private muse blog affiliated with circa204 — a study on frostbitten silence, the godswood as confessional, prayers swallowed before they reach the old gods, the library as mausoleum, what loyalty costs when you’ve seen too much, the witness turned blade, and DOOMED OBSERVATION ⎯⎯ you watched from the beginning. aera, who speaks in silences no one else can hold. daevon, who unravels in the spaces between duty and want. elyra, who lingers where she should not, soft where the world demands sharpness. every story ends with what you failed to say
beneath a tree of gnarled branches, jaide lays contentedly. they had always disliked when ceremony found king's landing. it so often was cornered with it that one would think themselves growing used to it in the near upon seven years they'd worked in the pitt, and yet jaide still resented it. jaide finds themselves yawning, cheeks warm from the third, or fourth, or fifth mug of ale. it would not do to find a dragonkeeper caught so malleable, soft in their liquor. she thought a nice nap beneath an elm would treat her well, awakening in more sober spirits by the cool air.
instead, "i face dragons daily, dame selmy. i do not flinch at the thought of the city guard being call on me." russet hues roll, settling on the elyra with a sidelong glance. she could not yet determine if their attitude was due to a stick up the sworn sword's ass, or if she had been born like that. even with the years that prince saerys had sandwiched between them, jaide was not sure if they could ever crack the composed veneer. "i never saw you, you see, and you never saw me — so, we are well, yes?"
❝ ⸻ studies her for a moment — the ease of her posture, the careless sprawl beneath the tree, the unmistakable scent of ale clinging to the air around her — and, for once, she does not correct it. not immediately. there is something almost measured in the way she considers jaide’s words, weighing them not for propriety, but for practicality. “well,” she concedes after a brief pause, her tone even, “that would be the simplest arrangement.” her head inclines just slightly, as though sealing the agreement without ceremony. “i did not see you.” a beat follows, just enough to let the implication settle. “and you did not see me.” there is no smile, but neither is there disapproval — only quiet acceptance, as if such understandings are not unfamiliar to her.
her gaze drifts briefly toward the distance — toward where the faint echoes of the celebration still linger — before returning, sharper now, more attentive. “though,” elyra adds, shifting just slightly where she stands, “since we are both here… and conveniently blind,” there is the faintest trace of dry humor in her voice now, subtle but present, “tell me — has anything caught your attention tonight?” her eyes rest on jaide with quiet intent, searching without seeming to press. “anything… worth noticing?”
aselle blinks, as if surprised to be noticed. her sisters, far more lovely and beautiful than she, being lovely and beautiful somewhere far from her. the youngest dayne would have to face this strange battle alone. small palms clutch the pale lavender silk of her dress, light perspiration wiped against it. she hoped that it would not show damply against the silhouette. aselle would have preferred a rose hue. she felt more comfortable in pink but her mother had insinuated that she ought to dress for their house and aselle so hated to go against what she'd been told.
oh. the breath leaves her with a soft exhale. her shoulders wish to fall but ever the bundle of nerves, her back remains straight. poised one could say, tense another would suggest. the lady's pale eyes seemed to bore into her, burning a hole in between the dark of her brows. "i... i do not know," aselle attempts to say, the words scrambling against her tongue. "i did not think it dangerous." the thought had not even crossed her mind, the celebrations insulated by the kingsguards, and the city watch, and the dragon riders. like a cat on edge, fur raised in an ugly manner, aselle ventures to ask, "why do you think it's dangerous?"
❝ ⸻ aera watches her for a moment — not unkindly, but with a quiet sort of curiosity, as though she’s trying to decide whether the girl before her might bolt at any second. the tension is easy enough to read, written plainly in the way she holds herself too carefully, like something delicate afraid of cracking under its own weight. it draws a softer expression from aera, though the hint of amusement never quite leaves her eyes.
“dangerous?” she echoes lightly, tilting her head just a fraction. “oh, i wouldn’t say dangerous.” a small pause follows, just long enough for the word to settle before she continues, tone shifting into something more playful. “not in any immediate, dramatic sense. no one’s been stabbed at the feast yet, which i suppose is always a promising sign.” her lips curve faintly, as if she’s pleased with that measure of success. “but large gatherings tend to have a way of becoming… unpredictable. too many egos in one place, too many ambitions dressed up as celebration.” she lifts one shoulder in a small shrug. “things don’t have to be dangerous to become interesting.”
her gaze softens just slightly then, some of that sharpness easing as she studies the girl more properly this time. “though i fear i may have made it sound far worse than it is,” aera adds, gentler now, as if offering a quiet correction. “you’re safe enough, truly. there are far too many important people here for anything particularly disastrous to be allowed to happen.” a beat, then, with a flicker of something lighter again, “at least, that’s what they would like us to believe.”
she shifts her weight subtly, attention settling more fully on her now, curiosity taking a clearer shape. “and you are…?” aera asks, tone warm but still edged with that familiar thread of humor. “i feel as though i should know, but i suspect i would only embarrass myself by guessing.” a faint smile follows, almost apologetic in its honesty. “which, admittedly, i am capable of doing without much help.”
it's still early enough in the celebration that the attendees can delude themselves into thinking they alone will claim the title of champion, and best their foes, or display the flexing of their social power like the leather of a well-made glove slipped smoothly onto a fine hand. he's heard plenty of it since the heavy poles for tents were planted into the earth and members of each house came with their chins held high. come the beginning of the games, they will find in earnest which of them stands tall and strong and which of them will bend under the weight of a lance or crack against the sharp strike of a well-wielded sword. it's only a matter of time. for now, he has endured their boasting from morning to the evening. as the sun sets, he breaks from his company to go on the hunt for his brother's children. a few of them he worries after more, a few less, but knowing where they are, at least, will put his mind at ease.
or — he hopes it will. it depends on whatever state he finds them in.
you look as though you're searching for something. he turns, to find himself face-to-face with one of the starks. aera, he thinks - the fourth born? or is it the third? it's no small thing that they've ventured down from their hall in the north, he knows. he considers aera with a careful eye, his mouth pressed into a grim line. " all the fairer things in life have the chance to sour, given the opportunity. "
which is to say: yes, he feels it too, the tense band stretched between the seven's left fist and right thumb and forefinger, but he's not fool enough to say it aloud. that's about as much as he'll admit to making of anything about this. " i've not oft met anyone who enjoys disagreement. " a strange thing, he thinks, to admit to so openly. " who taught you that? "
❝ ⸻ aera does not immediately rise to the weight of his words — not fully, at least. there is a pause, brief but deliberate, where her gaze lingers on him with something thoughtful, as though deciding how much honesty is permitted in a conversation that clearly has its limits. then, quietly, the corner of her mouth lifts — not in mockery, but in something lighter, carefully placed.
