❛ nothing ever ends poetically. it ends and we turn it into poetry. all that blood was never once beautiful. it was just red. ❜ aashirya sand. curated by chel. affiliated with crownshq.
HE HADN’T CARED TO INDULGE . a rarity for him for certain . but a lannister celebration did not suit the ironborn in the slightest . their wine too sweet , their people too proper . and so , he kept his distance . but he did not find himself alone . blue eyes move across the board as the woman speaks . he’s no stranger to the game . his brother forcing him to play it growing up— you have to use that head on your shoulders from time to time . there’s more to life than the gold in your pocket and who warms your bed at night . the ever so wise advice of an elder brother , indeed . gentle words have him raising a brow in curiosity , but filling the seat across from her none the less . ❛ then you should consider yourself fortunate . for i am not one to care for the politics of mainlanders . but a game ? i can be convinced to— entertain . ❜
DARK EYES RAISE, A LIP UPTURNED. it was a rare thing for the priestess to be in the company of an ironborn, even rarer to be sat in the midst of a greyjoy. her connections never reached too far north, her skills in diplomacy and trade being the most useful under the guise of customs similar to those of her own people. but she has heard the stories. that of their iron fleets, their sizeable ships —— but that was politics. now, the only strategy existing was on the board between them. ❛ and are mainlanders politics the reason why i find you hiding away from their festivities right now, lord greyjoy ? i’d imagine a round of ale would be more entertaining than a game of chess with a stranger. ❜ she cocks an eyebrow, , nimble fingers slide a piece across the board.
“ YOU’LL ONLY LOSE , aashirya. ” sofina says dismissively. still , there is a determination in her gaze as the princess takes a seat across from the woman. she and the advisor have a hot and cold relationship. some days , sofina almost admires the woman – as strange as that sounds. most days , though , sofina finds her insufferable. always telling her what to do. as if she’s a child. goodness. “ you know i will win , and yet… ” she moves a piece with a sigh , “ you challenge me regardless. ” perhaps her arrogance would be her downfall this time.
BEMUSEMENT DUG INTO HER LIPS. bruna’s ... complex demeanour merely harbours a smile in aashirya, a well versed habit often lingering in between comments that roll off the girl’s tongue like cool metal. frustration often grows like weeds between the pair, its roots never wholly plucked out, but hidden deep enough for the pair to share fleeting moments such as these. ❛ oh, but look at how much joy you bring whenever we verse each other, your grace. your company makes losing almost worthwhile. ❜ a somewhat puckish smirk twists her expression as the priestess follows suit, a pawn leaving her grip once more. though a change of air leaves aashirya curious for a moment. ❛ how are you feeling, your grace ? surely smug pretenses are not all you have to report for your advisor ? ❜
Drogon held the seven about as close as any great lord did, but they had never did him any favours. Yet he had no time for the Priests and Priestess that preached about them, or about any religion for that matter.
The Dragonlord glanced to his right, cool amethyst eyes flickering down and landing upon the Dornish woman. A sturdy jaw clenched even tighter when she spoke, voice lilting and sweet. He did not like it.
He had half a mind to just walk away, leave her standing alone to mutter her hateful words skyward without an audience.
“Don’t talk to me in riddles Priestess, i do not have time for them.” Drogon sighed heavily, his gaze one of bored bemusement as he regarded her . “-and my fears are none of your business. Perhaps you should wander of and bend the ear of the King to be. He might be more appreciative of it.”
HER FRAME IS RIGID, UNWAVERING AGAINST THE words of the dragon, mouth spitting out fire in the form of submerged aggression. the priestess remains still, an impassive gaze caught in the eyes of the man, although she fails to deny the small anxious knots forming in her stomach like rope. it was not particularly diplomatic of her, seeping words of cynicism under his skin, while both under the heavy shadow of the iron throne. perhaps if it were his grace upon that throne, such snarks would escape him like air, but alas the highborn walks the halls of the red keep under no newly bestowed titles nor a throne to call his own. she ought to be more careful. ❛ my apologies, your grace, i did not mean offence ... i confess i’m merely intrigued to find the presence of a targaryen, for such an occasion as this. i’m sure you know more than well of my interest in political relations within westeros. a clever move, showing your face here, you move yourself across a chessboard quite well. ❜ yet aashirya could sometimes fail to muster the will to keep her mouth shut. ❛ although that shouldn’t be a surprise. you are a descendent of daenerys targaryen after all. and what a large shadow you must live under. ❜
persephone had been allowed to go for a walk from her chambers, able to explore the land that had taken so many of her ancestors. being trapped by the lannisters wasn’t what she wanted to experience, preferring to see more than most nobles saw. with guards following her, she was confined to certain parts but alone, it allowed her to see more. with her sworn sword following her into the room, she smiled softly at the girl, “politics are far too complicated in this heat so rest assured, i have a feeling we will not be discussing those.”
