the urge arrives suddenly and viciously. not for the girl herself, not truly. priscella waters is all doe-eyes and charm; her small, trembling fingers pretending not to shake. but her cunt of a father is only a few tables away now, greeting the others, red-cheeked and wine-drunk, laughing loudly. the sound grates against your skull. you imagine it suddenly with startling clarity: darksister splitting the man from shoulder to sternum. the spray of blood across silver cluttery. the music stopping. the shock spreading. you wonder whether he'd still wear that foolish smile with his guts spilling into his lap. it was bad enough to whistand the feast sitting beside her, then she dared speak. your gaze slides toward priscella slowly, lilac eye bright as dragonflame, the black one colder still. pretty little thing. soft-looking. meek. and yet, and still, she dares. you think of how fast you could strangle her with one hand if you pleased. wonders briefly whether she'd cry prettily, too. should you count to five now? you are already angry that you must count at all--
one. 'it is all quite a sight, my liege, is it not?' two. 'even in death, nestled in the mother's embrace, i'm sure, our late king still manages to bring the realm together.' three. a scoff leaves maekara before she can stop it, sharp and humorless. she sets her goblet down with a muted clink. four-- "his grace, my uncle, could not even bring his own family together," you say flatly. "spare me the false sentiment, girl." five. but the fire does not cool. "it is not grief which gathers the realm. it is greed. your father's have fattened him, by the looks of it." your gaze flickers toward the dining hall again. lords and ladies alike circling one another like hounds, readying to sink their teeth into your mother's birthright. the iron throne? a gaping whore anyone and everyone must have a turn with. the small circle, its shameless pimp. though those who sup with swine ought not complain of the mud; and king aegor had made his choice for company long ago, albeit poorly. for all their grievances, your mothers would have granted him dignity in death. this? this spectacle? this drunken scavenging dressed up as mourning? it reeks.
a world which would declare a baseborn mutt superior to a girl of noble blood is not one that priscella understands. nonetheless, it is the world she so happens to live in, and because she quite likes her life, no matter how small it may be, she decides to stay her tongue and not tell her embittered guest that there might be a reason they were not invited to the heart of the realm until now. instead, she takes the princess's lashings just as she takes everything else: placidly and easily, resolve unwavering. she meets her multi - color gaze head - on and watches her carefully, trying with all her might to keep her expression steady, revealing nothing of what simmers underneath.
let the pretender rage, she thinks. it's all she has left.
"mmh," she hums at last, allowing maekara's words to settle between them. not for the first time, priscella finds herself wishing her father was a greater man; that he cared, even a little bit, about how his actions affected him and his kin. she cants her cup from side to side then, letting the wine swirl, and curses herself for following his lead and imbibing. she can feel as her flush deepens.
"as the hand, much has been given to him. it would be a slight, and a mark of most ungratefulness, to refuse the realm's bounties, especially when so many go without. perhaps that is cause for the... fullness we see."
her heart beats in her chest wildly, hammering away at the confines of its cage. she will feign ignorance and attribute her supposed misunderstanding of maekara's insult to her poor breeding if caught. it is what little she has available to her in such precarious scenarios, the only tool she can wield. she tucks her chin obediently then and cants her head to the side, looking not unlike a dog. obedient and good, perhaps even pitiful — that is what she aims for.
"nevertheless, we can speak of something else or not at all, if that would please you, princess. i did not mean to offend and i do apologize if i have done so."
cedric makes his way about the room, his presence commanding as ever. he's the kind of lord that people feel almost forced to look at, and why shouldn't they? he's a lion of the rock, after all. fiercest of them all. blue - green eyes scan the room before him, scouting out the various lieges that scatter about. despite the melancholic mood, everyone seems to be in rather high spirits. after all, the funeral has passed.
he notices one lady on the outskirts of the dancing, and as he grows closer, it dawns on him who she is. daughter of the hand – a bastard, but a daughter nonetheless. it might be fun to bother her, he thinks to himself.
“indeed,” he agrees, snatching a goblet from a nearby tray being paraded around by a serving girl. “that he does,” he nods, raising his goblet for a moment, “to the king!” his words remain hollow, though. because despite what she says, aren't they all just vultures, all vying for his throne now?