“i imagine most things do,” she replies, tone gentle but not without a trace of dry humor, “though i had hoped wine and good company might hold out a little longer before souring completely.” a small breath of amusement escapes her then, soft enough not to offend, but present enough to soften the edges of what he had said. her posture remains composed, respectful — she does not forget who stands before her — but neither does she retreat entirely into silence. “though perhaps i am being overly optimistic. i’ve been told that is a northern flaw.”
at his question, her brows lift just slightly, something almost surprised flickering across her expression before it settles into something more knowingly amused. “who taught me?” she repeats, as if turning the thought over. “no one, i’m afraid. which likely explains why i say it aloud when wiser people would not.” a faint smile follows, warmer now, though still restrained. “i suppose i find disagreement… clarifying. people are far more honest when they forget to agree.”
she inclines her head then, a quiet gesture of acknowledgment — respectful, but not overly formal. “though i promise i do not seek it out indiscriminately, my prince,” she adds, just lightly enough to ease any unintended edge. “only when it seems worth the trouble.” a brief pause, her gaze steady but not challenging. “and tonight, there does seem to be rather a lot worth noticing.”
another beat passes before she speaks again, this time with less softness, though no less composure. “tell me, then, my prince” aera continues, voice still polite but far more direct than before, “are you among those who expect to stand tall when the games begin… or those who already know what it is they stand to lose?” her head tilts slightly, studying him with quiet, unflinching curiosity. “i find it far more interesting than the boasting, don’t you?”
had been said through time, passed down through rumors that there was more than just a bond between dragon and rider. talks of some sort of mental link that allowed the offer of thoughts and emotions to filter through, that characteristics became so embedded that human became less approachable and more reptilian. the way their head tilts, eyes widening in recognition then narrowing into something resembling slits no doubt the reason such legends existed.
" you should be with saerys, should you not ? " known for her capricious nature, never to be in the place they were meant — baela would not care. if not for the realm under one roof that allowed for a sort of chaos that could spell disaster if one was not prepared, if it had not meant that the sworn shield was not at her post while their closest companion need rely on the kingsguard stretched thin with the sheer amount of bodies around them all.
" the better idea would be for you to return to your post as there is only one of us that would find trouble should you choose to attempt to ... speak ? tell ? i am unsure as to why i should explain my actions. " traipsed about the grounds since a wee babe and knew them better than most. enough to know that if she were to peer up through the trees, as they had been, a glimpse of the dragons could be could should they be circling the dragon pit — as moondancer was.
❝ ⸻ elyra does not interrupt — she rarely does — but there is a stillness to her that sharpens as baela speaks, something measured settling behind her gaze as it lifts, slow and deliberate, to meet the other woman’s. for a brief moment, she says nothing at all, as if allowing the words to linger between them long enough to be properly considered… or dismissed.
“should i?” she echoes at last, voice quiet but edged in a way that is easy to miss if one is not listening for it. her head tilts slightly, though there is nothing uncertain in the gesture — only calculation, restrained beneath courtesy. “i was not aware i had been born at his side.” a pause follows, just long enough to let the remark settle without ever raising her tone beyond something deceptively calm. “how fortunate, then, that he is capable of standing without me for a moment or two.”
her gaze drifts briefly, almost idly, toward the treeline where shadows stretch and shift — where dragons might be glimpsed, if one knows where to look — before returning just as smoothly. “as for my post,” elyra continues, folding her hands neatly before her, composure unshaken, “i find it curious that you concern yourself with it now.” there is no accusation in her voice, only a quiet observation that feels far more pointed for its restraint. “especially when you seem equally… unoccupied.”
a faint, almost polite smile touches her lips then, though it does not quite reach her eyes. “but you’re right about one thing,” she adds, softer now, as though conceding something insignificant. “there is little reason for you to explain yourself.” a slight tilt of her head follows, gaze steady, unyielding beneath its calm exterior. “i hadn’t asked you to.”
she pauses then, just briefly, as though something has occurred to her — and when she speaks again, her tone remains just as composed, just as measured, though the edge beneath it sharpens almost imperceptibly. “though i suppose i should thank you,” elyra adds, almost thoughtfully. “it isn’t often someone is kind enough to concern themselves with duties they have no intention of fulfilling themselves.” her gaze lingers a moment longer, quiet and unwavering. “it must be… exhausting, carrying responsibility so selectively.”
monterys is on his way to prepare himself for the joust, having stepped down from the stands to make his way to a private tent. along the way, he ends up spotting a lady who looks rather lost and while it is not really his duties to be directing the nobles to their rightful place, he does end up feeling bad. so, he cautiously approaches and clears his throat awkwardly to announce his presence.
“excuse me, my lady, but are you lost?” he asks gently. “forgive my intrusion, i just expected most of the nobles to be at the stands by now…” he looks all around, for the grounds they stand on have been mostly vacated by now. “did you need some assistance?”
❝ ⸻ aera startles — only slightly, but enough that she is immediately aware of it, and that awareness alone is almost worse. her composure is quick to follow, slipping back into place like it had never faltered, though there is the faintest trace of it lingering in the way her fingers adjust unnecessarily at the fabric of her sleeve.
