KNIGHTHOOD

PERCIVAL TEMPLETON knight of ninestars ( mobile navigation )

[percival-templeton]

♛ → THE VALE presents PERCIVAL TEMPLETON, the KNIGHT OF NINESTARS, COMMANDER OF THE QUEENSGUARD. when the dragons danced in the sky they thought the BLACKS would still fly, but, in the blink of an eye, they would all die. the THIRTY-TWO year old MALE who was DETERMINED & PERCEPTIVE before they saw the first of the flames, is now OPPORTUNIST & CONTEMPTUOUS. he’s often associated with being the proud vanguard before his cavalry, sky-blue eyes that convey only what he means to, and a lasting legacy he’s bound to continue. ( Joe Alwyn )

History

Percival was born on November 23rd, 110 AC. He's the second son of the late Arthur Templeton, who perished during the Dance of the Dragon, and the Lady Enide Elesham (died in 137 AC).

There is a well-honored history of knighthood in House Templeton. Rather than being known as a ruling lord, the head of the family is given the title of "Knight of Ninestars", a title which isn't passed down to the first male heir, it's instead a title that must be earned. Just like his predecessors took great pride in it, Percival (who now has that title), does as well.

Percival is the second son. Since his infancy, he trained hard to become a knight and to earn the revered title of his family over his older brother. Harlan, the first-born Templeton son, was always more of a bookish type and went on to become a maester. There is a rumor that Harlan was forced to do so when it became clear his little brother would gain the family title over him. Some whisper he was set on the maester path to prevent notions of shame or weakness to circle the family, to make it seem it had always been Harlan's vocation to gain knowledge and serve his family in this way).

His aunt (Axell’s mother) was murdered by mountain men, and for a time Percival also believed his cousin had been killed. For someone who never had an appreciation for those people, this event steadily set him on a path to hate them. He sees them as vermin and wild people that should be eradicated from the Vale.

He was a witness to Graham Royce's murder of the late King Rowan Arryn. He understood Graham did it in order to save Rhys' life, and in some ways, Percival perceived the king's demise as a blessing in disguise. An opportunity to begin steering the Vale in a better direction. He was ready to cover up for Graham and stage what was needed to be staged, but the Royce lord instead called the guards himself.

In recent events, Percival was the knight who survived the dragon while the others were turned to a crisp. Such a shame people died (sorrows, prayers), be he’s lowkey proud of the fact that he was the one to survive, sort of like another addition to his great knight resume.

With his cousin Axell becoming the High Commander of the Vale, Percival has been granted the title of Commander of the Queensguard, serving even more closely to Queen Ravella.

Personality:

There is a saying that a Templeton knight can easily raise a thousand men, something that Percival takes to heart. He fashions himself as the sort of man who could lead his brothers on notions of honor, nobility, and unity alone. In truth, he plays more on offering opportunities to people, finding the win-win scenarios. In general, he has a way of finding ways to be an enabler for others, so he is made to be truly indispensable.

Lowkey a jealous man. He sees other people having great things and he’s like “I want that”, and tries to work towards it.

Percival is a man of fine taste and enjoys the good things in life (he only indulges in private, not wanting to appear crass or hedonistic in public). He enjoys being perceived as someone who is elegant, someone who is gallant, and knightly.

If you’re a friend, he has your back and can be very ride or die, he’s a reliable person when he wants to be and he’s really there for his loved ones. If you’re an acquaintance, he frankly doesn’t give a shit about you. If you’re an enemy, he’ll be petty forever and might be looking into ways to bury you. He’s a resentful dude.

People he likes/respects:

Queen Ravella Arryn: She gives him weird sociopath vibes, but she commands respect and gets shit done.

King Graham Royce: Solid dude, more honorable than him (he wouldn't admit this out loud).

Axell Royce: These two were closer in their youthful years. Percival was recently appointed second-in-command to Axell, and he appreciates the status that brings as well as the opportunity to reconnect more with his cousin. He chooses to ignore the fact that Axell may have fucked a woman of the mountain clans (nausea noises).

Queen Rosalyn Arryn: Most beautiful woman alive (no romantic feelings). He always liked her and thought it was a shame she was shipped off North.

People he dislikes:

Lord Domeric Stone: Who let this weird bastard join the Vale court? Why is he gaining power here?

Princess Guinevere Lannister: He thinks Rowan did dumb things because of her.

King Rowan Arryn (RIP): He thinks he did a lot of dumb things, and having Gwen around didn’t help.

Targaryens (Greens): He dislikes them a lot. Remember when I said Percival was resentful? Also, thinks they're all a little mad. Loose cannon mad like Jae, or spacey/foolish mad like Haera.

Dornish folk: Doesn’t really dislike them, just doesn’t give a shit about them? It’s a nuisance they are Westerosi but also not, don’t mingle much with the rest.

Don't hesitate to reach out for connections/headcanons with this snobby knight!

[ravellaarryns]

♟

ravella stood before him with her shoulders squared, spine straight as the marble columns of the eyrie itself, her hands folded calmly before her waist. she had chosen her gown with intent this morning: silver-grey wool beneath the pearls, sleeves long and severe, the cut modest and unmistakably valeman. it softened nothing, revealed nothing. it made her look almost austere, and yet no one could deny she was beautiful still. it was the beauty of banners and blade-polished steel, not of silk and seduction. she felt herself hollow out something soft inside her, locking it away, leaving only what was required. a queen. a ruler.

a figure men like percival could kneel for without shame. when she spoke, her voice carried no tremor.

“then you are a true knight of the realm, lord percival,” she said, with an echo that reverberated through the hallow halls surrounding them; as though her words bounced from the stained glass windows. she extended her hand to him, as though she had pushed her hand through the clouds to the mortal realm - for him to place a kiss upon it, where the ancient royal ring marked the grace of their choice and this moment.

she moved a single step closer, close enough for him to hear the measured cadence of her breath, but not close enough to invite familiarity. her gaze rested on him with cool appraisal, and she continued, looking down upon his figure. his face, cut from the finest of traditions and the purest of lineage. andal, as was her own; it made sense as to why he beckoned the power and tradition of the other knights of the vale. he was the last of the true ones, if one considered it closely; that made him rare. special. a piece on the board. ravella’s thoughts churned beneath the calm surface she presented. she thought of domeric stone’s growing boldness, of how easily power had loosened his restraint, of the danger of a man who knew too much and feared too little.

she wondered whether she had ever truly held him, or whether she had only convinced herself she had. the realisation tasted bitter. she could not afford a man like that any longer, not when the crown sat so newly on her head, not when the realm watched her for weakness. order had to be restored, and chaos excised. percival, bound as he was to honour and custom, was the sharpest instrument she possessed. she lifted her chin slightly and spoke again, her words precise. “you are right to feel anger,” she told him, almost coaxing it from him. nurturing it, feeding it. she wanted more from him.

“you are right to see danger where others see inconvenience." she did not speak of it explicitly anymore; she had said it to him once, and that was all he needed. that latch.

"i only beseech you frame justice as justice, lest it becomes another sin laid at my feet, my lord templeton.” it was then her falsehood truly reared its ugly head; the appearance of fragile femininity, of needing protection; her hands move briefly to the jewels around her neck as though she needed some grounding. as though she could not bare another matter for her to be the hero of. a strange subversive, twisted blend; from desexed and masculine, to cracks of femininity. "i trust you will serve me in this, lord commander, and history will remember you as the one who cleansed."

there was a pause, the sound of bells ringing from the courtyard; the same bells which had always been atop the eyrie. "you may rise."

