even benefit my lady's standing in terms of..." he licked his lips. "Certain hopes, if it can be brought to fruition in a timely manner."
There was something to be said about the tenacity of those who wanted something from you. To every other house amongst the Seven Kingdoms, she and House Celtigar were thus far only claimants, aspirants as so many others were. Aspirations could only get one so far, and even history counted for little in the face of present weakness. That must change. It would be sweet to see the day each great lord came smiling to her, making offers.
Maelora enjoyed exchange, and had ample ability to give gifts that few would forget.
"Lord Balon," she greeted, smiling broadly. "A stroll sounds quite pleasant. Yes, I had been hoping to speak before this matter threw all of the city into disarray. Tell me more about this canal of yours; what are your hopes? What I remember of your initial idea was rather ambitious—not a criticism. I admire ambition, and House Strong could do much, positioned as you are."
Harrenhal had a treacherous history, and it was only natural for the Strongs, so recently elevated to a seat so large, would wish to leave their mark for good. She would be pleased to have that mark bear her imprints as well—though there was yet the question of viability. If he thought her a heedless seeker, who would tie herself to any cause for a castle built on feathers, he would find himself with nothing in hand very soon. Fruition was a distant prospect: her certain hopes must take priority.
when she wakes, vaiora is home again, back sweaty in the island heat. the voice feels like half a dream — her mother calling out to her, frail in her final state. "water?" vaiora echoes in turn, feeling the dry, hoarse rub of her voice against the chords. as she had, time and time again, the redwyne pulls herself from her blankets. yes, mama — she would mumble through her grogginess. fingers wrap against the pitcher's handle, sure and real, as she pours into a brass cup. a seat against the edge of the bed, palm finding the lady's forehead glistening in the moonlight, so wet that her thick hair is slick against the heat of her fever. "here," she says softly, bringing the cup to her lips. "drink this."
Her voice was hoarse and dry, not the ringing-bell cry of her happy days. She had been sick, Shiera remembered. Weakness in her heart, the maester had said. The septon had said something entirely different, something Shiera was forbidden from repeating. The Father's judgement came heavy on those who forsook the Maiden's vows. And yet Mother was here, to tend to Shiera. Tears pooled in her eyes, her mother's face swimming in and out of vision. "Thank you," she whispered, taking the cup. A sip, two; the water poured down her throat like a shock of ice, and she felt its passage like a cooling draught, a rare dotation. She blinked to clear her vision, and found limp hair, face beaded with sweat, eyes dull and glassy. She reached out, caught a lock of hair, and pushed it carefully to the side. "You should drink too. You shouldn't—you shouldn't be here. The maester says you're not well," she said, tears pooling again.
addam lounged on the chair for a couple of hours until shiera actually woke up, long legs crossed beside her bed and distant stare fixed on the stone walls; all to avoid looking at his sister recovering. she was a pitiful thing in her bed, and a sentiment so alike concern bloomed in him that he had to push it deep down. he caressed her hand instead, a soft touch. they bickered more than they agreed with each other, and addam always pushed her to her limits. to bite back. to stand up. to do something more with your life. you cannot be both lamb and knife, so why would she want to keep being father’s pretty weapon to use and abuse. but she was his sister, in the end. and they came from the same place. when he noticed her stirr, he blinked at her. ❛❛ — always with a ploy for attention, shiera. — ❞ addam said softly, lips stretching in a derisive smirk, but he did not mean it as an insult. the truth cannot be an insult. in one way or another, the three of them would always be vying for their father attention when birth and shared blood did not guarantee any. he could have teased her more, like when they were children, but her brown eyes were so clouded by confusion and her skin was a sickening pallid grey, he did not have the heart. addam was probably the last person she was expecting on her sickroom, but shiera should jave expected it. who else besides family did she have in the red keep? ❛❛ — yes, 'tis me. in your sickbed, do not mistake for any hallucinations. your fever was so high you mistook it as fire and screamed bloody murder. but not alone. — ❞ he glanced quickly around the sick room, hightower men and maesters were administering more doses of the antidote, they informed the poisoned's kin that it would require more than one try. some people he recognized, some, only by the sigils in their cloth or on the breast of their servants.