“lost?” she echoes, a brow lifting just a fraction as she turns to face him properly, the ghost of a smile already forming as if she intends to make a joke of it before it can make anything of her. “i prefer to think of it as… selectively misplaced.” a brief pause, then a soft exhale that almost resembles a laugh — quieter than usual, but no less genuine. “it sounds far less embarrassing.” her gaze flickers briefly past him, as if considering the near-empty grounds, before returning with a touch more ease. “though, admittedly, i may have overestimated my sense of direction. these pavilions all begin to look the same after a while.”
she tilts her head slightly then, studying him with a curiosity that feels more natural than whatever she had been doing moments prior. “and you would be… rescuing wayward ladies on your way somewhere important, i imagine?” there is a lightness to her tone now, playful enough to mask the faint hesitation beneath it. “i should warn you, i might slow you down terribly. i have a talent for choosing the wrong direction twice in a row.” a small smile lingers, softer now, a little less guarded. “but yes,” she concedes after a beat, “i suppose i could use the assistance… if you’re certain you won’t regret offering it.”
“aera,” she adds then, a touch quicker this time, as though deciding that lingering on the introduction might only make it more awkward than necessary. “of house stark — temporarily misplaced representative of the north, it would seem.” there is a faint glint of humor in her eyes now, something warmer, easier. “i assure you, we are not all known for wandering aimlessly through southern festivities… just most of us, when left unattended.” her lips curve just slightly, amused at her own admission. “and you are?”
myranda hurries to sit at the feasting table assigned to house stark, taking the spot next to her sister aera. she smirks, leaning over to the other lady, elbowing her playfully. “quite the spectacle, wasn't it, sister?” she speaks of the coronation. “they truly have spared no expense, haven't they? seeing our taxes at work…” she almost scoffs, and has to restrain herself and not roll her eyes.
“what's with that look, hm? did i step out of line again?” she can't help but to giggle. she probably has, but she's speaking to her sister, shouldn't she be able to do that? “how much do you want to bet that the king will give us some longwinded speech about unity and such?”
❝ ⸻ aera lets the comment linger for a moment, lips pressing together as though she’s attempting — and failing — to maintain some semblance of decorum. it lasts all of two seconds. “gods, don’t say that too loudly,” she murmurs, finally turning toward myranda with a look that is far too entertained for someone who is supposed to behave. “if anyone from the south hears you, they might start itemizing the feast aloud. imagine it — ‘this swan was funded by northern grain, my lady, do enjoy responsibly.’” her mouth quirks, barely contained amusement slipping through as she leans in just slightly. “though, to be fair, if this is where our taxes are going, i do expect at least one dramatic incident before dessert. a minor scandal, a duel, someone fainting into a wine fountain… anything to justify the expense.”
she exhales softly through her nose, gaze drifting briefly across the hall before snapping back with renewed mischief. “and no, you haven’t stepped out of line,” aera adds, far too easily. “you’ve leapt over it, set it on fire, and waved at it on your way down. i’m quite proud, actually.” her tone is light, teasing — indulgent in a way reserved only for her sister. “you’d make a terrible court lady, you know. far too honest. they prefer their opinions watered down, preferably with wine and poor judgment.”
at the mention of the king, she hums, tapping her finger idly against the rim of her goblet as if considering the odds. “oh, he absolutely will,” she says, far too certain. “unity, loyalty, strength of the realm — all delivered with just enough gravitas to make everyone forget they were gossiping about each other five minutes ago.” a pause, then a sideways glance, sharp with humor. “i give it… four mentions of unity before someone starts quietly drinking through the speech.” she lifts her goblet slightly, eyes glinting. “five, if he’s feeling particularly inspired.”
open: to everyone.
location: evening, april 5th — amidst the set up pavilions in king's landing.
saerys is stood there — back straight, arms crossed behind himself — like he is being assessed. he probably is, if he thinks a little bit too hard about it. a prince of the blood; eyes trail easily to him whenever he is near.
it is not vanity that makes him think that. it is experience. silver hair and violet eyes were always enough to grab someone's attention, but saerys had always hated it. he could feel himself begin to squirm now, a feeling of something he cannot name crawling up his spine and grabbing at his throat to squeeze.
it is suffocating and he hates it.
he knows his father would like for him to be amidst the crowds, to greet their guests and welcome them to his home, but he cannot bear it. not now and probably not after giving it a couple of minutes either.
saerys means to flee. to turn on his heel and hightail it back through the gates and disappear somewhere amidst the small folk, perhaps even sneak hūra from the dragonpit and take to the skies. however, the crunch of the dirt sounds behind him and his body turns stiffly towards the sound.
"what—" it's harsh and saerys knows that, a rash decision to speak without thinking first. something he has been scolded for in the past, so he collects himself. clears his throat, setting a smile on his features or well... more of a grimace trying to be a smile, but he believes it suffices enough. (it probably doesn't.) "apologies." it is curt and sounds like he does not mean it at all — perhaps he does, perhaps he doesn't. the voice of his father sounds in his head, you are a prince, saerys, you must act like it, "have the festivities been to your liking? i must say the turnout has been..." and he pauses, trying to find a word he means, "large."
( Ꮺ ) elyra does not answer immediately — not because she lacks something to say, but because she knows him well enough to recognize the performance for what it is. the stiffness in his shoulders, the way the words fall just slightly out of rhythm, that strained imitation of something he was taught rather than something he feels. she has seen it before. many times. long before titles began to weigh heavier than they should.
“large,” she repeats softly, as if testing the word on her tongue, though her gaze never quite leaves his face. there is no mockery in it, no challenge — only quiet understanding, the kind she does not offer freely to most. her hands remain folded neatly before her, posture composed, but there is a subtle shift in her stance, grounding, steadying — as though she has already decided she will not let him stand through this alone, even if she will never say it so plainly. “that is one way to describe it.” a brief pause follows, and then, more gently, “overwhelming might be another.”
her eyes flicker briefly toward the crowds behind him before returning, sharper now, more certain. she lowers her voice just slightly, enough that it belongs only to the space between them. “you don’t have to stay.” it is not a suggestion spoken lightly, nor recklessly — it is offered with the quiet confidence of someone who already knows what he is thinking, what he is resisting. “not like this.” another pause, measured, careful, as though weighing how much she is allowed to say. how much she will allow herself to say.