[percival-templeton]

The Queen of the Vale stood before him, and his chin was tilted up slightly to better look at her from his kneeling position. A true knight of the Vale, she called him, and Percival Templeton accepted those words with quiet pride. He was deemed worthy by the worthiest of them all in the realm, honored by the one figure who embodied all he had ever sworn to uphold. That deep sense of honor swelled inside of him, yet his outer disposition did not change much, remaining calm and dignified. Then, the Arryn queen extended her hand, and he reached for it without hesitation. The ancient ring of her house adorned her finger, yet it wasn't that crest that he kissed. The Commander held his queen's hand with devotion and planted a soft, respectful kiss atop her knuckles before bowing his head. “You honor me, my queen,” he said, his voice low and steady.

She invited his glance once again, as she touched his jaw briefly and tilted his chin up. She spoke soft words and yet she fanned the flame once more. Ravella dangled his honor and his rage in front of him with such ease. So much so he ought to be annoyed by it, perhaps, but he was not. In truth, he embraced the opportunities to be the sword and shield guided by his queen, driven by a shared purpose. He needed not her validation to feel the deep anger he harbored for the bastard in their midst, but he openly welcomed her affirmation that yes, he was justified. Percival looked at her silently, imagining all the ways in which his righteous anger could befall Domeric Stone and rid the Vale of that menace once and for all. He imagined the ways others would speak of it, how the snake's head was cut off, and it was he who did it.

His queen spoke of framing every upcoming action as justice. It would be easy, truly. A dishonorable act had taken place, and in true Vale fashion, his answer to it would be more than justified. “There will be justice framed in truth, your grace. And it shall be carried out in the light for all to witness it”. As a knight, he would do it the proper way, and frame it all through the most important value in their realm: he'd do it for honor. His and his queen's. “I will present the challenge,” he added simply, prepared to battle Domeric in a formal duel.

When he finally rose, his gaze found hers again. The air felt heavy around them. He saw something in her cold eyes he couldn't quite name. Some might have seen only that iciness in her gaze, or calculation, but Percival understood the necessity for both. There was no tenderness in his own eyes, and there was no trace of anything that might be mistaken for longing either, but he felt himself truly be seen by his queen, perhaps for the first time.

The Commander of the Queensguard did not believe in higher powers such as gods or spirits. But he did feel himself aligned to a higher calling and purpose at the side of his queen. Did she recognize it too? She, commanding as queen, and he, dutifully serving as her knight, had always been meant to meet like this.

[ravellaarryns]

♟

ravella had not intended to rise. she had watched him—his silhouette cut against the firelight like a shadow dragged from the depths of some old battlefield—and she had considered remaining in her chair, still and silent, unmoved by the weight of his presence or the blood on his armour. it would have been easy. queenly. cold. but then she remembered the teachings of her mother, the whispers of the septas, the old songs about peaceweaving and soft hands and the kindness of noblewomen. and so she stood—never because her heart stirred, but because it was expected that it should.

the silk of her silver, pearl encrusted gown swept the floor in elegant hushes as she approached him, every step a performance of quiet concern, deliberate and practised.

the faintest crease formed between her brows, a wrinkle of well-studied worry, and she let it linger just long enough for the watching servants to see. she turned her head slightly, enough to catch the attention of the chamberlain posted by the door. “bandages,” she said, voice cool, composed. “and the blue pot from the healer’s chest. the one with the wormroot.” her gaze never left percival, but her tone brooked no hesitation, only the ease of a command that came from one appointed by the divine, with no other threat or claim. the legitimate heir to the vale of arryn; the rightful queen, first of her name - and as the light seemed to shine through the striking painted glass of the eyrie, it cascaded down upon her. the servants scurried to obey, as though they were afraid this momentarily angelic image would soon bleed out and the rot would once again take rule.

her eyes dragged over him in silence. the dried blood at his brow, the torn edges of mail, the bruising dark and wet beneath the plates. he had always carried himself like stone, but now he looked like stone that had been cracked. fractured. it stirred something in her—not sympathy, not quite, but interest. and in that moment, she thought: you are more beautiful when you are near broken, ser knight. easier to shape.

“if this is the court of the vale,” she said finally, her voice quiet but unmistakably cold, “then it is a court that listens to proof, not pride.” she reached up, brushing a lock of blood-matted hair from his temple with fingers that were gentle but utterly impersonal. “i have heard your anger, lord commander. and i do not mistake it for dishonour. i know what domeric is. i know what he is capable of. but i also know what he knows, and that is too much of this realm.” of her. of her body. she stepped away then, returning to the long table where her maps lay like discarded parchment prayers. her back to him, she allowed the steel in her eyes to harden once more.

“you speak of honour, of justice. but honour does not decide wars. proof does. timing does. and if we are to remove domeric stone from court, it must be done as a queen commands—not as a knight demands.” she stepped closer to him again, the space between them closing like the teeth of a trap. “you are angry,” she said, her tone almost soft, “and you are right to be. but you will not strike without my word. you will not raise steel unless i say so. you will wait. do you understand, ser?”

“there are truths he carries that could ruin more than just you and i,” she continued, lifting a goblet from the edge of the table but not drinking. “you think him a snake. and he is. but snakes do not bite until provoked—or cornered.” her gaze flicked back over her shoulder, and there was something almost amused behind her eyes. “do you mean to corner him, ser?” she turned fully now, placing the goblet down without a sound.

she looked at him then, as a queen looks at her soldier—not with affection, but with authority draped in the silks of civility. “let this moment mark itself in your mind,” she said, and her voice, though regal, was cool as frost on marble. “you bled for the vale. and i saw it. i rose for you.” she turned once more, letting the warmth of the fire bathe her back, her eyes cast forward now, to the unseen war ahead. “now give me what i need to make it matter. if you are to take him, let it be through custom. challenge him, formally.”

[percival-templeton]

Percival remained near motionless as his queen stood up, only his eyes trailing her motions. The Knight of Ninestars was a man of no religion, not because he lost faith at some point, but simply because he had been raised in the Templeton way, agnostic and never holding any divine devotion of any kind. Yet, looking at Ravella Arryn as she moved, draped in garments of silver and adornments the color of pearls, she appeared nearly a goddess. A part of him inevitably swelled with pride as the queen approached him. His eyes did not leave her as she ordered bandages and ointments to be brought to the room, as if she cared for her wounded Commander. She valued him as a tool, he knew. An exceptional tool to use as she pleased. And Percival Templeton found some satisfaction in being wielded, sharpened, or cared for by her hand.

It was easy to blame his current disposition as a mere prideful response. The knight had never presented himself as anything other than dignified in his standing, a man proud of his worth and his accomplishments. This attack wounded part of that as much as it injured his body. But there was more to it, of course. It was about rooting out a threat that had long festered around them since the North spat it out. Percy's jaw tightened, and his expression stayed firm. He wouldn't have valid claims dismissed and categorized as only words from a man with a wounded pride. “You know where this is coming from, my queen. My claims are not unfounded. It is because we both know what he is,” the Commander said in a low tone. The restraint in his voice did not fully hint at the full extent of disdain he held for the bastard in their midst. “You say proof is needed, and I will get it for you,” he stated with gravity as he stepped closer to the table where her maps were laid. The queen admitted to knowing of Domeric's true nature, and in some way, that validated Percy.