he watched her with keen eyes for every reaction, every symptom. danger had not been conquered yet, addam expected that trouble would continue to follow them until the kingsmoot was resolved. what if the hightowers were wrong? one already died, and a ruling lord with a powerful claim to the throne — their lord paramount, of the westerlands. sometimes, addam forgot those origins were supposed to matter. his time at casterly rock so easily forgotten, so easily abhorred. addam moved from the chair next to her to sit beside her on the bed, careful to not jolt her too much, but he wished to speak secrets in the lowest voice. they were not alone in the sickroom, but hardly anyone was paying attention to the hand's bastards whom they called the hand's children only in polite conversation. ❛❛ — they are saying it was poison. in the wine. all eyes are on the lannisters. on the redwynes. and on hightowers that decided to climb down their towers with a convenient antidote in exchange of a position on the council. — ❞ he was not sure someone had informed shiera of the important details yet. certainly their father would not be boring his only daughters with the ugly details, he was a sentimental fool. ❛❛ — you just cost father a master of laws position, shiera. — ❞ he said, bluntly. ❛❛ — but i am glad you are alive. — ❞ and this time the smile he offered his sister was almost warm.
The collection of figures vanished in the face of his causticity. Who but her brother would sit beside her bed in order to best taunt her upon waking? His words swam in her ears for a few moments before resolving into a clear tale: the fever was bright and sharp in memory, not hot but over-warm, foul smelling and clammy. Poison. Accusations. She had been with Vaiora Redwyne when the fever had come upon the two of them, had seen the sweat gather upon her brow as it had Shiera's. There were others; she had seen, through the fatigue of the fever and the blur of the maesters' remedies, others coming and going from the sickroom, tending to their injured dear. Was this what Addam called himself? She had swallowed her foul antidote; there was nothing remaining to tend to.
Bile pooled in her stomach as she attempted to think through the haze and focus on his words. "Did you taste no wine yourself, brother, that you were spared? Did Father somehow find it in himself to abstain?" This tale she could not believe. She had watched near every liege in the gathered hall drink like a fish, so pleased with the Redwynes' bounty it may well have been gold they were offered. She had been one. That airy lightness of her memory of the feast vanished in her mind, replaced with the astringent taste of the cure. One may well have been the other.
"I did not ask for Father to do sacrifice anything for my sake. He did not do it for my sake. Do you come at his command, to chide me for being poisoned?" Her eyes flicked over Addam, comfortably settled by her bedside; the picture of a concerned brother, even as he offered reminders of what her life cost. What was some Waters worth? Certainly not the Small Council. Did their father believe it an act of paternal affection, so sanctioned by the Father above, to have saved her from the clutches of death... alongside Vaiora Redwyne, the ladies of houses Baratheon and Arryn, and whoever else had been taken ill? Had the rest of the Small Council no say in this choice, or did Lord Alester intend to take the credit for both antidote and sacrifice with his singular avarice? She carded her hand through her hair; had to stop as her fingers caught on mats and knots. She dared not tear it. Idly, she said: “Cerion Lannister is the Master of Laws. What did Father do to convince him to cede that?”
it could only be described as warmth that blooms in falyn's chest at the earnestness in shiera's tone. as if the sun had met the horizon and shined directly upon the heir of the mander, warming her from the outside in. falyn did not have many friends, of course she possessed a few, but mostly her flattery was hollow, something expected of her to be in the good graces of those in court. it rarely so ended in something real blossoming from it, but was it so wrong to hope that this could be that? that shiera shared the same excitement that was beginning to unfurl inside of falyn's chest like the golden roses of her home at the start of their season?