elyra steps a fraction closer then, not enough to draw attention, but enough to shift the moment into something more private, more real. “if you intend to disappear,” she continues, tone even, controlled despite the familiarity beneath it, “you should at least do it properly.” there is the faintest hint of something softer at the edges of her expression now — something she reins in just as quickly. “the dragonpit will be quieter.” a beat. “i could walk with you… if you’d prefer not to be stopped on the way.” she does not insist. she never would. her gaze holds his, steady, offering without demanding. “or,” more lightly, though no less sincere, “you can stay and pretend you’re enjoying yourself. you’re almost convincing.”
an open convo at king daeron's ii coronation (not capping replies)
at: the melee
tw: blood
a fine line of red trickled down the princess right arm, pale skin cut open by her opponent's sword a few instants ago, stitched by a maester that aelora quickly dismissed. " i need some ale, would you entertain me? " striking violet orbs stared at the person near her, a tempest of anger behind ethereal features. " he is not dead... the lord's of westeros are a bit dramatic. "
delicate fingers pulled at the sleeves of her red silk shirt, a thin ring mail beneath it. " the maester's will surely fix his face " a chuckle escaped aelora, cynical even as the memory of that lord dark sister slashed. perhaps she has exaggerated. " do you reckon they have dornish red somewhere? "
( Ꮺ ) “how reassuring,” daevon drawled, eyes flicking lazily toward the thin line of blood as though it were little more than spilled wine, “i was beginning to worry the evening lacked proper entertainment — but you’ve remedied that rather efficiently, princess.” his gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary, not out of concern, but appraisal, the corner of his mouth curving into something sharp and distinctly unkind. “though i must say, dismissing a maester right after being opened up is… bold. or perhaps you simply trust that dramatic lords and their equally dramatic wounds tend to sort themselves out.”
he straightened just enough to pluck a goblet from a passing servant without so much as asking, pressing it into her hand with a casualness that bordered on insolence. “ale,” he echoed, as if tasting the word and finding it vaguely disappointing. “how tragic. bleeding, freshly stitched, and still settling for ale when there’s an entire kingdom’s worth of better decisions being ignored within arm’s reach.” his own cup lifted slightly in a mock toast before he took a slow sip, eyes never quite leaving her. “but who am i to deny you mediocrity? i’m sure it pairs wonderfully with near-fatal encounters and reckless confidence.”
a soft, humorless chuckle followed her remark, his expression sharpening with interest rather than sympathy. “oh, i don’t doubt he’ll live,” daevon replied smoothly, tilting his head as though considering the matter with far more gravity than he actually felt. “men like that always do — it gives them ample time to recount how bravely they nearly died at the hands of a princess who clearly didn’t try hard enough.” his smile deepened, edged with something deliberately provoking. “though if you’re aiming for a reputation, you might want to leave less to the maesters next time.” a pause, then, almost thoughtful. “and as for dornish red… if they don’t, i suggest you demand it loudly enough to offend at least three houses. it would suit the mood.” his gaze flicked once more to the blood, then back to her face, amused. “after all, if we’re going to pretend this is a celebration, we may as well commit to the spectacle.”
elyra had not meant to stray this far. or rather — she had, but not with the expectation of finding anyone else foolish enough to do the same. the noise of the celebration dulled behind her, softened into something distant and almost unreal, replaced instead by the quiet rustle of leaves and the faint pull of night air untouched by wine and pretense. it was easier to think here, easier to breathe — away from eyes that lingered too long and conversations that demanded too much. she had nearly convinced herself she was alone when the subtle shift of movement betrayed otherwise.
she stilled. not out of fear, but caution — the kind that settled instinctively, long practiced. her gaze flicked toward the source, sharp and immediate, finding them where they stood as though they had always been there, waiting to be noticed. for a moment, she said nothing, simply watching, weighing — deciding. then, quieter than the wind itself, “you’re not supposed to be here.” it wasn’t an accusation, not quite. more an observation, laced with something unreadable. her posture remained composed, though there was a tension beneath it now, something alert, something ready.
a small pause followed before she stepped forward just enough for the dim light to catch her properly, revealing more than just a silhouette. “neither am i,” she added, almost as an afterthought, though her gaze never left them. there was no panic in her expression, no immediate retreat — only a careful awareness of what this encounter could become. “so…” a slight tilt of her head, studying them now with quiet intent, “we can pretend we never saw each other and walk back before anyone notices.” another pause, shorter this time. “or you can tell me why you’re here — and give me a reason not to.” her voice softened at the edges, but the meaning did not. “i’ll let you decide which is the better idea.”
if there was one thing daevon would commend the crown for, it was spectacle. not governance, not restraint, and certainly not subtlety — but spectacle? that, they had perfected to an art. the pavilions gleamed beneath torchlight like something spun from illusion rather than canvas, brimming with overindulgence dressed as celebration. laughter came easily here, far too easily, as if the realm had collectively decided that wine could drown out memory. daevon, for his part, made no such attempt. he wore his amusement plainly, a crooked thing at the corner of his mouth as he observed the gathered nobility with the air of someone watching a play he had already read the ending to — and found lacking.
he had claimed a space for himself with the kind of careless entitlement that either came from confidence or a complete disregard for consequence — in his case, perhaps both. one arm draped lazily over the back of his seat, goblet in hand, he let his gaze wander without shame or subtlety, lingering just long enough on passing figures to make it known they had been seen — assessed, even — before he inevitably lost interest. boasts of coming victories, hushed alliances, poorly veiled rivalries… it was all so painfully transparent. “remarkable,” he muttered at one point, not quite to himself, not quite to anyone else either, “how quickly grief turns to celebration when a crown is involved. i suppose mourning is terribly inconvenient when there’s a feast to attend.”
it was then that he noticed them — or perhaps they noticed him first, it hardly mattered — and his attention sharpened with something that resembled interest, though it never quite shed its mocking edge. “ah,” daevon drawled, straightening only slightly, just enough to acknowledge their presence without offering anything so sincere as courtesy, “come to join the performance, or simply admiring the cast?” his gaze flicked briefly over them, quick and cutting, before returning to their eyes with a glint of something unmistakably amused. “careful, now. linger too long and someone might mistake you for enjoying yourself.” a soft, humorless laugh followed, more breath than sound. “tell me — do you believe any of this?” he gestured vaguely to the revelry around them, the lights, the laughter, the fragile illusion of unity. “the loyalty, the celebration, the convenient reverence for a crown that’s barely settled on a new head.” a pause, deliberate, his smile sharpening. “or are you like me, and simply here to see how long it takes before something goes terribly, predictably wrong?”