“If he knows too much and that knowledge makes him a threat, then let him be silenced for good. He's tarnished our court enough”. It wasn't only what his mere presence represented. A bastard openly rising so high at the Eyrie. It was insulting. The man was a coniving, tasteless leech, a slithering viper. But everything in his demeanor showed that, despite his evident dislike of the man, he would not act without his queen's command. “Let me silence him for you,” he added then, his suggestion was a plea and a vow. His words carried the weight of his loyalty and of that dangerous satisfaction of offering himself to her service again, like every time.

When the queen moved closer, she closed the distance with the precision and calculating nature of a bird of prey. Percival did not step back. He only looked at her, a serious expression, only letting out a subtle exhalation. His clear, steady gaze was locked on the iciness of her eyes. “I do as you command, my queen,” Percival murmured, “I always have. I always will”. She ought to know he wouldn't act against her wishes. He could only hope that she let him be the tool that spared the Vale from the plague that was Domeric Stone, and that she might let him do it soon.

You bled for the Vale. And I saw it. I rose for you. He held her gaze as the queen uttered those words, understanding what it meant for her to say them. He stood there, steadfast, looking at his queen. Then the Knight of Ninestars lowered himself slowly, deliberately, to one knee. He did not bow, however, for he never looked away from Ravella Arryn. “Then I will challenge him,” he said softly, though his voice remained firm.

[ofwrittenwhispers]

fiona gave a short, sharp laugh, her eyes cutting sideways toward him as if he’d said something outrageous, though she didn't let go. “of course i fit in,” she replied, with the kind of confidence that nearly masked the insecurity underneath. “i could fit in anywhere, if i wanted to. but fitting in’s never quite been the aim, has it?” she tilted her head, lips curving. she could mimic their poise, their pretty courtesies, but it always felt like a performance. fiona was the girl who clinked too many glasses and laughed too loud at the wrong moments. she didn’t fit; she flared.

her hand shifted slightly within his grasp, her thumb brushing once over his glove before stilling again. “the reward best be worth the fight,” she echoed, quieter this time, eyes fixed ahead for a beat before flicking up to meet his. and maybe she wasn’t just talking about him, or her, or court. maybe it was everything, grief and gossip, love that hadn’t lasted, longing that hadn’t gone. she had spent so long trying to wrestle something lovely from the mess of things. had it ever been enough?

his words gave her pause, pulled something from her that wasn’t so carefully stitched together. she wasn’t always sure who she was anymore, there were too many versions of her scattered across too many rooms. the one he saw, though, the one he remembered, that was a softer girl, younger, and naive. that was the girl she might’ve been, before, perhaps nestled somewhere in her still yet.. “i might be,” she said again, gentler now.

and then he kissed her, and it was like a spell, familiar, devastating, a warmth that cracked her wide open. her hand slid into his hair without thinking, holding him like a memory that never stopped aching. and then suddenly she pulled back, breathless, blinking, as if she’d come up too fast from deep water. “percival,” she said, his name feathering from her mouth with a breath of laughter and disbelief. “gods, you’ve got a knack for timing.” she stepped back, lips still parted, cheeks flushed. “you’ll ruin me if you keep doing that.” a half-smile touched her mouth, trembling at the edges. “and don’t you dare think that’s not half the reason i let you. they're saying enough things about me, and i promised norbie to behave."

[percival-templeton]

Fitting in had never quite been the aim, she said, and it left Percival thinking. In his mind, it was and it wasn't. There was this paradoxical pursuit of falling into line enough to not falter into disgrace and dishonor, while standing out enough to relish in the feeling of being above, of being better, more worthy. It was a fine line to walk. But as he looked at Fiona, he gave her a slow, knowing smile. The Grafton lady had never been the sort to blend into the gray, muted tapestry of courtly life. She was far too bright, too vivid. She was the sort of woman who exhilarated him and unsettled him in equal measure, if he dared admit it to himself. When he was near her, especially in private moments where it was just the two of them, Percival Templeton became too aware of how much control she could have over him.

The kiss ended as quickly as it started, allowing but a few heartbeats of release. As brief as it was, it etched itself into his skin, his mind, his every fiber. He relished that fleeting sensation of their restraint collapsing, of the blur between their past and their present. Fiona's retreat was swift, and he thought it a practiced action as she shifted back into the measured composure a Vale lady ought to display. There was a flare of disappointment in the knight, of having been invited in briefly, only for the door to be shut again. Percival took a few steps back, needing the fresh air around him after he'd sunk into the bubble of magnetism that was Fiona's closeness. “You cannot blame a man for missing you,” he scoffed half-heartedly after she criticized his timing. The lord ran a hand through his hair, and for a second, he appeared less composed than he usually was. It took him a moment to rebuild himself into the steady, honorable Knight of Ninestars once more.

His blue eyes settled on her again, looking at her with that strange mixture of intensity and softness that seemed reserved entirely for her. “You say they’re saying enough already,” he said, his tone somewhat teasing. But there was an edge to his words, a kind of sharpness that announced he was about to challenge her. “Have you ever truly cared about that? You’ve always managed to live above gossip or bend people's perceptions to your favor. Is it truly apprehension about some whispers, or something else, Fiona?”. Was it ruin she was afraid of? It was almost ironic that she spoke of him having the potential to ruin her when she had ruined him a long time ago.

He stepped a little closer once again, the pull between them something he couldn't quite resist. He felt every possible impulse within him stirring, missing everything that had existed between them in the past and yearning for what could exist in the future. He wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to hold her, to love her, to feel her and to let her feel him. His eyes held hers steadily. “What do you want, now that you’re home?” he asked plainly after a moment of charged silence between them. He didn't care to hear what the world expected, what duty dictated, or what she had promised to her brother, but what Fiona Grafton truly wanted now that she had returned.

[ofwrittenwhispers]

fiona’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on his arm, not enough to make a show of it, just enough to anchor herself. she glanced sideways at him, her expression unreadable for a beat, then softened into a smirk. “don't be ridiculous. braavos was fine,” she said with a shrug, her voice light, almost careless. “the sweets were better, the company worse. no one expected anything of me, which was a novelty. they don’t call you ‘lady’ over there unless they’re trying to flatter you, or steal your purse.”

she smiled faintly, though it faded as she added, “and my poor betrothed left me nothing but a dramatic death and a very awkward ship ride home. i think they were afraid i’d make a scene. which is insulting, really. i save my scenes for special occasions.” however, his next words quieted her, if only for a moment. her gaze slipped to the water, thoughtful, before she turned back to him.

“you knights talk like everything worth having has to be some kind of ordeal,” she murmured. “danger, duty, heartbreak, don’t you ever get tired?” she looked up at him, brow slightly raised. “maybe not. you always did like to suffer beautifully.” but there was a thread of softness there too, barely tugged. “i’m not quite who i was, percy,” she said, her tone gentle but edged with truth. “so if you mean to walk beside me now, you ought to be sure of the road ahead.” and yet, her arm stayed in his. steady. familiar. unwilling, just yet, to let him go.

[percival-templeton]

“And here I thought you’d fit right in,” Percival said with the faintest smile, something mildly teasing in his words, and something knowing in the way he looked at her. “Don’t you enjoy flattery, my lady?” he asked with an arched eyebrow, giving the Lady of Gulltown a pointed look. He could imagine the difficulty of fitting in, however, especially for a lady of the Vale. Theirs was a court of distinct poise and nobiliyy, and also one of dark schemes and secrets. None of that matched with what Percy had seen or heard of Braavos. To be the wife of some distant lord? That was too narrow a role for the lady at his side, that he knew for sure.

