does it howl inside ?

you may be forgiven for thinking that love is a butcher's ritual; your body starved and trembling, meat and bone, both temple and sacrifice. the agonist by shastra deo.

[rihtuals]

#ʳⁱʰᵗᵘᵃˡˢ ______ lady catelyn mallister and queen coryanne martell as written for @cognatihq. dni if not affiliated with the group.

[littlegirlinvisible]

George Russell & Bertha Russell The Gilded Age (2022—)

[rihtuals]

@zaldrzes

[grantaere]

ELEANOR TOMLINSON as Lady Isabel Neville

THE WHITE QUEEN — 1.06

[oflcgends]

the  princess  is  seemingly  transfixed  by  the  statue,  wondering  what  kind  of  man  he  truly  was.  he  had  done  much  and  more  to  aid  the  realm  in  its  time  of  need,  specifically  aiding  her  own  father  when  he  was  young  and  in  the  throes  of  grief.  and  yet,  despite  all  he  had  done,  the  crown  had  seemingly  abandoned  him  and  his  people  in  the  wake  of  an  illness  that  struck  hard  here.  daenys  knows  it  was  wrong,  but  she  stands  by  her  brother  and  his  choices  regardless.

besides,  what  could  they  really  have  done?  would  the  crown's  interference  truly  have  made  a  difference?  she  is  not  so  sure.

daenys  is  pulled  from  her  thoughts  by  a  familiar  voice  at  her  side  and  turns  her  head  to  face  her.  coryanne.  her  goodsister,  the  mother  of  her  nephews.  “i  know…”  she  sighs.  can  anyone  really  blame  them?

“it  will  stay  between  us  then.”  she  smiles  gently  and  nods  her  head.  “i  suppose  they  hoped  for  some  kind  of  miracle,  one  not  even  we  could  not  provide.”

daenys  moves  closer  to  her,  offering  out  her  arm  for  the  two  to  link  them  together.  as  they  make  their  way  inside,  she  smiles  at  the  thought  of  her  children.  “yes,  well,  little  nymor  had  been  counting  down  the  days  until  he  could  see  his  cousins  again.  he  loves  them  dearly,  you  know.  and  rhaena..  she's  still  coming  into  her  own,  but  i  know  she  will  be  happy  to  see  them  as  well.  and  you,  how  do  you  fare,  my  dear?”

[rihtuals]

the targaryen princess ( for that was what daenys would always be to her, no matter how many dornish babes she bore for akshay, just as coryanne would always be the martell princess ) was something of a mystery to her ─ in many ways, they mirrored each other in that they had been forced to serve as pawns to ensure the peace between their people. love had blossomed, slowly but surely, between coryanne and gaemon, but she had never been comfortable enough to prod her siblings about their own love lives, and the idea of akshay, softening for his targaryen bride, sat uneasily in the gut. was this how the rest of westeros saw her ? an outsider, one that would sway their king into making wrong decisions ? it made her sympathetic to daenys for a brief moment, enough that she accepts the arm that is offered, leaning into her goodsister for warmth. coryanne hated that they had been forced so far north for a dead man she cared naught for, but perhaps something good might come from this. ❝ it is times like these when i do not envy your brother for the burden he carries ... king, conciliator and miracle worker. ❞ coryanne rolled her eyes, allowing the conversation to flow towards more pleasant topics. she groaned as she thought of her pregnancy, the weight of the babe heavy on her back. ❝ well enough, all things considered. i am trying to make my peace with the fact that i will likely have this baby in the north or gods forbid, the riverlands. ❞ she grimaced. ❝ we've brought all three of the boys ... it will be good for baelon to see his future kingdom and well ... if baelon goes, then aeryn must go. ❞ and she would not be parted from rhaegar, though that needn't mention. ❝ if you need some time to yourself, please feel free to drop nymor and rhaena off with me ... i intend to stay inside whenever possible, and rhaegar could use the company. his brothers are ... less patient with him. ❞