"to the king," priscella agrees, lifting her goblet. "and to you as well, my lord." he towers over her, he always has, but she does not lift her chin any higher than dignity and decorum demand when she looks at him. instead, she peers up at him through her lashes, her gaze coy, cautious, and heady as it washes over him and flits between him and his goblet. "you're hard to miss, walking these halls as though they belong to you already." in some ways, in the only ways that matter really, she knows that they do — that they belong to his entire pride. still, she will not kowtow to cedric. his sisters, yes, unashamedly even, but not him. the lion, the peacock, the dreadfully handsome inebriate who makes her stomach flip. she hopes he drowns in his cups tonight. elsewhere, her lips curl into a smirk at the thought of it. "i take it you are faring well tonight?"
king's landing is interminably grotesque, roslyn has since concluded, her days in the realm's capital thus far few but eventful. its stench rivals even the dungeons of the dreadfort, all nightsoil and smoke and sweat, its slums rotten and congested. there is nothing like the disappointment of travelling weeks on end in anticipation of a grand harvest feast, her first time any further south than moat cailin, surrounded by nobility from all the different kingdoms, only to be met with—well, this. drunken lords and presumptuous heirs all looking down their noses at her in one sickening way or another, sweet wines dulling and loosening tongues and perfumed air mingling with what lingers out below.
"most of the realm, i suppose." so she is willing to acquiesce as much, figuring it would not do to strike up a doctrinal argument on the very first night (the night is still young, by any means). her own goblet remains untouched, still as full as it was when first pressed into her hand by some attendant and wielded more like a prop than a source of imbibement, distrustful of the arbor golds and the dornish reds alike. "why, to take a look around, one would almost swear his grace is still sitting the throne." indeed, she has looked upon the billowing silk dragons with almost as much disgust as she has looked upon the grey direwolf, each one needling away at something deep within her.
it's her way of speaking that makes priscella turn and look — how out of place it is in such a room. "yes," she muses, almond eyes roaming across the length of her, taking her in from head to toe. not to size her up, but... merely to observe her. she does not bark, this one. not like her brother, she thinks. "a most troubling thought, that. one cannot look forward and back at once. the time has come for new beginnings; perhaps new furnishings, too." the arbor gold has blunted her senses some, but not enough to subdue that incessant inclination to fawn and make merry. she offers her a smile: small and practiced. "are you a betting woman, by any chance?"
located in just within the red keep's walls, as the last of the wheelhouses are making their way through the gates & fated for any who wish to respond.
the muscles of his back are tensed against the warm southern breeze. it pulls at the pink fabric of his doublet like caressing fingers, and it brings with it the stench of rot — of unwashed bodies, of blood. king's landing was a cess pit, and jacks bristles once more at the notion that jorah had ordered him here. his stomach is knotted not unlike the handiwork of a hangman, his jaw clenched as if it were forged together by a blacksmith. inside its cage, his tongue pokes at the metallic surface of his left inciser. it tastes familiar, like something he'd eaten in a dream. a flash of movement to his right brings him out of his miserable reverie, sets him on high alert. men do not bare their teeth in greeting. " you walk with the misplaced confidence of a southerner, " he accuses, back pressed tightly to the side of the bolton wheelhouse. he flashes a grin that is more animalistic than it is a display of mirth. jacks considers it a healthy compromise. " and too close to what is not yours. "
priscella knows when she's being sent away, is the thing. still, it does not stop her from fulfilling whatever trivial, far away task has been asked of her once her commentary begins to grate on her lord father's ears. she's been tasked with getting a lay of the land, seeing who has arrived and with what — who with which to curry favor and who to look out for. this northern brute, presumptuous and out of place, is clearly one of the latter. noting the accent and the colors of his garb, she need not ask to know precisely who he is. to their credit, the boltons are singular in their peculiarity; memorable, if nothing else.
her eyes, warm and wide, roam over him then and catch on his mouth. was that meant to be... a smile? alas, priscella does not falter. instead, she clasps her dainty hands at her middle and plants her feet like a tree. he caught her off - guard once. she will not give him the satisfaction of doing it twice. "this is my home, my lord." her voice is light, pleasant still, and bordering on amused. it is a challenge, veiled and presented in the only way available to her, rabbit heart thumping away in her chest and all. "i shall walk where i please."
🐚 — during the feast, priscella stands at the edge of all the dancing; watching, waiting, wanting. feel free to assume whatever you'd like. ♡
flush - faced, gem - crested goblet in hand, and eyes having taken on a glassy look, priscella has never once looked more like her lord father than she does now. he's pleased as punch, fool that he is, downing more of the arbor's finest than is befitting someone of his station, and she... her throat tightens, jaw clenching from the force of trying to hold back her grief. wishing to drown it once and for all, she takes a hearty sip of her drink and swipes her tongue across the plump of her bottom lip before steeling her face into something lighter and more like herself. in a room full of vultures, she simply cannot afford to look weak — not here, not now.