They kept walking, and still she hadn’t let go of his arm. Neither did he. His arm remained steady beneath hers, and his free hand moved to rest atop hers. The Commander of the Queensguard glanced her way when she questioned whether he tired or not, of how he viewed things, how he experienced them. “No,” he answered plainly, honestly. “I do not tire of the life I’ve fought to have”. Perhaps it was true that everything turned out to be an ordeal or a trial of some kind, but he was used to it. He welcomed it. He took pride in the sacrifice, in the effort, and what it earned him. “The reward is sweeter. Wouldn't you agree?”.

Then came her truth. I’m not quite who I was. Percival turned his head toward her and stopped walking, facing her fully as they stood in place then. “Are you so different from the Fiona I’ve known?” he asked after some shared silence lingered between them. His question wasn’t polished, and he did not seem quite as poised for a moment. The Knight of Ninestars spoke with a sort of openness and vulnerability that was extremely rare in him. But Fiona Grafton held that special power over him, being able to slip beneath the impeccable armor he wore before everyone else. “You work so hard to shroud yourself in mystery, to remain an enigma,” he said then, his voice low and tender. Without thought, without weighing the opportunities or the risks, he raised a hand and rested it at the nape of her neck. “After all this time, I've seen what you've chosen to show me of yourself, Fiona. And I see enough of you to know…” he paused, blue eyes locked on dark ones, his face inching closer to hers. He could feel her breath touching his lips. “I’m bound to you, regardless of what the road ahead might look like”. The armor was gone completely. And somehow, that felt more dangerous than facing enemies on the battlefield, or escaping a dragon's breath in the mountains of the Vale. “Where you walk, I could walk with you,” he murmured before his lips touched hers, a tender caress at first, barely there. Then he truly kissed her. Like a man who did not think he'd see her again.

[ofwrittenwhispers]

fiona had thought herself prepared. she had spent the whole evening weaving between courtiers and merchants alike, accepting condolences, enduring questions, keeping her smile fixed in place like it had been stitched there. but she hadn't prepared for him — not really — and when percy finally slipped free of the crowd and found her, all half-smiles and easy charm, she felt the ground tilt slightly beneath her.

the harbor stretched out behind them, black water catching bits of gold from the lanterns strung above. gulltown's festival buzzed in the distance, all laughter and drunken song, but here, here it was quieter, and she felt it like a hand around her wrist.

“i’m only pacing myself,” she answered lightly, when he teased her about tiring of the crowd. her voice was smooth, but there was a tension beneath it, like a drawn string. “i wouldn’t want anyone to think braavos had made me boring.”

at his words, something in her chest pulled tight, and for a moment, she simply stared at him, the weight of everything unspoken stretching between them like a taut thread. gods, he hadn't changed. or maybe he had, just enough that it hurt.

“but i have not so much changed,” she said, voice tilting lazy and sharp, “as... forcibly returned.” the words were a jest, but just barely. everyone knew the story, or thought they did. how her braavosi betrothed had so suddenly taken ill. how the family she had been meant to join had packed her off with more speed than grace, as if even the thought of her lingering soured the air.

his offered arm made her pause, a fraction of a heartbeat, before she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. she wore her smile like a polished blade. “careful, lord commander. some might say walking with me is a dangerous thing.”

[percival-templeton]

Fiona linked her arm with his, and he welcomed the familiarity of having her close again. Both of them behaved with practiced ease, but Percival did wonder if she felt the same strong pull he did. It was like the ground beneath his feet could shatter at any moment, bring him to his knees. By her. “Forcibly returned,” he echoed her words after a moment, his voice thoughtful. “So there was a part of you that wished to stay in Braavos, then?” He turned his head sideways to see what emotions played out on her face when she answered.

The harbor’s lanternlight danced across the water at their side, and as they walked, they moved between spaces of light and spaces of shade. “I did hear about your former betrothed,” he mused, his mouth curving into a dry smile. “A shame, truly. We are becoming two veterans of failed arrangements”. Fate had mocked him many more times than it had her, of course. Yet the jest hovered between them. Despite the nonchalance of his voice, it couldn't quite mask what still clung to him. To them. The memory of their own near-match, the thought of those nights she allowed him into her bed, and that something keeping them tethered that neither of them dared name.

Her final remark drew a low chuckle from him. “I am a knight, Fiona. I'm the Commander of the Queensguard. Danger is never supposed to deter me,” he spoke with the inherent pride of a man who wore his duty like armor. “I'm even less deterred from walking a path shared with you,” he added, and there was something gentler in the way he said that. His gaze held hers for a moment too long, and a soft smile crossed his lips. There was more to that gentle smile, however, a hint of something that might’ve once been longing or regret. “But do tell if you're intent on scaring me away,” the knight said, the easy charm of a teasing remark returning to his tone and demeanor, “You will have to try harder, is all I can say”.

[dancingshores]

zahra paused mid-step as ser percival templeton appeared before her, his voice cutting through the warm, wine-sweet air of the great tent. the evening hummed around them, thick with the smell of roasting meats and the sharp tang of woodsmoke curling from the braziers. laughter pealed off in one corner where knights jostled shoulders, but here, the space between them felt quieter. thinner.

she turned toward him with a slow, easy smile, the kind meant to disarm rather than challenge. “a surprise?” she echoed lightly, the corners of her mouth tugging higher. “then i must be doing something right.”

her silks shifted as she moved, colors catching the firelight like the inside of a jewel box. she let him look, not flaunting, just unbothered, before her gaze flicked back to his with a spark of quiet humor.

“we hunt in dorne,” she said, tilting her head as if pondering. “but the beasts we chase tend to have sharper tongues than teeth.” her bracelets slid down her wrist with a soft jingle as she lifted her hand, as if brushing away some unseen dust. “still, a change of scenery is good for the soul... and the wit.”

she did not correct him. not yet. if he wanted to call her lady zahra, she would let him. the truth could wait until it was more amusing to reveal.

“your invitation reached farther than you might have guessed,” she said. “and i found myself... curious.” she let the word linger, almost lazy. “besides, there are worse places to be trapped with strangers and wine.” zahra leaned in a fraction, her voice lowering just enough to be heard over the din. “and i thought perhaps you owed me a rematch.”

she stepped back with a glimmer of laughter in her eyes, letting the scent of cardamom and leather trail after her. “shall we see if the knight of ninestars has grown any luckier?”

[percival-templeton]

There was a sort of bold energy from the Dornish lady that amused him more than he was willing to say out loud. There was noise around the tent, yet the air around them did feel quieter in this corner they had found themselves in. “I am aware your land is quite different”, he mused after Zahra spoke of the hunting activity in Dorne. It had been his fortune, or lack thereof, to have travelled south to the very ends of the continent when duty called to the realm of the Martells. It was a region that had its own unique beauty, some said, though the Knight of Ninestars had found it not matched to his taste. “What do you make of the Vale?” he asked then, curious as to what the foreigner might make of the crisp, cold air of the mountains.

Her remark about there being worse places to find herself in drew a low exhale from him, something akin to a scoff. Perhaps she had meant it kindly, but it fell short of flattery. “One must wonder, then,” he said, his eyes settling on her, “Why make such a long journey at all, if Ninestars is only slightly better than the worst?” he asked, his gaze lingering before he glanced around the room and took a sip of his drink.

The Dornish woman moved close enough for him to breathe in the scent of her perfume. She teased him, and the Knight of Ninestars raised his eyebrow slightly, a subtle smirk crossing his lips for a moment. “Do tell, Lady Zahra,” he said, turning to face her directly, “Are you after my coin? There are more honest ways to earn it than parting me from it over cards”. His tone sounded only half-serious, and for all his politeness, he allowed himself to tease her somewhat since she'd been so quick to ask to play cards again. “You already found my weaknesses when playing cards, it would hardly be a fair game. For me, at least”.