[slaining]

it  seems  a  mockery,  to  stand  there  amidst  southerners  who  did  not  know  what  the  wolf  of  the  north  truly  did  for  everyone.  that  he  had  fought  and  died  for  a  realm  — a  crown  —  that  could  not  do  the  same  for  him  and  the  people  that  lived  under  him.  it  made  beron  sick  to  watch  the  king  stand  forth  with  the  new  ruling  lord,  talks  of  peace  and  sorrow  as  if  they  had  not  caused  the  destruction  of  the  first  and  the  emotion  of  the  last.  coldness  simmers  beneath  his  bones,  something  that  does  not  feel  right  nor  does  it  belong  in  his  body,  but  over  the  years  as  the  northern  wind  in  the  last  hearth  got  worse,  the  ice  within  him  solidified.  it  would  melt  for  nothing  as  eyes  reminiscent  of  the  brutal  chill  of  the  north  stayed  rooted  upon  the  statue. at  least,  that  is  what  he  believed  to  be  true.  except,  it  had  once... melted.  for  a  woman  who  had  stayed  within  his  heart  for  the  many  moons  after  he  had  left  her.  through  the  letters  he  sent  —  even  as  she  had  gotten  married,  even  as  she  had  a  child.  it  is  a  wonder  if  he  will  see  her  now,  if  she  will  be  amongst  the  people  of  wintertown.  he  could  hope,  but  not  let  it  show.  if  he  let  it  show  then  it  would  invite  something  in  that  he  was  not  sure  he  wanted.  (a  reminder  of  a  love  that  he  would  most  likely  never  have  again.)  it  is  with  that,  he  does  not  look  around  himself.  beron  keeps  his  eyes  forward,  too  afraid  to  face  something  like  he  usually  was. yet,  when  her  voice  is  heard  through  the  howling  wind  and  small  chatters  of  people  milling  about,  the  hope  blooms.  catelyn  is  just  as  breathtaking  as  beron  had  remembered,  if  not  more  so.  she  is  dressed  in  the  furs  of  his  home,  but  the  purples  of  her  own  and  he  can  picture  her  in  all  of  her  glory  even  from  years  ago.  except,  now  he  sees  her  in  his  home,  one  he  had  hoped  to  take  her  with  him  to  someday,  and  it  makes  his  heart  ache  in  the  worst  way.  "catelyn."  her  voice  leaves  beron  in  a  breathless  tone:  husky  from  the  cold,  but  so  tender  from  what  he  still  feels  towards  her.  his  arms  wrap  around  her  despite  his  mind  telling  him  not  to,  that  she  had  a  husband  she  was  likely  still  grieving.  had  he  not  been  her's  at  one  point  too?  perhaps  not  on  paper  and  in  the  eyes  of  the  old  gods,  but  in  the  spirit  of  their  time  together. "it  is—"  was  he  supposed  to  say  okay?  when  it  wasn't?  that  his  sister  was  gone  and  he  had  grieved  her  like  his  world  was  falling  out  underneath  him.  that  he  wished  for  one  thing  and  that  was  the  steadiness  of  arms  wrapped  around  him  in  support,  of  catelyn's  doing  so.  yet,  he  cannot  say  it,  not  when  he  had  not  been  able  to  do  the  same  for  her.  "she  will  be  missed,  but  her  spirit  will  live  within  the  hearth  as  it  was  meant  to."  one  of  his  hands  itches  to  reach  to  her  face,  cup  her  cheeks  in  his  palm  as  he  would  have  done  so  long  ago,  "and  your  —  your  husband,"  beron  chokes  out,  "your  child."  that  one  stings  even  more.  "i  offer  my  apologies,  m'lady.  it  must  have  been  difficult  for  you...  do  you  fare  better  at  least?"

[rihtuals]