( Ꮺ ) the night breathed indulgence — honeyed wine, velvet laughter, the soft rustle of silk against silk — yet beneath it all, something sharper lingered, metallic as the promise of blood not yet spilled. aera drifted through it as though she belonged to neither revelry nor restraint, a figure caught between candlelight and shadow, her presence subtle but never unnoticeable. conversations faltered just slightly in her wake, eyes flickering toward her before quickly darting away, as if acknowledging something they could not quite name. she let them look, of course — let them wonder — because it was in that quiet uncertainty that truths so often slipped loose. even here, amidst celebration, she could feel the realm holding its breath.
she lingered near an open pavilion, one shoulder resting lightly against a carved wooden post as her gaze swept over the crowd with unhurried precision. knights boasting of victories not yet won, ladies exchanging pleasantries sharpened by hidden intent, banners swaying gently in the evening air like silent witnesses to it all — every detail was noted, catalogued, understood. her fingers traced absent patterns along the rim of her goblet, untouched, as her attention caught on something — or rather, someone — approaching. this time, she did not wait for chance to dictate the encounter. instead, she turned fully, meeting their presence with a calm that bordered on deliberate provocation, as though she had been expecting them all along.
“you look as though you’re searching for something,” she remarked, voice low but clear enough to cut through the surrounding noise, her gaze settling upon them with quiet, deliberate focus. there was no hesitation in her tone — only curiosity, sharpened into something almost playful. “or perhaps someone. either way, you’ve found me instead… unfortunate, or fortunate, depending on your intentions.” a faint tilt of her head followed, studying them as though they were a puzzle she had already begun solving. “tell me,” she continued, stepping just close enough to close the distance without quite intruding, “what do you make of all this?” her hand lifted slightly, gesturing toward the glow of lanterns, the echo of laughter, the illusion so carefully constructed. “does it feel like celebration to you?” a pause — measured, knowing. “because to me, it feels like anticipation. and i find anticipation far more dangerous.” her gaze softened only slightly then, though the edge never fully left it. “but perhaps you disagree. i would hear it, if you do… i do so enjoy being proven wrong.”
#STAFF // the seven beckon DAME ELYRA SELMY toward them; a reclamation etched into bone, a daughter shaped by the ghost of a fallen name, associated with HOUSE SELMY. the sworn shield feels their soul flay open just as judgement is shackling to a ruthlessness nature, gripping it tightly as mercy fights with discipline. traits guidance sees in the dreams of a rebellion with an accompaniment from strength and courage as they offer a longsword — balanced, unadorned, precise — a weapon not meant to dazzle, but to endure. all while innocence encapsulates memories of them — the echo of steel against steel in an empty training yard before dawn, frost clinging to her breath as she refuses to yield, the suffocating weight of a name once spoken with pride now carried in hushed tones and lingering stares, rain-soaked battlements overlooking a violent sea, where storms crash endlessly as if mirroring the unrest she keeps buried beneath composure, the quiet, fleeting warmth of a presence beside her in the early hours, where duty softens just enough to feel like something more, something dangerous — so they are remembered when the unknown flickers into view, dragging them towards their end, the unbearable possibility of failure, not death, but the realization that she was never enough to restore what was lost.
# 𝗯𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗰 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇
official name: elyra selmy. nicknames: none. noble title: sworn shield to prince saerys targaryen. age: twenty-eight. birthplace: the stormlands. home: king’s landing (formerly the stormlands). nationality: westerosi. gender: cis woman. pronouns: she / her. orientation: tba. monikers: the white shadow, the fallen daughter, oathbound steel. languages: the common tongue (fluent). accent: stormlander — low, controlled, stripped of warmth; each word deliberate, measured.
# 𝗽𝗵𝘆𝘀𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇
faceclaim: tba. hair: dark brown, often kept tied back; practical, severe, rarely left loose. eyes: cool brown, steady and unreadable — a gaze that lingers without wavering. height: 5’8”. build: lean, honed for endurance and precision rather than brute strength; every movement controlled. scent: polished steel, worn leather, and the faint trace of rain. dominant hand: right. allergies: none. scars: several, earned rather than hidden — thin lines along arms and shoulders, one more prominent at her collarbone. distinguishing features: composed stillness; a presence that feels immovable, as though carved from something unyielding. clothing style: kingsguard whites when required — otherwise restrained, functional attire; muted tones, clean lines, nothing excessive.
# 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒
label: the oathbound blade. mbti: istj. enneagram: 1w9 — the reformer. element: steel / storm. star sign: capricorn. temperament: melancholic-choleric. character inspirations: brienne of tarth, barristan selmy (legacy), stoic knight archetypes. deadly sin: pride. heavenly virtue: diligence. godly parent: the warrior. positive: disciplined, loyal, resilient, precise, unwavering, quietly perceptive. negative: rigid, emotionally restrained, self-denying, severe, unyielding, quietly judgmental.
# 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌
hobbies: training at dawn, maintaining her armor and blade, silent observation, riding patrol routes, honing technique to perfection. religion: the faith of the seven (devout, particularly the warrior). alliance: the crown; formerly house selmy. personal goals: to restore the honor of her house, to prove her father’s disgrace was not deserved, to embody a standard no one can question. would they choose family or power?: family — though she would call it duty.
𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 . . .
i.
honor does not die loudly. it fades — quietly, humiliatingly, until only the echo remains.
there was no storm the day her house fell. no fire, no blade raised in righteous defiance — only whispers, thin and venomous, slipping through halls that once carried her name with pride. a knight undone not by weakness of arm, but by something far more unforgivable: doubt. disgrace settled over house selmy like dust, slow and suffocating, until nothing of it remained untouched.
elyra selmy did not cry. she watched.
watched the way doors closed softer when she approached. the way her father’s name was no longer spoken, but avoided. the way honor — once something solid, something certain — could unravel without ever breaking. and in that silence, something within her hardened.
not grief. something colder.
ii.
elyra selmy. the daughter. the remnant. the name that refused to disappear. children are not meant to carry the weight of legacy, but she did. not as pride — but as burden. as something sharp and constant, pressing into every moment of her becoming.
she did not grow angry. she grew precise.
where others might have rebelled, she endured. where others might have turned away, she leaned in — into discipline, into control, into the relentless pursuit of something she could not yet name, only feel.
she learned early that effort alone was not enough. perfection was required. steel did not come easily to her — it was earned, inch by inch, through repetition and refusal to yield. every bruise was a lesson. every failure, unacceptable. she did not fight to prove herself better.
she fought to prove she was not what they believed her to be. and when she was finally seen — truly seen — it was not as a girl. but as something harder. something useful.
iii.
elyra selmy, the oathbound blade.
knighthood was never meant to be hers. not truly. not in the way the world understood it. and yet — she took it anyway, not as a gift, but as something carved from expectation and defiance alike. duty became her language. clear. unyielding. absolute.
she did not question orders. did not waver. did not allow space for doubt to settle where discipline had taken root. her loyalty was not born of devotion, but of decision — deliberate, conscious, unbreakable. and then — him.
a prince who did not behave like one. a name that carried weight, worn as though it did not belong to him. careless, in ways she could not afford to be. soft, in ways she had long since abandoned. saerys targaryen was not a duty she understood.
but he was hers. and she did not fail what was hers. even when he resisted. even when he slipped beyond reach. even when protecting him felt less like purpose — and more like punishment.
iv.
in a realm where honor bends as easily as men do, elyra selmy does not. she stands. unyielding. unwavering. carved from something that does not allow for fracture, only pressure. the crown may shift, alliances may falter, names may rise and fall beneath the weight of politics and power — but she remains constant.
not untouched. never untouched. but unbroken.
and yet — there is something dangerous in the stillness she has built for herself. something that lingers just beneath the surface of discipline and restraint. because duty, when held too tightly, begins to resemble something else.
something fragile. something that, if cracked, would not mend cleanly. she does not fear death. she fears failure. fears the quiet, unbearable truth that no matter how steady her hand, no matter how sharp her blade —
it may never be enough to restore what was lost. and if the world remembers house selmy not for what it was, but for what it became — she will not scream. she will not break.
she will simply stand, blade in hand, and endure, until there is nothing left of her, but the name she refused to let die.
ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑛𝑠.
— elyra wakes before dawn every single day, no matter where she is. even in the red keep, even after sleepless nights. there’s something almost ritualistic about it — like if she lets herself rest too long, she’ll lose control of the only thing she truly owns: discipline.
— she keeps her father’s name alive in the smallest ways. not spoken — never spoken — but etched into the inside of her armor, hidden where no one will see it. not for sentiment. for remembrance.
— she rarely removes her armor completely unless she absolutely has to. there’s always something on — a bracer, a blade, a layer. being unguarded feels… wrong.
— she does not pray like others do. no kneeling, no whispered pleas. instead, she trains. to her, perfection is prayer. every precise strike is an offering to something that may or may not be listening.
— she has a habit of standing just slightly behind and to the side of saerys, always within reach. not obvious. not suffocating. but constant. like a shadow that learned restraint.
— when saerys disappears (which he absolutely does), she doesn’t panic outwardly — but her search becomes relentless, almost frighteningly focused. she doesn’t stop until she finds him.
— she does not raise her voice. ever. the angrier she is, the quieter she becomes — and that’s when she’s the most dangerous.
— she remembers every failure. not just hers — but others’. files them away, studies them, refuses to repeat them. it makes her terrifyingly efficient… and quietly unforgiving.
— she has a soft spot for horses, but you’d only notice it if you were paying very close attention. it’s one of the only times her movements lose that rigid precision.
— she does not touch people. not casually, not instinctively. the only exception is duty — steadying, pulling back, protecting. which makes every accidental brush of contact feel… heavier than it should.
— she is deeply uncomfortable with praise. not because she doesn’t want it — but because she doesn’t trust it. praise feels temporary. expectation feels permanent.
— she’s hyper-aware of how she’s perceived in the kingsguard. not insecure — but calculating. she knows she has less room for error than anyone else, and she acts accordingly.
— if someone insults her, she doesn’t react. if someone insults her house… that’s different. that’s the one place where emotion cracks through — sharp, immediate, controlled but felt.
— she has scars she refuses to treat properly at first. almost like she believes she should carry them. like healing too quickly would be… undeserved.
— she sleeps lightly. always. the kind of sleep where the smallest sound pulls her awake, hand already halfway to a weapon before her mind catches up.
— she does not think of what she feels for saerys as love. she refuses that word entirely. in her mind, it’s duty misaligned. something that needs to be corrected.
— but she notices everything about him anyway. the way he moves when he thinks no one is watching. the shifts in his tone. the silences. she catalogues it all without meaning to.
— and the worst part?
she is beginning to understand him.
which is far more dangerous than not understanding him at all.
#NOBLE // the seven beckon LORD DAEVAN BARATHEON toward them; vainglory, the gilded storm of HOUSE BARATHEON. the 4th born child feels their soul flay open just as judgement is shackling to a venom-laced pride, gripping it tightly as mercy fights with a hunger to be undeniable. traits guidance sees in the dreams of a rebellion with an accompaniment from strength and courage as they offer a longsword kissed by thunder. all while innocence encapsulates memories of them — a blade kept not for glory, but for necessity — lightning unraveling the heavens in jagged veins of gold, illuminating the black sea below for only a heartbeat before swallowing it whole again; silk cloaks torn loose by stormwind, snapping violently against stone battlements as if trying to take flight; the distant roar of waves breaking endlessly against storm’s end, relentless, unyielding, eternal; rings glinting faintly in candlelight as long fingers drum in quiet impatience against carved armrests — so they are remembered when the unknown flickers into view, dragging them towards their end, to be rendered insignificant, to bow where he believes he should stand, to become nothing more than a forgotten echo beneath another’s name.
# 𝗯𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇
official name: daevan baratheon. nicknames: dae. noble title: heir of storm’s end. age: twenty-six. birthplace: storm’s end, the stormlands. home: storm’s end. nationality: westerosi. gender: cis man. pronouns: he / him. orientation: tba.
monikers: the gilded stag, storm’s wrath, the black thunder. languages: the common tongue (fluent). accent: stormlander — smooth, controlled, but edged with something sharp beneath.