[moonhillsunsets]

"ser templeton," mariela inclined her head in measured acknowledgment, hands remaining steady upon the reins until he had taken them. the morning air carried the crisp bite of the highlands, laced with the scent of damp earth and pine. behind her, slopes of forest stretched wide and green, the land quiet in the hush before the hunt.

"i am pleased he meets your expectations," she said, her voice composed yet carrying the quiet pride of one who knew the worth of what she offered. "strength is best met with understanding, and i believe you will find both in him." the steed stood calm beneath his touch, bred for endurance, for battle, for men such as percival templeton, knights who demanded the finest from both steel and steed alike.

his invitation was unexpected, and at first, she had only expected a short visit for delivering the horse, but as she considered, she found no true reason to refuse. duty would wait a little longer. hunting was no idle pastime; it was skill, patience, a measure of one’s instincts.

"you honor me with the invitation, ser," she said after a moment, a small, knowing glint in her gaze. "i had not intended to linger, but i will accept. the morning is fine, and the company, i expect, will be as well."

a member of her own party offered her the reigns to her horse as she fell into step with the knight of ninestars. "tell me, ser templeton," she continued, allowing the conversation to carry forward as he led the way. "do you favor the hunt for sport, or for the mastery of it? there are those who chase for pleasure, and those who seek the test it provides." her tone was measured, but there was curiosity there, genuine, if restrained.

[percival-templeton]

Percival offered a subtle nod of approval when Lady Mariela accepted, the faintest easing of his posture the only sign of his satisfaction. It was no great public triumph, no grand gesture, but in the careful language of the court, small things spoke loudly. “Then the morning improves all the more,” the knight replied smoothly, guiding his horse with practiced ease as they began to fall into step. Though the Commander of the Queensguard very rarely sought companionship beyond what duty required, there were few whose presence he found agreeable. Lady Mariela Egen was one of those rare few.

The question she posed drew a slight, contemplative smile from him, one corner of his mouth tugging up with restrained amusement. “It's a bit of both, I confess,” he answered with an honesty he reserved for those he respected. His gaze flicked briefly to the towering mountains ahead, where the early mist still clung, encircling them. “Mastery is only mastery when one continues diligent practice. So I seek the opportunities to keep tempering the spirit and honing the skills of the body”. Percival had learned from a young age the value of such discipline— the same discipline he grew to wield in battle, and at court. “And to deny the pleasure of the hunt entirely would be dishonest. Victory, after all, carries its own sweet savor”.

He turned his head just enough to meet her gaze, a glint of dry humor in his eyes. “Would you join us in the hunt? Or prefer to stand back?” he asked, with more curiosity than judgement. After all, some women of the Vale also became huntresses, not only spectators. With an easy flick of the reins, he led them both toward where the others were gathering, the low thunder of eager horses filling the crisp highland air.

[dctyandhonor]

Ginny watched as her brother settled into his chair, every movement steeped in quiet authority. Percy had a way of commanding attention without raising his voice. Yet, as much as she respected him, there were moments like these where the expectations he placed upon her felt like an intricate web, and she the spider weaving her future with care and precision.

“Ruling lords,” she repeated, letting the phrase linger as if testing its weight. Her teacup was warm in her hands, her grip relaxed despite the sharp focus in her gaze. “A sensible distinction. No use spending time on men whose futures are already decided for them, or who lack the vision to shape their own.” Her smile was faint but deliberate, mirroring her brother’s unwavering confidence. Ambition ran deep in their veins, a shared trait that tied them as tightly as blood.

She leaned back slightly, her tone light but measured. “I'm well prepared, Percy. I’ll ensure my attention is wisely spent. Though,” she added, a glimmer of amusement flickering across her expression, “I trust the lords you’ve summoned will live up to such rigorous standards. After all, Templetons do not settle for mediocrity.”

Her words carried a subtle blend of respect and wit, a reminder that while she valued his guidance, she was no passive participant in their shared ambitions. Ginny had learned from him, but she was determined to prove she could meet, and perhaps surpass, the mark that was set.

[percival-templeton]

It was always pleasing to find that his little sister was aligned with his own ideas, and he needed not break things down for her. Ginevra had turned out cleverer than their other siblings. Templetons did not simply inherit things, they gained them. He'd won the title of Knight of Ninestars from his older brother, Harlan, just like Ginevra claimed the title of Lady of Ninestars with far more pride than Elinor. The four Templeton siblings were evenly divided into those who truly embodied the honor and pride of the Vale, and those who fell short.

“I know you are,” the knight stated plainly. That was the extent of the praise he could offer to his sister. Any other words of applause would only come after she made valuable connections. “We shall have guests from all across Westeros. Be polite, but do not waste your time with the North, the Riverlands, or Dorne”. There could be exceptions, but he had yet to find true value in the lords of snow, of swamps, and of sand. Culturally, there were many differences with some of them too.

“Ruling lords, Gin. Nothing less,” he echoed his words from earlier, making sure his sister would approach such guests and use her charm. “We can discuss what you think about them after the hunt” . It wasn't a promise that he'd let her choose, but at least he was open to hearing her thoughts. Open to learn what she discovered about those men, and who might be the more suitable prospect for their house.

[falcxnprince]

rhys leaned lazily against the balcony railing, the evening breeze tugging at his cloak and ruffling his dark hair. in one hand, he held a half-full goblet of wine, which he swirled absently as he regarded the starlit sky. percival’s measured words hung in the air between them, laced with subtle concern and a hint of reproach.

he tilted his head toward the knight, his lips curving into a wry smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “ah, ser percival, ever the dutiful guardian,” he drawled, lifting his goblet in a mock toast. “the realm would sleep soundly knowing you’ve taken up the noble cause of minding my habits. how very selfless of you.”

taking a deliberate sip, rhys let the wine linger on his tongue before swallowing. he turned to percival fully then, resting his weight against the cane in his other hand, though his posture was anything but frail. “as for my health,” he continued, his tone light but edged with a hint of steel, “i assure you, i’ve survived worse than a night of indulgence. though i do appreciate your concern for my sister’s sake. we wouldn’t want the queen to think her brother a reckless fool and her lord commander a enabler, would we?”

his smile widened, though it carried the sharpness of a blade. “but let me ease your mind. i’m well aware of the whispers, my lord. the ones about my health, my choices, my so-called recovery. let them talk. if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that rumors are like smoke, they only choke you if you bother to breathe them in.”

the falcon prince shifted his weight, resting an elbow on the railing as he turned his full attention to the knight. a sly smile played across his lips, one that spoke of both mischief and calculation. “but tell me, ser,” he said, his voice dropping into something more intimate, more teasing, “how often do you find yourself dabbling in evenings such as these? it’s hard to believe the knight of ninestars spends all his time policing princes and playing the pious watchman.”

he tilted his head slightly, watching for any flicker of reaction. “surely even you allow yourself a taste of intrigue, a bit of indulgence now and then. or am I mistaken?” rhys’s smile grew, daring percival to reveal something, even as he held his own secrets tightly under lock and key.

[percival-templeton]

Percival let the prince's words hang in the air. He didn’t respond immediately, instead, he took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze focused beyond the balcony, to the flicker of torches lining the distant paths. It was a small sip, for the knight had not been drinking like those around him. He liked to keep his wits about him, even on nights like this one. For a moment, all that could be heard was the sound of the distant revelry inside, and the wind tugging at the commander's cloak. He finally glanced at Rhys Arryn, and when he spoke it was with the practiced ease of a man who had sat at too many tables, heard too many secrets, and walked away with all of them neatly stowed for a later, opportune use.