the world around them seemed to settle like snow on the ground ─ dulled into a silence as she remained hidden against the furs that covered them both, held within his warm embrace. catelyn came to a dangerous realization that no matter the years that had passed, peace and purpose could still be found by his side and now, with her duty to her family fulfilled and her worth in the eyes of westeros dismissed, she was loathe to be parted from him. from a distance, she had assumed very little had changed with him but up close, her eyes devouring every inch of him with a greediness that rivaled a starving fox, catelyn could see the heaviness in his features. he had aged, not because of passing time, but because of all that had happened since they last laid eyes on each other, and she was almost compelled to inquire about his old injury, to see if he had been taking care of himself in her absence. ( a small part of her that was aware of distance and what might have developed in that time kept her from fussing over him as she once might have, however. ) ❝ catelyn ... ? ❞ she hummed softly, attempting a small smile, lip quivering. ❝ am i no longer your kit ? ❞ perhaps she was not ─ it was a foolish thing to say and she regretted it almost immediately, eyes squeezing shut as she shook her head, as though to convince herself ( and him ) to pay her words no mind. there was a wetness to her eyes when she reopened them, though catelyn would excuse it on emotion, if asked. she longed to seize his palms and press kisses to his knuckles, to tuck his hand against her side and keep him warm, but instead, she reached up, tentative, to trail a finger along his jaw before her touch skittered away. ❝ ... i wish i could have met her. ❞ they had spoken of it before, along with a great many other things. bryndon's hut had become a memorial of their dreams, just as it had become a memorial of her brother's talent. ❝ i should have been there ... like you were for me, after the war. ❞ the strong hands that had picked her up from the ground and set her onto a chair, packing away or burning things when she could not. her brow furrowed deeper and she pulled away a little, fingers clutching at his arms, reluctant to fully relinquish her hold on him. she shook her head at the mention of her husband, her child ─ her shame. she had been a poor wife, constantly comparing her deceased husband to the memory of beron and when she had looked down at her child, for however long the boy had lived, catelyn could only lament the times she had lined her stomach with moontea ─ ever the practical one. ( it should have been beron, as her husband. the gods knew her thoughts and punished her by taking them both away from her. they were her shame and she could never confess it for fear of judgment. ) ❝ my only comfort was that it had been quick ... the child ... my son, he knew no pain. only that he was loved. ❞ or so she hoped. her eyes closed and she swallowed a sigh, feeling a weight loosen, however little, in her chest. ❝ better, now that i am here. now that i can see for myself that you are well. you are well ? how is your leg ? ❞

[parthenopaed]

setting : the kingsroad on the way to the north, w. @rihtuals

cerelle can't say travel by road is ever pleasant, but the gold road is much better than the one they've been on for a while now – so long that the time has begun to lapse. some of the ladies of their caravan distracts themselves by embroidering, and while she may pretend to have no interest in it, she's left without a choice but to indulge in the activity.

it could be worse. she could be pregnant, the size of a house, like the dornish queen. one glance at her turns into a lingering stare, which is distracting enough for her to prickle her finger, drawing blood and a loud curse from her lips. "motherfucker!" the exclamation is soundly enough that all around would hear. it is unbecoming for a young lady, but cerelle is only masquerading as one. at least she has the sense to wince, though it is mostly due to the ache in her thumb, which she brings to her mouth, as she utters her apologies. "sorry, your majesty. this road is a–" bitch. she pauses. "too bumpy."

[rihtuals]

the woman that occupies the seat beside her tuts loudly at the language but coryanne only laughs, low and a little exhausted ─ her amusement seems to temper the rebuke on the tongues of the others, all eager to scold and prove their worthiness to the queen of the seven kingdoms and she shoos the woman beside her to make space for the bastard girl. ( the woman, some crownlander or another, has ambition to see one of her mealy - mouthed daughters wed to baelon and coryanne has been looking for an excuse to be rid of her. ) ❝ oh, please, do not feel the need to censor yourself now, cerelle. ❞ it would be a kindness to call her lady cerelle ─ it might inspire the others to do the same, if their queen deigned to entertain the farce of having a bastard in her presence, but coryanne was not feel so magnanimous today. ❝ come sit here and whisper the word to me. leave behind your embroidery hoop, i've had enough of needles and threads for the day. ❞

[slaining]

open.     for  everyone. location.     the  wintertown  markets,  a  stall  set  up  by  house  umber  that  features  pelts  skinned  by  them  that  are  made  to  last,  handcrafted  wooden  figurines,  and  logs  to  keep  the  hearths  warm.