elsewhere, her fingers tap along to the beat against her goblet and still only when she senses another nearby. "it is all quite a sight, my liege, is it not?" just beyond them are a number of lieges each dressed to the nines, twirling about in a sea of multi - color and endless delight. it would be nice to dance, she thinks then, gaze catching on one such lady in particular. her fingers twitch, chest burning at the sight of them all. "even in death, nestled in the mother's embrace, i'm sure, our late king still manages to bring the realm together." for now, at least.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ( waters c , racheI zegIer , twenty - five , cis woman , she/her ) the hand of the late king welcomes priscella waters of the crag, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be curious and charming, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their opportunistic and duplicitous tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of journal pages fed to the flames, your innermost thoughts and desires known to none other; the warmth of the sun on your skin and the hum of the earth beneath your feet to prove that you are here in your body and the world; and leaving no trace of your haunting but the flickering of your shadow beneath the door. they themselves dream of house westerling on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
name: priscella waters. alternatively: the runt of the red keep. nickname(s): a few, none of which she's too fond of. title: none ...yet. age: 25. place of birth: king's landing, the crownlands. gender & pronouns: cis woman, she / her. sexual orientation: bisexual. marital status: unwed. not betrothed, but she is looking. religion: faith of the seven; fear is what fuels her belief. languages: common tongue, some high valyrian. affiliation: house westerling & whoever might allow her to rise above her station.
hair: shiny dark brown waves that reach just above her midback. most often worn down or in a half - updo with curtain bangs. eyes: dark brown. build: 5'2 or 157cm, petite. fashion: wears dresses with more revealing cuts suited to the climate of king's landing and especially loves big sleeves and swishy skirts. she often wears colors like ivory, sand, and yellow, but she adores donning colorful garb in general when she can. partial to hair accessories like barrettes and ribbons, as well as daintier jewelry. swipes a subtle pearlescent powder across her lids. distinguishing characteristics: beauty marks on her jaw & the corner of her mouth. dimples that accompany every smile, both real and not. bright eyes that reveal very little about what all lies beyond them — she has the kind of gaze you can feel; the kind where you can see her thinking, but you don't know what. light, silent footsteps that you rarely hear coming. an endearing and undeniable sweetness to her countenance. fidgety hands that reveal what her eyes won't. signature scent: jasmine and old books.
character alignment: neutral good. traits: curious, opportunistic, charming, duplicitous, unshrinking, irreverent, intelligent, ambitious, ruthless. threat level: low. priscella is more brains than brawn and it shows, and most of her martial knowledge is purely theoretical. bastard that she is, of a man like lord alester at that, she has very little, if any, power to wield at the moment. if she did, though? i reckon she'd have the potential to be a not insignificant piece on the board. she's just looking for a way to break in, a crack for her to squeeze through, and shan't rest until she finds it.
like so many others, you are yet another bastard born in king's landing — the product of hunger and want run rampant. the only difference between you and the sorry smallfolk surrounding you is that you do not go home to some dilapidated little shack, but to the grand halls of the red keep situated high above the rest. of course, natural born daughter that you are, you are to keep out of the way and not attract attention to yourself ( impossible for the seed of lord hand alester, really ), but that does not detract from the fact that you are to walk the halls of the most important place in all of westeros and grow alongside some of its most notable persons, too. it is a gift granted to you by the gods, one of the only ones they will ever spare you, and you do not take it for granted.
unlike your lord father, you are no fool and certainly no charlatan. you are an exceedingly precocious child who actively seeks out knowledge and wishes to be of use. you grow restless in your lessons and mouthy when not fed intellectually — bored, understimulated, and aching to be where the others are. you are but a girl when your father brings you into service as one of his not - quite pages, and it is then that your true education begins. you tend to him, wait on him, run his errands, and carry messages to and fro. you study the court and how to move within it, how to endear yourself to those above you and how to be whatever they want you to be — how to lose yourself in that role without losing yourself entirely. you are granted greater tutors for your efforts, but it is in your father's shadow that you truly shine.
you listen and learn and slowly but surely the myth you'd made of your father begins to crumble. the older you both get, the more you butt heads. you give it to him straight, always, and offer guidance that he did not ask for — guidance that only a fly on the wall could provide. still, even after threatening to strip you of your duties ( again ), it is always you who must clean him up, lend an ear, and try to find a shred of sense in his preposterous ideas. he has given you life, and exposed you to a world most could only dream of, but you know that your future is most surely doomed if he is to be at the helm of it. you love your father, even with all his many faults, but you must be better — and you will be.