He got the intention beneath the prince's words. Rather than meet the prince's sharp tongue with a sharper one, the Knight of Ninestars simply smiled. “Please. You know I have little talent for selflessness, your grace,” he said, his voice smooth, almost friendly. His expression turned more measured after a beat. “You are the queen's kin, and her grace places great value in your well-being. Naturally, my duty compels me to do the same”. A faint smile graced his lips then, not quite warm but not unkind either. “So I do value loyalty. Loyalty, and those who remember it, can be far more enduring than any rumor”.

Rumors are like smoke, they only choke you if you bother to breathe them in, the prince stated. Clever words. “You seem comfortable in letting them say what they will about you,” Percival mentioned, intrigued by the prince's stance. It was a fine line to walk; standing tall with confidence and remaining unbothered by the whispers of others, or crossing over to a dismissive sort of arrogance that blinded a man while his reputation shattered behind him. “It’s a rare stance”. He neither praised nor cautioned, simply noted. Observed. And perhaps, filed away.

The Commander of the Queensguard tilted his goblet slightly in Rhys' direction in a silent toast, his expression unreadable beneath his expression of courtesy. “Your grace can decide what others remember”. A pause. “And I can do my part to see they remember well”. Politeness, yes. Even diplomacy. But not devotion. Percival Templeton was not a man to waste sentiment. His allegiance was to the Queen, and everything else was an extension of that. Or an opportunity to be considered with quiet, calculated care.

[percival-templeton]

Closed starter for @ofwrittenwhispers Setting: The Vale, Gulltown. Fiona has recently returned from Braavos. Set at the harbor during the festival/celebration to welcome her home.

There had been some stolen glances exchanged between them through the evening. Eventually, Percival finally found her away from the thick of the crowd, half-lit by the glow of festival lanterns, half-shadowed by the deepening night. The revelry of Gulltown pulsed behind him, a symphony of music and voices accompanied by the constant crash of waves against the harbor. “Lady Fiona Grafton has tired of being the center of attention already? Please tell me Braavos did not change you that much,” the Knight of Ninestars said as he approached with slow, casual steps.

Percival glanced over his shoulder, seeing the crowd gathered at the heart of the festival, and then looked back at the Grafton lady. He appreciated this quieter area, the privacy they may have away from everyone else. “Welcome home, Fiona,” he said after a heartbeat, his tone quieter now. There had been much left unspoken before she left, and even with her here now, right before him, Percy could feel the weight of it more clearly.

“Walk with me?” the Knight of Ninestars offered, extending his arm for her to take. “I'll let you return to the celebration soon enough,” he added, a half-smile playing at his lips.

[rhaena--velaryon]

who: @percival-templeton where: gulltown, fiona's homecoming party harbour festival context: rhae and percy were betrothed in 139-140ac, but due to the fallout of the war things never really resolved. it's made things a little awkward nevertheless.

the first time she ever set foot in the vale was at ninestars, her brother's confirmation of her engagement to percival templeton rolled neatly in a scrollcase hanging by her side, delivered by her on dragonback instead of raven to give the templetons a chance to see who she was outside of a name and a sketch. it was a war betrothal, simply meant to secure a force of men and ensure banners stayed black, and her brother had said it was more likely than not that it would dissolve when both she and percival had better choices after the war. rhaena wasn't sure if she believed it then, or if her brother wanted to send her away. naelys was already in braavos then, after all, and deimos showed no sign of bringing her home before the end of the conflict.

their betrothal never truly had an official end. deimos nor percival ever pushed it, so she assumed both parties decided in the way that men seemed to do to let it end amicably. they both had more important things to worry about after the dance than words shared by raven during a war.

rhaena had come up to gulltown to get away from everything, sharing a ship ride with minthara who'd by now run off somewhere. she assumed to see fiona grafton, who she was friendly enough with but not the kind of friend to go running after. instead rhaena joined the other members of the elite above the festivities, pulling a velvet and fur trimmed tight. she'd been colder, it was much colder up high enough for even the vale's mountains to seem small, but the farther north one went, it was wise to not tempt a chill. she nursed a cup of warmed spiced wine and looked out on the merriment below, not realizing she'd stopped next to the knight of ninestars in that moment until she noticed the yellow and black sigil on his clothes out of the corner of her eye and looked to see who was wearing them.

"oh, lord templeton, apologies. i was distracted." she hadn't meant to just brazenly walk up next to him, but she was curious to see how the vale celebrated things versus her own kingdom, if there was something exciting to take back with her. "but i suppose it is good fortune. i'm not as surrounded by strangers as i think i am." she flashed a charming smile, looking up at the lord and trying to see what had changed on him in the time since she saw him last and now. "how are you lately? it's been... quite a while since we last talked."

[percival-templeton]

Percival had always enjoyed Gulltown. It was a familiar space, a place inextricably associated with a family he respected and appreciated. Tonight, with the festival, the harbor was wrapped in revelry and a lively atmosphere that was almost rare in the Vale. Norbie was a generous host, and any opportunity to spend time with his dear friend was appreciated. And with Fiona back from Braavos— Well, the evening had been more pleasant than he’d anticipated. However, that sense of ease thinned the moment he turned to see Rhaena Velaryon at his side.

There was no bitterness in him at the sight of the lady, nor any great warmth. The dissolution of their betrothal had been a slow, unspoken thing, never properly severed yet no longer binding. It had become almost an inconvenience at some point when more pressing concerns demanded his attention. Still, he was nothing if not a gentleman, and it would be poor form to let anything but civility dictate his demeanor. He inclined his head, his expression smooth, unreadable. “Lady Rhaena,” he greeted, a polite smile gracing his lips. “No need for apologies. I imagine we’re all a little distracted tonight. And the drink does little to center our thoughts,” he added, raising the goblet in his hand.

He studied her briefly, noting what had changed and what had not. The years had sharpened her, enhanced her beauty as well, but he wasn't quite as impacted by it as he had been during the time he thought she would be his wife. “It's been quite a while, indeed,” he echoed, before lifting his drink to his lips for a sip. “I’ve been well, thankfully. Busy as ever,” he stated simply, always finding it an exercise in futility to attempt to summarize years of life into a brief answer. “And you? I hope you and your family have been well after the many scars of the war,” he added with enough cordiality to sound sincere. “What brings you to the Vale, if you don't mind me asking. Are you good friends with the Graftons?”.

[percival-templeton]

Closed starter for @dancingshores Setting: Semi-flashback, set during the hunting expedition in Ninestars. Percival opened the invitation to nobles, royals, and courtiers from all over Westeros in hopes of making opportune connections for himself and his family (And frankly, he wasn't actually expecting Dornish folk to attend).

The great tent was humming with the low murmur of voices, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter and the clatter of goblets against the tables. Outside, the air was getting crisper and colder as the evening began to settle. It had been a great first day of the hunt, and some conversations the Knight of Ninestars had through the day settled the true purpose of the hunt. Not the chase of wild beast, not the skill to kill, but the connections and the maneuvering that came with it.

Percival Templeton sat at the head of one of the long tables, his posture composed despite the aches left by the day’s ride. The scars from the dragon's burns had healed, but some of the echoes of such pain still remained. His cup of wine was cradled loosely in his hand, though he had barely touched it, his attention instead drifting across the gathering. He took stock of who had attended, who had made their presence known, and who had taken the opportunity to ingratiate themselves. And then, his gaze landed on her as she walked.