she did her best not to hope, but it was an emotion that sat between her bones and stowed away in the fibers of her muscles. a blooming flower of faith, in much more than the seven. "we shall think of them in on the morrow then?" the lilt of the lady tyrell's voice is accompanied by a smile wide enough to bunch up the apple's of her cheeks and curve her eyes into sweet crescents. "though, i believe i would visit king's landing as many times as i could just to be within your company! i vie to visit the street of flour since i have heard so many wonderful things about their tasty treats and for fine silks! would it be wrong of me to ask you to accompany me?"
falyn had hoped she would say yes. that their acquaintance would not end tonight and shiera would wish to spend time with her again. the feeling is only intensified as shiera takes her hand, a fierce blush spreads across falyn's cheeks, a rosy hue that could remind anyone of a bed a flowers that were growing in highgarden. the bustling nobles around her have her slightly on edge, but the sound of the harp in her ear relaxes her and lets her body follow the steps she had learned as a child. "i would not say that i am eager for these temptations any longer," though a wistful look morphs her features for a moment before they are washed away. she did not wish for the happy life that she had imagined with her daughter's father, not anymore. that was a daydream she let herself have years ago. "but i had been once and i let them take me, so temptation is only natural. though the temptation for a dip in a bay i would say is the most natural of them all. do you find yourself wishing for anything else?"
Falyn's eagerness settled within her like a promise. Dawn loomed with something brighter than the sun alone: an exit, however temporary, might be just what Shiera needed. She need not aim so high as the gold roses of the Reach—any flower or fruit or fieldmouse would suit her, as long as they offered her shelter she could not be plucked from. Falyn's friendship would mean much, in that direction. Wait, she told herself, even as the music stretched around them like her smile. A faint pink had overtaken the Tyrell lady, hued like roses. Imaginations of other sorts stretched out, pink and gold.
"Only natural," she said softly, suppressing the curiosity such a tale evoked. She would learn, in time, what the lady meant; or she would not. Nothing ever came from pushing a confidence that one had not yet earned. "I suppose I do not understand, but that is merely a matter of perspective. Perhaps I have never seen the possibilities there may be beyond a dip in the bay, or a late night honeyed cake pilfered from the kitchens. I would be eager to hear what else there is, though. On the morrow, then? As we explore the Street of Flour, or walk down the docks? I would be delighted to join you in your explorations, my lady; how else to make certain you do not pass by something wonderful without so much as noting it? You shall have to tell me your preference in sweetmeats; we must find something to challenge Highgarden's best cooks."
It was perhaps unlikely. And perhaps Lady Falyn would smell the stench of Pigrun Alley or Sowbelly Row, that stretched under the sun's heat to encompass entire streets around them, and remember with whom she walked. Perhaps on the morrow she would not wish to explore the city at all, or not with current company...
♱ CLOSED STARTER : in which GWYNETH CORBRAY meets with a long - lost companion whom dearly have they missed, and yet SHIERA WATERS may not wish to see them . @liver-y
wrist blots to their forehead. they dare not touch themself with their hands, the vile scent of the fluids close to nauseating them. they close their eyes and find a bowl of water: ice cold, but dunking their hands in regardless, better than nothing. qian's condition remains the same, all thrown into the same sick ward — their paranoia gnashes its teeth. what if this is part of the plan? to put them all in one ward and to pick the sick off one by one? another death would soon be announced, but so long as it wasn't — a noise attracts their attention. middle child at last finding some kind of purpose here, drawing it back and peering in. the colour drains from their face, and their mouth falls ajar in a gasp that has no noise. no … this could not be one of the names on the list, this couldn't be. “ shiera … no. ” due to the angle of her sick bed, and the nighttime falling out and cloaking the windows with stars and midnight dreary, they couldn't tell if she was awake, if she was — moving — they hurry to her bedside, then freeze. ( what if she doesn't want me to touch her? … i wouldn't blame her. i missed her so. ) the tears well up despite themself. they start to tremble, then cover one chilled hand with the other and wring their fingers. “ it's … it's me. it's gwyn. can you hear my … voice? ” no candles waver here for them to pray with. not close enough for them to grab anyways, and they are rooted to the spot.