you do not have your father's name, but you do have his blood. you know that the westerlings are an ancient, proud, and honorable house who have been known to wed and serve kings of both old and new. you, a careless man's careful daughter, vow to be just like his predecessors. you will be capable where he is not, you will bring honor to wash away his shame, and you will work for everything he earned by luck — and most importantly, you will do all of this within the sight of this court of lieges and make certain that they know that your father's indiscretions end with him. in time, you become known for your magnetism, your intelligence, and your sweetness. the delight to your father's dolt, they say, even with your most unfortunate breeding. you may not be a lady, not in the only way that matters, but that will not stop you from acting like one.
try as you might, however, you will never escape your blood. you play the part of a sprightly little saint, and you are in part, but your father's charms have not abandoned you. you're just more discreet with your indiscretions, careful who it is you indulge in them with and which face you show to whom. mostly, you turn a blind eye to a great many things, allowing just about anything from anyone who might one day serve you. you've seen too much to recoil and taking a principled stance is a privilege you do not have. you will do anything to not just curry favor, but keep it, too.
now, with a fallen king and an aging father who will soon be stripped of his loftiest title, you can't help but feel as though you are running out of time. when you go back to the crag, you will be nothing more than a dunce's disgrace. you know that the time to leap from the nest and act is now, and so you set your sights high and wait for an opportunity to present itself. you are a learned young woman who has learned from the mistakes of lesser men believed to be better. it's an ambitious goal, you know, but you seek to leverage what connections you've made throughout the years into a match — one which will finally give you a name and a worthy title.
you refuse to fade into dishonor or irrelevance like your parents. bastard or no, you want honor and honors — and you'll get it somehow, someday. after all, if your father taught you anything, it's that there is a certain thrill and beauty to be found in chaos for those with eyes to see.
whenever priscella would ask about her mother, her lord father would spin a new tale each time. once she caught on to his antics and realized she would never really know, she quit asking. as such, she's decided her mother is everyone and anyone — a woman larger than any story anyone could ever hope to tell. depending on what she needs at the moment, the woman might be a lady of the night, a warrior, a scholar, a most charismatic member of the court, etc. it makes her think that she, too, can be anything and everything.
not remotely squeamish. has traveled quite a bit as part of her father's party. hoards souvenirs, tokens, and keepsakes. prefers to target stragglers and those at the perimeter of social functions instead of being at the center of it all. has rather deep trust issues & assumes that she is only as worthy as she is useful. does plenty of things for the plot. used to be the kid that adults turned to to get the truth of the matter when they got in trouble, which of course just made her a better liar. is very much the little birdie from "a little birdie told me," aka la chismosa suprema. will ask you to teach her whatever it is you're good at. she's only kidding, unless you're serious, in which case jk she was also being serious ( is she, though? ). good luck trying to break through to her, she is nawwwt showing you her stomach #sorry #staysafetho — has a way about her that makes you feel closer than you really are.
wanted connection ideas ( not limited to these! ) —
her family! her siblings & pibling, please please pleaseee 🥺🤲
friends of all sorts from all over, both good & bad and present & past. individual dynamics to be plotted! + bonus points for a homoerotic codependent friendship that they only just barely survived because it's a canon event. :3
thee best friend of all time, likely one of the very few she's real with. <3
people who do nawwwt like her :p
the star crossed lover / mistake. could be a few things: she's a bastard, they're a noble; her father is the hand, they hate the crown; they come from a lofty house, she's the daughter of a disgrace; etc etc. point is, it was never going to work. maybe they tried to defy fate anyway in their youth and suffered the consequence for it. maybe they're on better terms, worse terms, ghosts to each other, idk! can be a thing of the past or a wound that still bleeds. open to anyone!
go - to for a good time! these two always have fun together when they're around, whatever that specifically means being muse dependent.
i want you 😛 ( threat ) <- priscella probably. she's looking for a spouse so that she can rise above her station and she thinks your muse could give her that. this doesn't have to actually lead to anything or even be romantic.
pen pals <3 they hit it off and kept in touch after, or your character is an expert in something and priscella had many a question.
i was meant for you, perhaps as a punishment? or however that text post goes. do i mean twin flames who are like fire meets gasoline? do i mean that there is a potential betrothal in the works as a punishment for your muse or their parents? do i mean that these two somehow always run into each other at social functions despite disliking each other? or perhaps some secret fourth option? who knows!
exes / ex situationships / ex lovers + friends with benefits / hook ups because she has #needs.
if nothing else, they could know each other briefly or in passing from a former event!
literally anything and everything that you think priscella could be a good fit for. i want it all! 🫶
turnnoffyourmind
andulkaphoto
yousharknotpass
ellievsbear
izzy806