The Dornish woman was draped in colorful silks, carrying herself as someone accustomed to being seen. Percival remembered her. How could he not recall such a face? He had played cards with her and the Lannister months ago, in a smoke-filled chamber during the dragon king's coronation celebrations. It had been her who had walked away with more coin than she arrived with. The Commander had not thought much of the Dornish lady then, but the difference now was that she was here at his hunt, eating his food and drinking his wine, and he wanted to know why.

The Knight of Ninestars took a slow sip from his cup before he got up from his seat and made his way to the woman. “I did not think the Dornish had as much love for hunting as we do in the Vale. But perhaps I misjudged,” he spoke as he appeared on her way. His gaze lingered, measured. She was a long way from home. “It is a surprise to see you again, Lady Zahra,” the lord added, offering a polite nod to her.

[ravellaarryns]

who: @percival-templeton when: some weeks into the court of the vales return from the westerlands, there is news regarding the knight of ninestars. context: the aftermath of a skirmish. percival returns to the eyrie wounded, after an ambush that he suspects was set up by domeric stone.

the door creaked open with the weight of a man broken but unbowed, the heavy scrape of boots against stone loud in the hush of the queen’s solar. ravella arryn didn’t look up at first. the air still smelled of smoke and steel—battle’s sour breath—and something bitter beneath it: blood, not quite dry. her fingers drummed the armrest of her chair, nails clicking soft and sharp in the vast silence, before she let her gaze drift towards the figure now looming near the hearth.

he was a soldier, a knight of the vale; never would he take to his bed and implore for an audience to be there. he presented himself as men should be.

“you are late, lord commander.” she said, voice flat as the winter sky beyond the narrow windows, sounding as stern as she always did when they addressed one another. her eyes flicked over him—armour cracked and filthy, the gleam of blood, both old and new, streaking his temple where it matted the dark of his hair. “and you’re bleeding. again.” it took one look at him to realise that something had clearly taken place, and judging by the sounds of the mayhem and upheaval within the courtyard with the return of the lord commander's hunting party, this had to be it. it were common for her to see the knights of the vale bloodied from sparring; practice, was near perfect. less illusion, more realism.

she had kept herself away from the matter, lest it cause unrest and distress to the falcon son in her womb, ready to cleanse the world and put a right to all that was so utterly wrong.

she didn’t ask if it was his blood. it was obvious. the slow drag of his breath, the stiffness in his shoulder where it pulled too tight, the slump that pride alone barely held upright. ravella tipped her head, considering him like one might an animal that’d come home with a torn ear. it made him more appealing; attractive even, something that caused her gaze to linger just a moment too long. she cared not if she noticed it. “i imagine it was all terribly noble,” she drawled, rising at last, the silk of her gown whispering against the cold floor. she crossed to him, boots silent, though her presence pressed heavy in the room.

“swords raised. banners flying.” her fingers, cool and idle, traced the edge of his gorget, where the steel had been torn open by some near-fatal blow. she did not need to ask him who he thought was behind the ambush; all had heard the words exchanged by the men at the doors of the council following a regular meeting, in which pride and tempers had finally boiled over. it was only a matter of time before one of them made the first strike; they would be the death of one another, she thought - quite fondly.

she moved towards the table where maps lay scattered beneath the soft spill of candlelight, their edges curled and singed. her hand hovered over them before dismissing them with a flick. “do you intend to behead a snake this day?” she asked, a cascade of dark tresses hung over the small of her waist as she fixed him a look; she did not need to say the name. she wanted to hear him say the name.

[percival-templeton]

Percival Templeton did not enter the room with his usual gallant poise. His was the walk of a man who prided himself in surviving, and who contained his ire within the bloodied armor around his broken body. He would live to fight another day, that he knew. But the ambush that ended the lives of several of his men as they journeyed from Ninestars to the Eyrie had left him bruised, battered, bleeding.

The Commander straightened his back as best he could as he stood before his queen. His jaw was tightened, but the edge of his anger remained expertly controlled, as a respectable knight ought to do in the presence of his respected monarch. “I did not arrive late by choice, my queen,” he stated simply, a light bow of his head, before he met Ravella's cool, calculating gaze. Many could find such an icy stare unsettling, but Percival found them familiar, grounding.

“The only thing noble about this, your grace, is that I’m still standing,” Percival replied, his voice low but steady. The flicker of disdain he could feel for the entire situation was carefully concealed, his expression remaining neutral despite his physical pain, despite the anger bubbling inside him. He was a knight of Ninestars, a soldier who had seen far worse than this, but he sensed foul play in all of this. Attempting to murder him through an ambush was a sign of cowardice of the lowest ilk. “This was no mere skirmish, my queen. It was a premeditated attack, an intentional attempt to end my life that resulted in the deaths of some of my men”. Ravella Arryn wouldn't spare a single thought to those soldiers of Ninestars, he knew. “Is this the court of the Vale now, your grace? Where a bastard may strike against a noble house? Attempt to kill a Commander in the most cowardly of ways?”

He needed not say Domeric's name. He needed not explain why he concluded he was behind the attack. The queen knew the nature of the deep animosity between both men. “This attack does not only attempt to weaken my position, but the very value of honor that holds our court together”. Percival's gaze remained steady, the words carefully measured, but his frustration simmered beneath the surface. “A bastard, your grace”. It was unlike anything the Vale had ever stood for to have someone like Domeric Stone rise as high as he had in the Arryn court.

“If there is any sense of honor and justice in the Vale, Domeric Stone has no place in court,” Percival added, his voice even but laced with a subtle intensity. It was fitting that Ravella spoke of a snake, because that was exactly what Percival saw in the bastard. “Let me remove the snake before it strikes again, my queen”.

[norbiegrafton]

norbie couldn't help but chuckle. he knew well enough by now that the templetons lived and breathed by their lofty standards, but he knew not how he managed to reach them, or conversely, whether they had both simply chosen to lower them for him. he pressed a hand to his chest, a gesture that might have been theatrical if not for the earnestness of it. "you are too kind to me, my friend. both you and your sister. i'll not forget it."

norbie was a man who considered himself lucky to have many friends, welcome in a large number of keeps across the realms, but there was something different about ninestars to him. perhaps it was the familiarity of it all, the fact he had simply spent longer there than anywhere else but gulltown. perhaps it was the templetons themselves. his city was his pride and joy, but ninestars was a retreat to him, of sorts. "don't tell anybody i said so, but you do have one of the better collections in the vale - after my own, of course." it was not boasting, words uttered matter-of-factly. "i am always eager to seize the opportunity to rifle through your archives."

he nodded, a little relieved that he need not keep up the pretence that he was at all skilled in hunting, and likely lead to embarrassment for himself, and likely percy. "well, that's something sorely needed, i'd say," he teased at percy's comment that it was norbie who tempered his arrogance. if it was true, he didn't think he was doing a good job of it. the secret to that was likely beyond even norbie's wisdom. "as long as you keep me from making a complete fool of myself out there, i would say we are even."

[percival-templeton]

Percival’s lips tugged into a subtle smile, a gesture that actually had a touch of warmth to it. “I am glad to know you find your place here, my friend. Ninestars is my sanctuary, and it pleases me to know it serves a similar purpose for you”. Albeit for different reasons, he knew. Percival appreciated the young lord and his family in a way that was more than just the occasional exchange of pleasantries. House Grafton had been a useful ally in many ways, but there were friendships born out of such an alliance. Friendships which Percival didn’t take lightly.