a  cold  chill  in  the  air  stings  beron's  nose,  red  flushing  against  his  cheeks  as  his  large  frame  is  sat  in  a  chair  that's  much  too  small  for  his  size.  he's  hunched  over,  a  knife  he  had  smithed  himself  is  encased  by  his  hand  while  the  blade  shaves  down  a  piece  of  wood  that  is  held  in  his  other.  he  did  not  wish  to  be  there,  truly  he  would  have  rather  liked  to  be  anywhere  else,  likely  camped  in  the  woods  away  from  all  the  noise  that  the  southerners  were  making  within  his  home.  but  he  could  not,  not  when  his  father's  voice  pounds  in  his  head,  they  are  here  and  they  have  coin,  they  have  nothing  else  to  offer  us  besides  that.  he  knows  this,  but  it  did  not  make  the  fact  better. it  somehow  makes  it  worse.  knowing  that  there  is  no  other  reason  for  them  to  be  here  besides  for  some  bare-boned  idea  of  honoring  someone  they  did  not  care  to  help  when  he  had  helped  plenty  in  the  past.  it  is  about  the  coin,  he  hears  again,  his  father's  voice  unable  to  disappear  from  his  mind  as  he  whittles  a  bear  that  should  have  broken  in  his  large  fist.  would  that  have  been  a  fantastic  metaphor  or  what?  beron  shakes  the  thought  from  his  head,  not  bothering  to  look  up  when  he  hears  the  crunch  of  approaching  footsteps.  his  bedside  manner  had  never  been  the  best.  "there  is  no  set  price."  a  rough  tone,  as  if  his  voice  had  not  been  used  in  many  moons,  "you  are  free  to  offer  if  something  catches  your  eye."

[rihtuals]

contrary to popular belief, dornishmen did know shame. while coryanne agreed that nothing could have been done to help the north ( and the riverlands and the vale ) without also risking the rest of the regions during the last five years, she was also of the opinion that coming here was not the right decision. throwing coin at a problem rarely ever fixed it but she would do her part as a senseless southerner, if that promised a quick end to the theatrics and a swift return to the crownlands or anywhere that was warm, so that her babe could be born beneath a shining sun rather than a grey sky. the boys ran ahead ─ baelon and aeryn each followed by a flustered member of the kingsguard, but rhaegar stuck with her, only trailing off when something caught his eye. coryanne paused, frowning as the boy attempted to climb over a stack of chopped logs to peer at the ludicrously large man in a small chair. ( was the chair small or was he simply big ? why did northerners have to overcompensate for everything ? she thought they were supposed to be starving. ) ❝ rhaegar, stop that. ❞ she scooped the boy up, grunting as he squirmed. it was not so easy to lift him with another growing in her belly, especially when he had his eye on something. ❝ my apologies, did he mess anything up ? he still thinks he is a babe. ❞ and likely will for life, but she tried not to think of that now. ❝ ... do you only do animals ? this is fine work, you should not undercharge for it. ❞ she did not mean to sound that surprised, as though to imply that she believed all northern work to be poorly. ❝ i would pay, if you did commissions. ❞

[emberedfrost]

where:  wintertown, winterfell

when:  day one, the funeral of the former ruling lord stark cregan stark, midnight

with:  open

it  was  the  hour  of  the  ghosts.

the  procession  for  alaric's  late  grandsire  had  long  since  ended.  most  retreated  to  their  bed  chambers  while  those  who  still  felt  the  need  to  celebrate  the  old  man  drifted  towards  the  tavern.  alaric  remained  behind  standing  at  the  feet  of  the  great  lord  cregan  stark—  or  rather,  a  very  grotesque  imitation  of  the  wolf  of  the  north.

the  statue  looming  above  him  was  gargutuan,  ostentatious  and  entirely  out  of  place.  in  wintertown,  it  felt  like  an  intruder.  a  trespasser  on  what  is  now  his  lands.

this  was  not  his  grandfather.  and  he  despised  it.

at  its  unveiling,  alaric  had  bitten  his  tongue  as  to  not  offend  the  king  and  those  who  accompanied  him,  but  the  bitter  taste  left  him  shuddering.  It  was  an  affront  to  his  family  name.  Deep  down,  he  wanted  nothing  more  than  to  take  a  hammer  to  it  and  watch  the  stone  crack.

the  crunch  of  leaves  beneath  approaching  boots  shattered  his  solitude.  whoever  had  come  to  pay  their  respects  had  enough  sense  not  to  speak  before  being  spoken  to.  the  fist  clenched  at  his  side  slowly  relaxed,  "it  does  not  belong  here,"  he  murmured,  unable  to  conceal  the  edge  in  his  voice,  but  his  gaze  never  left  the  statue,  "i  do  not  like  it."

his  grandfather  had  already  been  laid  to  rest  where  he  belonged—in  the  crypts  beneath  winterfell,  alongside  his  father  and  mother.  one  day,  Alaric  would  join  them  there,  as  would  his  wife  and  children,  and  their  children  after  them.

that  was  the  way  of  house  stark,  not  this.