Her nights were grim with fever, furor. Every diseased mind took its toll; every crying voice echoed in her like the familiar and long-lost. The little moonlight turned any who alighted upon her vision into wan ghosts of people she had once known. The filthy boy who always complained about her, but had cleaned her face and kept watch as she was unwell; a septa who had sat at her bedside with the Seven Pointed Star during an early illness in the keep; an old friend that she had dismissed, unwilling to stretch an unkindness past its threshold. The last sat themselves at her bedside, filled with anxiety: and spoke.
Few of her shades spoke beyond what had been said in memory. Even contorted from remembrance, she did not remember this trembling voice. "Gwyn?" Shiera asked, reaching for the shade. "Is that you? Are you..." Even a sharp breath left her gasping, cold air rough on her unused voice. Her clammy fingers closed upon their trembling hands, a paltry support Shiera was not certain who for. "Are you ill too?"
♱ CLOSED STARTER : in which TALIESIN WATERS visits a new and freshly recovered SHIERA WATERS in order to fill her in on all the hot gossip she has missed . @liver-y
“ it was like the brigade of oldtown storming the keep, ” comes the hot scoff. taliesin shakes his head, moving the cloth from beneath her hand and dipping it into the cooller water in the bowl aside from them. “ all we needed was a song and dance and it'd be a parade. you look much better, dear shiera, no longer clammy with death. ” unlike some within the red keep, taliesin has no fear of the word. he uses it here with his sister not to frighten, but to remind that she has not succumbed, that she survived and is stronger for it. “ did they tell you it was poison? and so terribly done. successful at crowd disruption, but half of those who whine are still with us. ah … wine. none of that for us at any future dinners. ” morose and annoyed. they brought entertainment for her: a small, portable board game, a few romance books, a crochet pattern that they don't remember whether or not she wanted to finish — or ever start, he may have taken it out of a lady's bag because it looked lovely. “ our brother arrived late as is his tendency, but here i am. should i become a maester? ” ghastly job. after a moment, he takes her hand and pats it between hers, and the squeeze speaks of quiet fear of almost having lost her, despite every inch of bravado he speaks.
A faint smile. Taliesin aimed to entertain, a frequent state of affairs. Sobriety sat uneasy upon them, even in chambers of the diseased and dying. But—Shiera was not dead. Not yet; not of this. Her stomach revolted at all signs of food, and her dreams retained that feverish smudge; yet she lived to see herself cured. "I hate to have missed it for this fever. You know how I love parades," she mumbled, hand sliding under her head. The Hightowers' arrival was all every whisper in the sickroom spoke of, scorn and deference contesting with every new speaker. Shiera discounted them all; she had never been the object of the Hightowers—or anybody's—accounting for cures. Merely a secondary presence, a low-ranking card, who may be poisoned without generating much sorrow, and saved without eliciting great cheer.
Tal, at least, would mourn her. "You say it as if you wish more had succumbed to justify the lack of wine. No, no, do not take the chain; those you administer to may never recover, and at the moment I am one." She squeezed his hand back; a silent acknowledgement.
how easy it was , for the human mind to fall into the comfort of a routine. as abruptly as the sickness had swept over them all ⸻ not only those who had taken ill directly , but those left to care for them in the aftermath , the entire keep had mobilized in an effort to contain the plague upon them. a displaced sense of comfort , to see the efforts of all in aiding where they could , herself included. but in the midsts of it all , the fear that reminded syrenna all too easily of the energy that had overtaken storm's end throughout their blight , and ultimately , of the last few moments of her mother's life. it had terrified her more than words could say , sitting at her step - mother's bedside , and praying to the god's of her forest that could not reach them there. if only she got better , if only helvis began to recover , she would do her part in seeing their conflict ended , in a resolution restored. she had suffered through the slow loss of one mother already , she would not survive that of another.
so while she was not ready to so easily accept helvis' role in their lives , she would sit , she would listen. she would try.