# 𝗽𝗵𝘆𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇
faceclaim: cha eun-woo. hair: dark, soft, deceptively neat — often undone by wind and weather. eyes: deep brown, warm at first glance — cold upon closer look. height: 6’1”. build: lean, defined — strength held in restraint rather than bulk. scent: storm air, wet stone, iron beneath rain. dominant hand: right. allergies: none. scars: few — one faint along his side, another near his knuckles, often hidden. distinguishing features: striking beauty that disarms before it unsettles; a gaze that lingers too long, too knowingly. clothing style: refined stormland nobility — dark fabrics, gold accents, structured silhouettes; elegance used as armor, not decoration.
# 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒
label: the storm that waits. mbti: entj. enneagram: 8w7 — the challenger. element: storm / fire. star sign: virgo. temperament: choleric. character inspirations: daemon targaryen, cersei lannister, young robert baratheon (distorted). deadly sin: wrath. heavenly virtue: none he claims. godly parent: zeus. positive: decisive, commanding, perceptive, fiercely driven, unshakably confident. negative: cruel, arrogant, temperamental, manipulative, deeply egocentric, dismissive of those he deems beneath him.
# 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌
hobbies: sparring, hunting, provoking, testing limits — both his and others’, riding through storms, observing weakness in court. religion: the faith of the seven (nominal, indifferent). alliance: house baratheon, the stormlands. personal goals: to dominate, to solidify his legacy as something feared and undeniable, to never be overshadowed or forgotten. would they choose family or power?: power — and call it necessity.
𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 . . .
i.
storms do not ask to be born. they arrive — violent, inevitable. storm’s end did not quiet itself for him. the sea still crashed against its walls, the wind still howled through its towers, and somewhere within it all, a child drew his first breath not as a promise — but as a challenge. daevan baratheon did not cry for long.
whatever softness infancy might have offered was short-lived, swallowed by a house that did not nurture gentleness. he was not the first son carved from storm and expectation, but he would not be another forgotten echo of it either. his name was not whispered. it was spoken with certainty — as though it already belonged to something that would not be ignored. and from the beginning, there was something… wrong in the way he looked at the world. not with wonder. but with judgment.
ii.
daevan baratheon. the heir. the storm made flesh. the boy who did not bend. children learn kindness before cruelty, they say — but daevan learned hierarchy. instinctive, immediate. the understanding that some stood above, and most beneath. he did not seek approval. he expected it.
storm’s end raised him in iron and expectation, in the unspoken demand that he be strong, louder, greater — but daevan did not roar like the others. he did not need to. where his kin burned hot and reckless, he simmered. quieter. sharper. controlled in a way that made his anger far more dangerous. he learned early the weight of silence.
how to look at someone long enough for discomfort to settle beneath their skin. how to speak just enough to wound, never enough to reveal. his words were not loud — they were precise. cutting in ways that lingered. he did not fight for attention. it came to him regardless. beauty helped. he knew that.
used it. weaponized it. because while others relied on brute force, daevan understood something far more valuable: perception is power. and he would never be seen as anything less than untouchable.
iii.
daevan baratheon, the storm that does not pass. ambition was not a hunger for him. it was certainty. he did not dream of greatness — he assumed it. not loudly, not foolishly, but with the quiet arrogance of someone who has never truly been denied. the world, in his mind, was not something to conquer.
it was something that would, eventually, arrange itself around him. those he deemed worthy were few. those he did not were… nothing.
he did not hide his disdain. there was no need. it lived in the curve of his mouth, in the way his gaze lingered just a second too long before dismissing. in the subtle cruelty of a comment delivered too smoothly to be called anger, too sharp to be ignored.
he did not explode. he eroded. slowly. deliberately. until there was nothing left worth acknowledging. and yet — for all his control, for all his precision — there was still a storm within him. restless. violent. waiting. because control is not the absence of chaos. it is the decision to hold it back.
iv.
in a realm where power shifts like tides and crowns sit heavy upon unsteady heads, daevan baratheon does not wait to be moved by it.
he watches. calculates. chooses. the stormlands remain as they have always been — unyielding, loud, bound to a legacy of strength that few dare challenge. but daevan is not interested in legacy alone.
he is interested in dominion.
not the kind won in a single battle, shouted across bloodied fields — but the kind that settles quietly, inevitably. the kind that does not need to prove itself because it is already understood.
he does not trust easily. does not care to. alliances are tools. loyalty is conditional. respect is earned — and even then, never fully given. there is something dangerous in him. not just in what he does. but in what he believes himself capable of doing.
and if the world expects thunder from a baratheon — noise, fury, spectacle — it will be disappointed. because daevan is not the storm that announces itself. he is the one that builds slowly on the horizon, darkening the sky, until it is far too late to run.
#NOBLE // the seven beckon LADY AERA STARK toward them; a hush-made daughter, a winter-wrought enigma of HOUSE SYARK. the 4th born child feels their soul flay open just as judgement is shackling to a distant solitude nature, gripping it tightly as mercy fights with soft-hearted restraint. traits guidance sees in the dreams of a rebellion with an accompaniment from strength and courage as they offer a slender northern blade, silvered and unforgiving. all while innocence encapsulates memories of them — a blade kept not for glory, but for necessity — its edge clean, its metal cold, never warmed by careless hands, held with the quiet certainty of someone who understands that survival does not ask for permission, silence that is not empty, but full — thick, waiting, pressing in around her as though the forest itself is listening for something she has yet to say, a direwolf that does not follow, but walks beside — step for step, breath for breath, as though the space between them does not exist, warmth that feels wrong against her skin, heavy and suffocating, the air thick with perfume and politics instead of frost and silence — so they are remembered when the unknown flickers into view, dragging them towards their end, never finding where she was meant to stand.