[rihtuals]

much had been prepared for little jorella. knitted things that catelyn believed her own son might have enjoyed, had he been allowed to live to the age, as well as some pressed flowers from the riverlands that she had entrusted into the hands of the girl's mother to lay at her crypt. very little had been prepared for the old man of the north, however, and though catelyn had only met cregan stark once, when he was truly an old man and not a legend, far larger than retelling, she felt a slight twinge of guilt for not laying something at the foot of his statue. it seemed performative to do so with so many people around, so she had waited until night fell and the streets quietened, though perhaps it was her fault for assuming no one else would be around either. inwardly scolding herself ─ because of course the starks would want to come when no one else could witness their grief ─, she made to leave the new ruling lord stark to his peace when his voice broke through the silence, edged with something that made her halt in her step. it reminded her, briefly, of how her older sibling sounded when speaking of house tully. aggrieved, yes, but also angry. ❝ ... you need only tolerate it for a moment longer, my lord. ❞ she said quietly, coming to stand beside him, fingers clenched around the small bundle of river rocks, herbs and feathers she had compiled together. ( something she learned from her lothston mother ─ a little bit of the river, the earth and the sky to take into the afterlife. ) ❝ far be it from me to give you any ideas but the king cannot blame you if an accident were to occur that required the statue to be moved. ❞ a small, coaxing smile played at the corners of her mouth, hoping to inspire some lightness in his mood.

[oflcgends]

where:  wintertown,  before  the  newly  erected  statue  of  cregan  stark

when:  the  first  day,  just  after  the  procession  has  ended

who:  open  !

the  craftsmanship  is  impeccable,  really.  daenys  cannot  help  but  to  think  that  her  brother  has  outdone  himself  by  doing  such  a  thing,  though  part  of  her  wonders  somewhat  on  the  choice  of  location.  why  not  back  at  winterfell,  or  perhaps  somewhere  just  outside  her  gates?  she  doesn't  think  on  it  long,  though,  for  the  honoring  has  nothing  to  do  with  her  or  her  family.

she  looks  up,  wondering  exactly  what  kind  of  man  cregan  stark  was.  she  had  met  him  before,  however  briefly,  so  she  doesn't  really  know.  her  head  tilts  to  the  side  with  curiosity,  before  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps  draws  away  her  attention.

“marvelous,  isn't  it?”  she  says  with  a  smile.  “i  know  it  likely  pales  in  comparison  to  the  man,  but  it  truly  is  something.  the  procession  was  beautiful  as  well,  don't  you  think?”

[rihtuals]

for weeks, coryanne had been forced to share a part of her space with cregan stark ─ or rather, the ghost of the man, etched in sketches for the approval of the king as it was targaryen coin that had erected the rather large likeness of the old man of the north in the middle of wintertown. ( her nose twitched in the cold. wintertown. did the northerners have no creativity at all ? ) rhaegar had been transfixed by the statue which was the only reason why she had even lingered back for so long, allowing the boy to coo over the marble before the nursemaid took him inside as she came to stand beside her goodsister, a dark brow raised. ❝ the northerners hated it. ❞ coryanne knew bitterness when it was forced down the throat. she had swallowed her fair share of hatred and injustice upon marriage, and still did whenever one of the stormlords or reachermen whispered derogatory things behind her back. it did not bother her, if the words were solely about her, but after the boys had been born, the attacks had landed on them as well, which was a pain that no one seemed to understand. ❝ do not tell your brother i said as much ... this is not enough for them to forget the silence from the crown over the past five years, but i do not know what else they expected us to do. ❞ open the borders and willingly allow illness to spread further ? she shook her head slightly. ❝ come, sister ... let us start our own procession back into warmth and you can tell me about the children. ❞