❝ lady helvis. i have , please do not concern yourself. ❞ and while previously , the words would have slipped off her tongue with an offhanded sort of vitriol ( a clear attempt to cut any attempt at conversation short ) , these were spoken softly , assuringly. her step - mother had enough to worry over with her own recovery , let alone syrenna's eating habits. ❝ i have become rather adept in seeing to her care. i shall watch her closely. ❞ the hours spent at her bedside throughout the worst of her illness , spoke as a testament to the servant who finally took their leave. taking her usual seat , closest to the edge of her bed , syrenna made an effort to ignore the unease in her stomach at meeting a gaze that shone with clarity for the first time in days. ❝ … you are truly feeling better ? ❞
The days that Helvis had been unconscious had seen some transformation in Syrenna. Either fear or memory had turned her contempt into something more hesitant, skittish almost the way horses could be. She had a few scattered memories of her stepdaughter sitting by her bedside as she slept, mind overwhelmed by strange visions and cruel dreams. Helvis had no true measure of how many of those memories were true, and how many mere imaginings. Had she seen in Helvis the sight of her own mother, pale with fever and clammy with sweat, as Helvis saw in her Alynne's face, twisted with grief?
"I am much improved, I assure you," she said. She felt it in the clearness of her head, though her body struggled yet to muster any strength. "Merely relieved that the fever did not touch you three, nor your father." This was a dangerous time for it, in truth, unsettled and likely to blow any way. Had the Gods taken her... there were those that would scoff at it, were Chayton to take another bride, but accept it. His loss, however, may well be their house's undoing, with the triplets so lacking for... direction. Discipline. Advocates, champions, allies. Helvis had seen already, on the very night of the feast, the way the eyes of the court turned; how eager all were, how ready, to seize upon first opportunity, haste guiding their footsteps to the first bid for power they could find.
Helvis had no desire to act blindly—they had no need for desperation—but patience would not serve them here. She looked over Syrenna, her wary face, the careful seat by her bed. Now was as good a time as any. "This has been a cruel reminder, yet an essential one. The Stranger's scythe looms above us all... and there are those at this Keep who seek to hasten it. We must secure our future before it is past. Your future."
there is truly nothing that could have prepared him for what helvis would say to him. a shock burning through his system and showing clear as day upon his face. ser triston had passed? it could not be, could it? a man that daemian had spent many years with, a man whose wife and children he had loved like his own family. it is the first time in many years, since his travels in essos and naught to do with the matters of his love woes, that he feels his heart crack inside of his chest. though not only for himself and the memories he held within griffin's roost, but for the woman standing before him. though what was he to say to her? that he was sorry? that he hoped she had been well in the years since? what good would that do after so long? condolences were just words, they did nothing to mend a broken heart and broken home.
"he will be missed, but i will hold the fond times i had within my heart and may the seven have mercy on his soul." daemian parrots back to her. he was not a man of faith, he could scarcely believe the seven would be so cruel with the world they lived within, but he would say so out of respect for a woman he cared for. he did not expect to learn she had a new lord husband and surely not of lord chayton baratheon. the name sparks memories within him, ones he has been trying for years to forget. surely, the most important women in his life would be connected somehow, it would truly be just his luck — or doom, if he were to describe it more accurately. "i do hope he is good to you then, my lady. for it is what you deserve, but shall you ever need it, you must only call upon me and i will be there without hesitation."
One more blessing upon your tomb, Triston. Did the Gods listen to the mourning words of men? Would the Mother's mercy take into account how many mouths had shaped it for the departed? Triston had always been a good man, a brave knight, the Warrior's own words taken to heart. A good Father, and perhaps a good lord one day. Yet she could have no token or know of what Heaven he lived in. Whether it was peaceful. "Thank you, Ser Daemian," she said softly. "For both your well wishes." She had heard all consolations for Triston half a hundred times, or more... but hope he is good to you? Who would question it, from Lord Baratheon? Enough lieges amongst the Stormlands had looked at her askance since the moment the wedding had been announced. Few raised such a hope; after all, she had only gained through her actions. And Lord Chayton… he was good to her, in the ways that he could be. Black and gold suited her. She summoned a faint smile, for his sake more than for any pleasure in it. "I will be certain to remember you have I a need, truly."