THEIR UNEXPECTED PRESENCE RUFFLED the woman much like a sudden gust of wind, shaking her attention, winding past heat coated walls. she had expected another foreign envoy at the most, a mere acquaintance introduced under an air of gracious formalities, hardly anything of substance. the priestess gathers herself, abandoning the pawn now warm from her grasp, drawing her full attention to the figures looming over her. ❛ lady tyrell, i presume. your appearance is a surprise, although the red keep seems to be swollen in its belly full of nobility alike. perhaps it’d be foolish to think we would not cross paths ... and i see you’ve brought a pet with you. ❜ the woman glances up at the armoured brawn perched behind her, his sword almost seemingly like another limb.
THE BUZZ OF LANNISTER CELEBRATION failed to meet this small corner of king’s landing, its chorus of public life drowned out by the heavy silence cast over a sun kissed room, almost as thick as the heat wrapped around the serpent’s still frame. a pawn dances between nimble fingers, like a fly caught in the choking grip of a web. it was a hobby of hers, collecting pawns to move and shift at her will. perhaps this is why she was sent to the lion’s den in the first place ; a perfect place for a spider to wind its web. ❛ i believe the heat has taken its toll on me. if it’s politics you’ve come to discuss, you’ll bore me to my grave. come entertain me instead. ❜ gentle words follow the last piece being placed on a chessboard, a syrupy smile tugging at downcast lips.
the paint is, frankly, everywhere. he knows it’s not the best time for this - this being “hiding” away in the red keep’s courtyard, which is now filled with a few empty canvases and a few paint pallets and one very messy spilled paint jar - since everyone has been arriving all week, but that’s the very reason he’d come ; being watched so closely was unnerving, and painting helped ( though his father is undoubtedly rolling in his grave ) just enough to move along. it isn’t until eliar notices a figure entering the courtyard that he sighs, flatly, and eyes them with an insouciant look. “ spare me any judgmental words, will you ? ” he says with a short sigh, shrugging nonchalantly and sitting on a nearby bench, trusting that a servant will be by soon to clean up the mess. “ this mess isn’t nearly as pressing as the one in here. ” he points to his head, jabbing his finger slightly into his temple.
BATTLES UNWAGED BY WAR WERE battles unlikely to be won. no fear of bloodshed, and no kingdoms to conquer meant that such struggles had no real place in the world for one to mourn or defeat. aashirya wondered if such struggles in his majesty’s mind would cast ghosts over westeros, haunting his throne with a burden of unresolved grief. an omen of death. and many had such high hopes for the lion. the priestess approached the king, expression blank and tongue devoid of anything lighthearted and congratulatory. ❛ i doubt anyone would want to cast judgemental words upon someone as close as you are to the iron throne, your majesty. but many kings would rather paint cities with enemy blood. i’d much rather be looking at spilt paint than the former. ❜
Drogon had taken great care in his attire for the day. He had donned a doublet of black brocade, inlaid with red scales at the shoulders. Drogon wanted to remind the Lords and Ladies of Westeros, that Dragons still roamed the lands, should they perhaps have forgotten it. The striking contrast of Onyx and Crimson, along with the long, pale white locks of hair and haunting Purple eyes, proved that Drogon was a Targaryen through and through, a descendent of Daenerys Targaryen and named for her most fearsome of children.
Drogon bypassed the throne room, refusing to look upon the stung up banners adorned with Lions. It should be Dragons anyway, he thought bitterly, red Dragons.
Drogon eventually stopped on an open air corridor, able to look out of the Blackwater. If the day had been better, he could perhaps have seen Dragonstone. He missed the old Castle, but his presence in the Red Keep sent a message.
No matter how hard the Lions tried, fire and fear could not kill a Dragon.