[belcvd]

reverence  towards  a  man  deserved  entreated  the  connington  in  joining  the  processional,  yet  the  same  could  not  be  said  of  the  games.  he  saw  nothing  to  be  of  celebration,  the  mingling  and  comraderies  something  he  believed  to  be  shared  between  those  of  the  north  and  those  chosen  by  the  starks  themselves.  their  presences  in  the  north  another  cost  for  them  to  bear,  the  ostentatious  display  of  wealth  the  king  offered  too  grandiose  for  him  to  have  felt  comfortable  lingering  close  by.  “  there  is  a  better  view  to  the  right  to  you.  ”  view  and  company  that  would,  likely,  engage  should  there  be  conversation  offered,  whereas,  lyonel  barely  offered  a  turn  of  his  attention  from  the  people  lining  for  the  game.  

location:  the  shinty  games,  day  two  of  the  northern  games

open  to:  four  responses

[rihtuals]

she had been persuaded into joining the shinty by a few old friends from the dornish war who had been glad enough, in their drunken state, to explain the rules of the game to her when they had gathered together the evening prior to cajole her into putting her name down on the list. naturally, none of them were present this morning, nursing off their headaches while catelyn shivered in the morning air, blinking as a rather large man ended up in her straight path to the game fields. scratching behind her ear, she tilted her head and peered at him with a small smile. ❝ is there ? ❞ she glanced to the right, finding only stands and seats, slowly filling with bodies, as well as a rather large muddy puddle, before she turned back to him with an amused knit to her brow. ❝ i would disagree but then again, you are also in my way, ser. does the line start from here ? surely not ... we'd be hitting balls around the field for days. ❞

[belcvd]

“  oh  shit  …  sorry  !  ”  the  chuckles  started  not  a  second  after,  hands  out  to  brace  herself  against  the  invisible  pull  of  gravity.  “  truly,  i  do  apologize.  i  had  not  realized  the  distance  down  was  as  far  as  it  was.  ”  the  scamper  up  into  a  nearby  tree  impulsive,  the  desire  to  see  both  statue  and  winter  market  from  a  vantage  not  allowed  by  someone  of  her  stature.  close  to  a  couple  of  hours  now  sat  tucked  away  upon  one  of  the  largest  branches  that  had  been  close  enough  to  the  ground  —  still  too  high  to  have  released  her  grasp  when  she  had,  learned  as  most  lessons  in  life  were.  the  difficult  way.  “  are  you  well  ?  i  did  not  hit  you  did  i  ?  ”  

location:  the  winter  market  of  wintertown,  close  to  the  tree  line open  to:  four  responses

[rihtuals]

the quick thinking of her guard saw coryanne safely out of the path of falling maidens, though she shrugged off the firm hand that had wrapped around her upper arm to pull her to one side, brow furrowing as she glanced up at the branch that the young woman must have slid off from, wondering if there would be another to follow. satisfied that there was none and that the woman meant no harm, coryanne waved off her guard, bristling like a dog on high alert for an attack ─ she was still dornish, for the gods' sake. she could handle an assassin, especially in the north, where fur and armor alone would give them away. ( no subtlety at all, these northerners. ) ❝ you almost did. you ought to thank my guard, else you might be in trouble for assaulting a member of the royal family. ❞ coryanne would not have allowed it to get that far, if she had been entangled with the other woman, but her leniency depended on how bored she was as well. ❝ why were you in the tree ? what is up there that is not available down here ? ❞

[parthenopaed]

setting: first night of the festivities, in the grand hall of winterfell, open (0/3).

sat close to the hearth, one can almost forget what a dreadful place this region is – almost. she still feels a shiver as sweat runs down cold her back under the weight of furs, and she feels tempted to lower them from her shoulders, only to tremble once more at the measured action – something that could pass as enraptument to the tale that is told by a loud voice with a northern brogue. "so this is what war was like?" she can barely tell if the man spoke of the dance or the dornish war, but she'd have been too young to know of either anyways.

[rihtuals]

promise of strong, northern ale had tempted her away from the marketplace and into the grand hall where she sat close enough to the hearth that catelyn had shed her furs, draping it over her legs to stave off the cold gust of air that blew through the hall whenever someone opened the great oak doors. she had not been listening, truly, to the stories told, more preoccupied with watching the body language of those gathered in the north to decide whether the trip would prove fruitful or disastrous, when a voice broke through her observation, drawing the eye to the girl seated nearby. ❝ ... not quite as glorious as that, my sweet. ❞ her gaze flickered up to where the northerner was boasting of the winter wolves, brow furrowing. ❝ and i doubt he was old enough to be alive when the winter wolves rode south for queen rhaenyra. tales grow in the retelling, but he is a fine storyteller for it, i suppose. ❞