king’s landing exhausted you before you even reached the red keep. days spent pacing a borrowed manse waiting for the gates to open had left you irritated and restless. the only saving grace was the estate itself, leased from an obscenely wealthy merchant. it was all green brick and wide courtyards, set far away from the city's suffocating core. you had no other choice. a great house couldn't stay at an inn like hedge knights. your retinue required massive space: servants, guards, cooks, grooms, ladies, and seamstresses, plus all the wagons and crates it took to keep your household moving. your aunt had left for the grand sept right away, sparing you that much. but the rest remained. your wife slept late while you lost your mind to the anticipation hanging over the city. this morning, you escaped. the sea smell was faint here, but still present. the streets were wider and quieter, though only by comparison. it almost felt like civilization if you squinted. you kissed your wife lightly upon the brow before leaving her tangled amongst blankets; and walked out just to stretch your legs and find some patience. down the road, a stupid obstruction blocked the way. gold cloaks loitered uselessly while merchants and wheelhouses crowded into a standstill.
turning on your heel with an immediate roll of your eyes, you ran straight into lady helvis baratheon. you paused to look at her. time had passed since your last real visit; new lines sat at the corners of her eyes, giving her a gravity that hadn't been there before. losing lord connington and marrying again had remade her world, and while you didn't run in the same circles anymore, the correspondence had survived. you were always drowning in letters anyway, answering half the realm just to keep up. "lady helvis," you greeted her, the smile reaching your eyes without the usual effort of the court. "how good it is to see you. it has been far too long." your hands rested on her arms for a brief moment before slipping away. "yes, the kingsmoot," you added with a dry sigh. "though the gates will likely stay shut until we are all skeletons. one has to invent ways to pass the time." you checked the shaded street ahead and easily took her arm, steering her into a more leisurely stroll. "come. walk with me. we have an entire season's worth of gossip to get through." behind you, the guards kept their distance as you both moved deeper into the quiet parts of the district.
above you, ripe figs leaned over a stone garden wall from a heavy tree. your eyes caught them right away. "there," you signaled one of the guards with a wave. "grab a handful, will you?" you turned back to helvis, laughter in your eyes. "my wife adores them. though, if memory serves, so do you. my cook makes an excellent fig preserve; i shall have a jar sent to you tomorrow, lest my people devour it by noon." you continued walking ahead. "it is frantic here, is it not? though far quieter than if we were lodged at the city center, trust me. speaking of which, are you nearby? i desperately hope so, for i am already bored beyond reason." your gaze drifted briefly toward the distant silhouette of the red keep visible beyond clustered rooftops. "i must admit, the whole affair is fascinating." a short laugh cut through the air. "a kingsmoot. who would have thought? next we are to start raiding our neighbors like savages, i suppose. i'm rather eager to watch it unfold." you slanted a look toward her, curiosity taking over. "tell me honestly, lady helvis, has house baratheon come to press its own claim… or are you just here to support someone else's?" you could hazard a guess, of course. but haste rarely served diplomacy well.
They were not the only ones weary, and wary, of the Red Keep's gates remaining shut. What did the Small Council have to hide? What did they have left to prepare, when they themselves had sent the invitations and named the date that would see this kingsmoot begun? Helvis offered a faint smile at Lady Arryn's dry humour. They made them different, high in the mountains of the Vale. "I do adore figs," she said, pleasantly surprised that Lady Arryn might have remembered such a thing from a distant meeting, or retained from some or other brief letter exchanged in its aftermath. "I did not know they were to your wife's preference. We have some wonderful wild figs in the hills south of Harvest Hall that I simply could not do without in my first years away from it." Her smile twisted with a memory of complaining about missing it, and finding, a few days later, whole strings of dried figs, prepared just as she enjoyed them. "Perhaps I might have some sent to the Eyrie after this... though I fear Lady Arryn might never be content with mere preserves again."