# 𝗯𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇
official name: aera stark. nicknames: none. noble title: lady of winterfell. date of birth: 01/21. age: twenty-three. birthplace: unknown. home: winterfell. nationality: westerosi. gender: cis woman. pronouns: she / her. orientation: tba. monikers: the quiet wolf, the godswood’s daughter, she-who-watches. languages: the common tongue, the old tongue (basic). accent: northern, quiet and low-spoken. accent: northern — low, quiet, steady; words spoken sparingly, as if each one must earn its place.
# 𝗽𝗵𝘆𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇
faceclaim: ruby cruz. hair: dark brown, soft and wind-touched, often worn loose or in simple braids. eyes: deep brown, near-black in dim light. height: 5’6”. build: lean, sinewy, built for silence and endurance rather than strength. scent: pine, cold air, and damp earth beneath snow. dominant hand: right. allergies: none. scars: faint, scattered along her hands and arms — thin lines, some clawed, some bitten. distinguishing features: an unsettling stillness, a gaze that lingers too long, rarely seen without her direwolf. clothing style: dark, muted northern layers — wool, leather, and heavy furs; practical, shadowed, blending into forest and frost.
# 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒
label: the shadowed heir. mbti: istp. enneagram: 5w4 — the observer. element: ice / earth. star sign: capricorn. temperament: melancholic. character inspirations: arya stark, bran stark, ghost (direwolf), feral northern folklore. deadly sin: envy. heavenly virtue: patience. godly parent: the old gods of the forest. positive: observant, steadfast, resilient, instinctive, quietly protective. negative: withdrawn, emotionally detached, unsettling, guarded, slow to trust.
# 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌
hobbies: wandering the godswood, hunting, tracking, sharpening blades, silent observation, running with her direwolf. religion: the old gods. alliance: house stark, the north. personal goals: to understand the bond within her, to master the line between self and beast, to protect her family — even from what they do not see coming. would they choose family or power?: family.
# 𝗳𝗮𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗶𝗮𝗹𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗌
father: ruling lord rstark. relationship: positive. mother: ruling lady stark. relationship: positive.
𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 . . .
i.
the north does not scream when it births its children. it endures.
winterfell stood quiet beneath a sky heavy with snow, its ancient stones unmoved by the arrival of yet another child not born of its blood. there were no cries that split the halls, no gods invoked in desperation — only the hushed murmur of servants, the careful, measured footsteps of those who knew better than to disturb the stillness that cloaked the castle like frost.
she did not arrive kicking, nor wailing.
a girl placed into arms that were not meant for her, wrapped not in lineage, but in decision. no mother’s blood marked her as theirs, no name tied her to the long line of kings who once ruled the north. she was given one instead — aera. a name spoken softly, as though it might not settle if said too loudly.
the old gods bore witness in silence.
and though no ritual marked the moment, something unseen shifted — deep within the roots of the weirwood, where red leaves never fell and eyes carved into pale bark watched without blinking. something ancient took note of the girl who did not belong, and yet… remained.
she did not cry.
she only watched.
ii.
aera stark. the fourth. the taken daughter. the quiet one.
children are not meant to notice the spaces they do not fill, yet she did. early, instinctive — the way a body learns cold before it understands warmth. she grew not into her place, but around it, careful not to press too hard against something that might reject her entirely.
winterfell raised her as it did all its children — with duty stitched into bone, with honor pressed into the shape of the spine — but where others wore it like armor, she carried it like something borrowed. something that did not quite fit.
she learned silence before speech.
stillness before comfort.
and then — him.
not given. not assigned. not chosen by any hand but his own.
shadow came from the treeline like something pulled from dusk itself, too large, too watchful, too knowing to be dismissed as mere beast. there had been no fear. none. only recognition — sharp and immediate, as though something within her had reached outward and been answered in kind.
they did not bond.
they aligned.
where she stepped, he followed.
where he stilled, she listened.
and when the first time came — when her body remained in the godswood but her mind did not — it was not terror that found her.
it was clarity.
the forest through different eyes.
the world reduced to scent, to movement, to the pulse of life beneath snow.
teeth where there should be words.
hunger where there should be thought.
a rabbit, quick and desperate —
a snap, clean and final —
warmth flooding her mouth that was not her own.
when she returned to herself, there was blood beneath her nails.
no one spoke of it.
but something had already begun.
iii.
aera stark, the girl who walks with a shadow.
the north remembers, they say — but it does not always speak.
she moved through winterfell like something half-seen, half-felt. never loud enough to demand attention, never soft enough to be dismissed entirely. there were whispers, of course — there are always whispers — of the way the direwolf never strayed far, of how her gaze lingered too long, too deeply, as though looking through rather than at.
they called it strangeness.
they called it northern blood.
they called it nothing at all.
but the old gods do not grant without taking.
the line between girl and beast thinned with time — not broken, never fully, but worn. softened at the edges. there were moments where instinct bled too far, where silence stretched too long, where the world felt… distant, as though she stood just slightly outside of it.
she did not rage.
she did not rebel.
she endured.
like stone.
like snow.
like something that knows it will outlast what tries to change it.
and then came the blade.
no ceremony. no witness bold enough to claim it.
only the quiet understanding that passed through winterfell like a breath no one admitted to taking —
ice rested in her hands.
heavy. ancient. certain.
she did not question it.
and no one dared to take it from her.
iv.
in a realm stirring with unrest, where whispers of rebellion curl through halls and kingdoms alike, aera stark remains what she has always been — not untouched, but unmoved.
they speak louder now, beyond the north. of dragons and crowns, of power shifting like tides too great to hold. the south burns with ambition, with greed dressed in silk and gold — a world so distant from frost and root that it may as well be another realm entirely.
yet even the cold is not untouched.
something coils beneath the surface of winterfell — not treachery, not yet, but tension. the fragile nature of a house built not by blood, but by choice. cracks too fine to see, but deep enough to matter.
aera does not speak of it.
she watches.
always watching.
the godswood breathes around her, ancient and patient. shadow lingers at her side, golden gaze fixed on things unseen, ears twitching at sounds no one else hears.
she does not pray.
she does not need to.
because whatever the old gods demand of her, whatever they have shaped her into without asking — she will meet it the only way she knows how:
without hesitation.
without fear.
and if the end comes, as all things do —
it will not find her running.
only standing still,
unflinching,
as something ancient looks back through her eyes.