[rihtuals]

↪ closed starter for daera targaryen ( @cursebounds ) at the breakfast table in the great hall of winterfell, on the morning of the second day.

when they had left the red keep, coryanne had been more mobile ( only six moons along and more than capable of running after little rhaegar as he chased the stray dogs that lingered on the edge of camp ) but by the time they had crossed the gates of winterfell, she had grown to become more bump than woman, miserable if she was on her feet for longer than ten minutes, which was why she had been seated during that morbid procession. it was not a sign of disrespect, regardless of whatever these pinch - faced northern savages liked to believe, and she was above defending her actions when she knew the cost that it took to commission that ugly, towering statue to begin with ─ the least they could do was be grateful that gaemon, in all his generosity ( stupidity, she had grumbled at him as a servant massaged her feet ), had deigned to travel so far for the damned thing. ❝ there you are ! i thought i'd be left alone to eat with these strangers. ❞ she did not care if the northerners heard her, waving daera over to sit beside her. ❝ now, what is the matter with you ? the maids tell me that you've signed up for something called a shinty. take away one letter, daera, and that should tell you what entertainment our northern hosts have for us. ❞ she sighed loudly, rubbing at her burgeoning belly. there must be a dragon in there, for she was larger with her fourth than she had been with the first three and her belly itched like fire from the seven hells. ❝ do you know if your brother has decided to join in these ... games ? here, eat this. i cannot stomach the smell of roasted meat today. ❞

[rihtuals]

↪ closed starter for gaemon targaryen ( @zaldrzes ) in the private chambers allotted to the king and queen in winterfell, the evening of the second day.

when she had first married into house targaryen, coryanne had scoffed at the notion that the dragonlords of old valyria ran hotter than the common man, preferring their surroundings to be sweltering ─ coming from dorne, the temperature of the crownlands was moderate, at best, tempered by the breeze that came from the blackwater, carrying cool air as well as the stench of fish guts and human excrement. there seemed to be some truth to the rumors, however, as her belly swelled with targaryen babe after babe, finding comfort only when the water was near - scalding against her skin. it was much the same with this babe, only both the babe and her body seemed to protest the coldness of the north by making her feet swell rather unattractively after an entire day meeting and greeting the lieges of westeros. coryanne soaked in the tub rather petulantly, staring at her swollen toes, until the sound of the doors opening to admit her husband drew her attention away, feet slipping beneath the water. ❝ nice of you to pull yourself away from the crowds to check in on your wife. ❞ coryanne would deny it, but she was sulking, glaring at him from beneath furrowed brows as she got up from the tub rather ungainly, assisted by the servants who wrapped her in a warm robe. ❝ i don't see why we had to come all the way north. they don't even like you here. ❞ a bit cruel, perhaps ─ she knew it from the moment the words came out of her mouth and she huffed, annoyed with herself as she waved the servants away, brushing off his attendants to tug at his cloak herself. an apology, disguised as servitude and blissful silence for a moment. ❝ ... i did not mean that. i am especially ill - tempered this time around, so you must ignore every cruel thing i say. you are most beloved by me and by our sons, that is all that matters. ❞

[rihtuals]

↪ closed starter for beron umber ( @slaining ) in wintertown after the statue unveiling and procession, on the first day.

even after all this time apart, he was singular in the way that he captivated her attention from across the square ─ catelyn had not even glanced at the statue properly once she had picked beron out in the crowd of northerners, towering over the rest in his furs. her heart lurched, as did her body, as though tugged by some invisible force and it was only the fact that she had been standing slightly behind her older sibling that kept her from running through the gathered crowd to get to him. it had been a feat in itself to keep herself rooted to one spot, gaze focused on the features of the ruling lord stark and the targaryen king as they spoke in turns, just so she was not constantly staring at beron. had he noticed her ? catelyn could not be certain, though she knew that she had not changed much from when he saw her last. what little weight she had gained had been lost during the plague, though she bemoaned the plainness of her dress before scolding herself for the thought. when had beron ever cared about that ? ( but perhaps he did now ? perhaps the years had turned him into a man of refinement. ) waving her siblings off as they began their journey back to the inn, she allowed her eyes to lift, finally, seeing him standing at the opposite end of the square. catelyn took a hesitant step forward, then plucked up her skirts to run over to him, uncaring of how wild she would seem to those that still lingered behind as she slammed into his chest with a soft grunt. ❝ ... beron. ❞ relief coated her voice, years of distance thawing out into something that almost choked her. how terrified she had been when the plague hit ... how much she had grieved on his behalf when she heard news of his twin sister's death. her head lifted from where it had been hiding against the fur of his cloak, studying his features. ❝ oh ... ❞ oh, her sweet boy. ❝ ... i'm so sorry, beron. ❞ what else could she say ? she should have ridden north, seagard and the riverlands be damned.