Another look around, towards the chaos behind them, and the busy street ahead. "Cities of this scale always seem mad with energy to my eyes. Little peace to be found, even in the quieter parts of it. Yes, we are nearby—a manse further down this street, though I find I am already looking forward to quit it." Horses, carts, gold cloaks, hawkers and peddlers and every other source of noise in the city seemed to filter in through their windows. It was enough to exhaust the most fortified of spirits. "Not that I believe the Red Keep will be better, with half the realm here for the moot." Speaking of which—she looked over Lady Arryn. Her friendliness spoke nothing of the contest that may well sit between them before a moon's turn, and yet most houses at the Kingsmoot were here for one thing only.
There was much to be gained... but nothing to be lost in admitting it. "Chayton has his ambitions," she said, lowering her voice so no others might hear it. The Baratheons had better claim than most; Chayton's grandfather had been Aegon Targaryen's half-brother; his father had been amongst Maegor the Cruel's first opposers. Helvis would be pleased, she thought, to see him upon the throne… but there were always other claims, other ambitions, other aspirants… and, of course, the question of his heirs. She shook her head. "But ambitions mean little without support. Do you come with your own claim, Lady Arryn?" She would rather leave with friends in high places than enemies.
closed to @liver-y (for helvis)
setting: during helvis' recovery
perhaps an oddity for aila to have made their way to the sick rooms where those who had taken ill were in recovery. but they'd learned a few days ago that it was poison and not some plague, which brought much relief and hidden worries. it meant at the very least she could relieve herself of the anxiety of infecting loved ones by visiting. uncle mor would likely understand having tended to some of the ill themselves, but aila knew her sister and aunt would surely oppose the unnecessary risk.
yet there would always be lingering guilt and an unpayable debt to lady helvis. when the news broke and aila learned that the former lady connington among the sick, the worry never faded. still haunted by the late ser connington's untimely death. if aila had been stronger, more capable when joining the hunt for outlaws, then perhaps their children would still have a father. the only consolation was ensuring the assailants did not evade capture. aila had sworn to themselves that if ever in their power to help ser connington's widow and children to lend it. had sworn it to themselves over the fallen knight's body. even if becoming a knight was not their path, it would not be a broken oath.
aila had heard from a servant she had befriended that it seemed lady helvis' condition was beginning to improve. the last thing they'd want to do is impose on the family but she still at least wanted to offer any sort of aid if they could manage it. venturing into the chamber after knocking, the tully dipped their head in respect before greeting. a note of hesitation in their voice.
"good morrow, lady helvis. i hope i'm not disturbing your rest. i can... i can also go if i am?"
"i thought perhaps you... may wish for some company or mayhaps if there's anything i could do to be of service?"
Helvis had last met the lady Aila Tully in the immediate aftermath of Triston's death. The party had returned earlier than anticipated, and only half of it, pieces splintered away from the goal to inform House Connington of this—tragedy. In all his years hunting bandits and outlaws and participating in brutal tourneys, she had never once feared, truly feared, for his life. She had not then, either.
She remembered Aila Tully with the same distance that she remembered everybody she had seen in the weeks immediately surrounding the event, as though she were underwater. She could little remember what they had spoken of, and though passage of time may well account for it, she knew it was not anything so mundane. The sight of them now, with the eerie dreams of a fevered mind lingering so close, almost brought a faint sense of that same muted distance from the world... but Aila Tully was no more a harbinger of ill as anybody else who had seen that hunt, save the outlaws themselves, who had long been sentenced.
And Helvis had been lacking company. The sickbed was only a place to endure; the more company, the better. She smiled at the young liege. "Good morrow, Lady Aila. No disturbance at all; truly, I would welcome some company. Illness is tedious work. Please, join me," she said, gesturing to a chair in the room. “You must tell me how your travels have treated you these past years. It has been a long time. I hope none of your house have been afflicted by this vile attack?”