“Your family has always been kind and welcoming. We both know I may not have always deserved it,” he added with a knowing smile, a brief laugh following his words. Norbie knew what an arrogant prick he could be. And Fiona, well— she'd known so much more about him than anyone else; the shiny and the blackened parts of who Percival Templeton was at his core. He dismissed the thoughts quickly, not wanting to dwell on the tumultuous memories of the Grafton lady as he spoke to her brother.

As Norbie continued, Percival allowed himself a moment of swelling pride. “I shall take that as high praise. And of course, I must make it known now,” he said, his voice carrying a touch of humor. “I daresay my collection could do with a few more pieces. Not every shelf has been filled. But I’ll accept your assessment”. There was no mistaking the glint of satisfaction in Percival’s gaze. He took pride in his library, and having Norbie —the cleverest lord he knew— offer such an honest compliment, was something for him to savour.

When Norbie mentioned the possibility of making a fool of himself on the hunt, Percival shook his head. He was quick to deny the possibility that the admittedly clumsy lord would suffer such a fate while at his side. “Nonsense. Nothing like that will happen. I’ll offer my guidance”. There was a rare sincerity in his tone, something that cut through the usual layers of politeness and formality. The Knight of Ninestars didn't say what was understood already: He had Norbie's back.

[moonhillsunsets]

setting: in the vale, during the ninestars hunt, mariela hand delivers a prized belmore steed to the lord commander of the queensguard ; starter for @percival-templeton

the courtyard of ninestars was alive with activity. the crisp morning air was filled with the sounds of servants bustling, the braying of hounds eager for the hunt, and the low hum of noble voices exchanging pleasantries. mariela egen dismounted gracefully from the dappled mare she had ridden up the winding path, her cloak billowing faintly as she adjusted it against the vale's brisk breeze. at her side, a glossy chestnut stallion shifted restlessly, its finely polished bridle glinting in the sunlight. the horse was as much a statement as it was a gift: a belmore-bred creature, famed for its strength and speed, and a purchase that she had chosen to deliver personally.

her gloved hand steadied the stallion as she walked toward the hall’s entrance, her gaze sweeping the scene with quiet intent. she caught sight of percival standing at the edge of the gathering. mariela adjusted her cloak, the deep blue fabric edged in silver catching faintly in the breeze, and moved toward the figure of lord commander.

“lord commander,” mariela called as she approached, her voice carrying just enough weight to cut through the morning din. she stopped a few paces away, the clydesdale at her side tossing its massive head and snorting, as if aware it was the centerpiece of this encounter. “a fine morning for a hunt,” she offered with a faint, polished smile.

“i trust you’ll find him worth the wait,” she added, her voice softening as her gaze shifted briefly to the horse. the steed snorted again, its breath visible in the cool morning air. the lady looked back to the lord, a glimmer of warmth in her eyes. “a creature like this requires more than skill—it demands understanding. but I imagine a man of your station knows how to forge a bond with such strength.”

she extended the reins toward him, her polished smile lingering. “he'll serve you well, my lord. he’ll carry the weight of whatever you place upon him.”

[percival-templeton]

“Lady Mariela,” Percival greeted the regent of Moonhill, his voice smooth and his courteous movements deliberate as he bowed his head. “Right on time,” he added, appreciative that she had brought the steed just before the hunting expedition was set to begin. His attention then shifted to the horse, eyes narrowing just slightly as he studied the animal, taking in every little detail about that creature of great stature. He allowed himself a moment to appreciate his latest purchase, as his mind, always calculating, weighed the continuous benefits of this transactional bond with Mariela's house.

“A fine morning indeed, and the hunt promises to be just as excellent as this magnificent creature at my side,” the Knight of Ninestars added as he extended a gloved hand to accept the reins she offered. “He does not disappoint”. Just by studying him here, the horse did not disappoint. The Commander of the Queensguard would put the animal's skill to the test once the hunt began.

As Mariela spoke of strength and understanding, Percival nodded in agreement. “Know he's in good hands. I have always believed that a knight must know the ways of his mount as much as that of his sword,” he said with confidence, his hand moving to rest atop the creature's muzzle.

His gaze met hers again, kinder now, but still carrying the shine of their positions, the undeniable propriety and poise of the Vale courtiers. “You know, I would hate to see you come to Ninestars merely to deliver this precious beast. You should join the hunting trip, my lady,” he added after a moment. “My sister and other ladies will accompany us. There will be good company,” the Commander added, clarifying there would be more women amongst the hunters. “What say you?”

[falcxnprince]

the prince chuckled softly, his eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and amusement as percival voiced his skepticism. the smoke-filled room buzzed with laughter and drunken banter, an orchestra of chaos perfectly suited to his mood. he swirled the contents of his goblet thoughtfully, the deep red liquid catching the flicker of the firelight.

“why not here, lord percival?” he replied, leaning back in his chair, his cane resting casually against his leg. “the men around us are too preoccupied with their wagers and boasts to care what we discuss. besides…” he glanced at the circle of flushed, raucous faces and smirked. “a little intrigue never hurt anyone.”

he tapped a finger on his cards before tossing them face down onto the table with a dramatic sigh. “fold,” he declared, earning a few jeers and victorious grins from the other players. with a flick of his wrist, he gestured to a nearby servant for a refill of his goblet before turning his full attention back to lord of ninestars.

“but,” rhys continued, his voice lowering just enough to suggest sincerity, “i’ll spare you the discomfort of dissecting my reputation in public. perhaps the matter can wait for a quieter setting—or, better yet, a lighter night.” he arched a brow, a sly grin tugging at his lips. “we’ll save the gossip for the hens.”

the falcon prince stood, the creak of the oak chair lost beneath the hum of the room. he stretched, a hand adjusting the lapel of his jacket as his cane clinked softly against the floor. the smoke and noise had begun to weigh on him, and he could feel the beginnings of a dull ache in his temple. turning to Percival, he tilted his head toward the balcony doors, their frames glowing faintly from the moonlight beyond. "the cards are no friend to me tonight, and i’ve no taste for further losses. care to step outside for a drink? the night’s air may do me more good than this haze of pipe smoke."

[percival-templeton]

Percival watched Rhys with a sharp gaze, taking in the prince’s every gesture and word, weighing their true value. The knight knew better than to take Rhys at face value; the young man wore intrigue as naturally as a falcon wore feathers. “It may be so. Intrigue does have its uses,” he conceded with a faint smirk, his tone calm and composed as he tapped his cards with a deliberate motion. After each of their companions decided their play, Percival finally revealed his cards. Good fortune favored him this time, and that meant it was time for him to abandon the game. The true skill of card games and betting lay in knowing when to step aside, after all.

“A quieter setting might suit the matter better. I'm sure you can agree with that, Prince Rhys,” Percival said after he claimed his winnings, placing a few coins before the man who'd been dealing the cards. It was courtesy, as not to deny a small prize to the one who'd dealt him such a good hand.

Both the prince and the Knight of Ninestars stood then, rising from his chair with the unhurried grace of a man who commanded his own pace, he smoothed the lines of his doublet and offered a polite nod to those he left behind on the table. “Lead the way,” he said as he turned to the falcon prince.

Percy brought a drink with him too as they stepped away from the smoke-filled room and into the crisp evening air of the balcony. He took a quiet sip before turning to regard Rhys more directly. “Should you drink so, your grace? Does it not interfere with your health?” he asked, his voice low but steady. All the realm knew that Rhys Arryn had stepped away from the duties of the crown due to bad health. It was known Braavos had been his place of recovery, and there was still speculation on whether or not he remained an ailing individual or he had healed fully. “I wouldn't want her grace, the queen, to think I don't look after her brother when I'm around him”.