[rihtuals]

↪ closed starter for akshay martell ( @cursebounds ) in the private sitting rooms allotted to house targaryen, on the third day.

though it had been some years since she had last seen her siblings, coryanne kept a routine exchange of letters with them and, as her boys had gotten old enough to string words together on paper, she had encouraged them to do the same, not wanting them to forget or disregard the parts of them that were dornish ─ the rest of westeros certainly would not. unfortunately, like most boys at their age, baelon and aeryn had decided that the northern games were much more exciting than morning tea with an uncle that they barely remembered, though she refused to be parted with her sweet boy, rhaegar sitting at her feet, smashing two wooden blocks together while his nursemaid tried to get him to return to his studies. her brow was furrowed in concern for the boy when akshay was announced and she guided rhaegar up to stand beside her, his attention still occupied with the blocks as the ruling princex of dorne was permitted entrance. ❝ so you have finally come to greet your queen properly. ❞ her tone drew the attention of the nursemaid and her son, who knew the arrogance in her voice well enough to squint curiously at akshay, blocks forgotten. there was silence for a long moment before her features broke out into a wide smile, hand bracing at her back as she rose with some difficulty to grab at her sibling. ❝ come here, little sun. oh, what is this ? ❞ she tugged lightly at his beard, nose wrinkling. ❝ why would you do this to your face ? ❞ tutting in a manner not dissimilar to their mother, coryanne rested a hand on rhaegar's head as his attention drifted, wanting akshay to see her latest pride and joy. ( and the boy was both, no matter his shortcomings. ) ❝ my youngest, rhaegar. consider yourself blessed he does not find you interesting, else he will be on you like fire - ants on a mango. ❞ her gaze lifted to study akshay's features as she let the boy go to his nurse and his toys, wondering if she'd find judgment in their eyes or worst, pity. ❝ i missed you. letters were not enough, i fear, to fill the hole in my heart. promise me that we will not go so long without seeing each other again ? and promise me we will met somewhere other than the fucking north. ❞

[rihtuals]

↪ closed starter for gilliane flint ( @parthenopaed ) in the markets of wintertown, on the first day.

while most of the other houses had wisely joined the southern entourage as the crown travelled from the capital through to the north, house mallister had decided to utilize their familiarity with the seas, travelling from their castle stronghold to flint's finger in the north, before crossing the barrowlands into winterfell. it was an unnecessarily dangerous route, considering the constant threat of the ironborn at sea, but it was something that she agreed was prudent, as tempers were still high within the family whenever houses tully or frey were mentioned. as she exited the warmth of the smoking log, fur - lined cloak tucked against her body, she wondered just how she was supposed to singlehandedly keep the peace between the families, especially with all of them gathered in the north. the men had sworn to behave out of a respect for house stark and their loss, and she would hold them to their word, even if that might eventually prove to be foolish. her thoughts were not on the pride of men today, however, and her furrowed brow smoothed over at the sight of a familiar face waiting for her at the mouth of the marketplace, feet hastening as she reached out to grasp gilliane by the arm. ❝ were you waiting long ? my apologies, i had to make sure that my siblings were behaving themselves. ❞ thankfully, the topic in the inn seemed to revolve around the rather ostentatious parade. ❝ i was so sorry to hear about lord cregan ... and your own jorella ... will you accept some flowers for the crypts later ? ❞ her voice was hushed, head turned to whisper ─ she knew better than to ask if she could go down there. ❝ oh ! and your relatives were most accommodating to us. i will write to thank them, but i wanted to thank you too for arranging things so quickly. i know you must have been busy preparing for all ... this. ❞