THERE WAS AN UNFAMILIAR ENERGY THAT HUMMED, stirred against the walls of the red keep, seeping through its winding corridors like fresh blood. and blood being what ultimately bore the throne a new heir on this occasion, the priestess muses, her words failing to leave pressed lips. it was evident, that underneath the raw festivity that fuelled the flooded streets of king’s landing, an unspoken air of hostility trickled through its waters. the priestess is but a mere shadow among these changing waters, her tongue only serving to preach the religion of diplomacy under the name of the martell’s. yet unspoken tongues seems to hold more meaning than the political humdrum and light hearted blather that drowned the castle walls in euphony, she muses. it was especially evident at the sight of a targaryen before her. ❛ your grace, it’s quite an interesting sight, seeing a dragon entering a den of lions … and equipped in all your scales and talons i see. ❜ the priestess bows, the guise of the red keep casting a demeanour of formality among its inhabitants. ❛ i’m afraid the need for armour is lost on me. are you afraid one of those lannister lions may pounce ? or is this merely called fashion where you come from. ❜
It had been a few hours since Asha had arrived in King’s Landing. And she was already hating it. The smell, how crowded it was, it made her want to go back to the Iron Isles as soon as possible. She had gone to the Red Keep earlier, make her presence known to the royal family and now she was back outside, heading towards one of the taverns where she knew her sailors would be having fun. They were her people, the ones that she cared about, her family. She didn’t care about nobles, lords or ladies, the only reason why she came was because she was now the ruling lady of House Greyjoy and not coming could insult the royal family, create a conflict. She didn’t want that. Stopping before reaching the tavern, she looked at the view of the harbor and smiled when she saw her longship on the distance, anchored right outside the harbor, ready to leave as soon as the celebrations are over. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” She asked when she heard someone approaching her from behind.
THE AIR IS THICK, SOUR AND GORGED with the stench of summer’s heat and stale ale adding a weight to the priestess, not unlike the burden of her reputation that surely bleeds through the streets of king’s landing. the serpent weaves her way through hoards of limbs, an overgrowth, shifting like a flood of wild grass. invisible, she curls into the presence of a greyjoy, with no intentions to sink her fangs into political drabble. not now at least, not when the lannisters’ call for celebration in such an air of festivity. the words would surely taste bitter in her mouth. oh, how she’d rather speak of diplomacy, something meanwhile, than kiss the golden asses of these lannister lions. ❛ i’m afraid i’m not well versed in the anatomy of ships, nor do i particularly bear interest in them. but yes, quite ... pretty. ❜ the only ship to hold any meaning with her, was the slave ship that bore aashirya many years before. ❛ although i take it you’d rather be on board your ship than among these charming festivities, am i wrong ? ❜ the woman inquires, removing her veil as she speaks, her voice dull soft.
“when they told her her story was written in the stars, she went to the heavens and crushed each one with her bare hands, stars have no power over her, the night sky is hers now, and she will carve it with constellations of her own.”
— never tell a goddess her fate // k.s. (via worthystevie)
RAISE YOUR GLASS FOR aashirya sand, the red priestess hailing all the way from dorne. the word on the kingsroad is that they’re known as the serpent, and apparently they can be manipulative and deceitful, but at least the gods blessed them and made them beguiling and influential. no one is positive as to their intentions but they’re loyal to house martell, so they can’t be all bad.
INTRODUCTION ; look like the innocent flower but be the serpent under’t.
@ chel ; hey it’s ya girlie, hyped af to be joining this group, i’m a hoe for period / fantasy rps n can’t wait to write w. all you gorgeous people, and also a major hoe for plotting so hmu whenever ! btw since i’m from new zealand i might be on at random times but i’m also lowkey useless n tired so forgive my late ass lmao. so here’s some notes on my precious bb aashirya, they’re kinda all over the place but come at me.
inspired by melisandre from got, the tv show not the book version bc you know my lazy ass won’t pick up a book smh. but also bits and pieces of other characters i.e. lady macbeth and margaery tyrell, although i’ll leave their inspo out of my notes atm.
aashirya was born a slave, her earliest memories being of sea salt and mournful wails within a slave ship moored at the docks of dorne.
her surname came to be known as sand: a label for bastards within dorne.
her lack of disease and physical ailment meant that the young aashirya could work within the castle walls of sunspear, her origins among the martell nobles being her early years as a servant girl.
at the age of eleven, while running errands within the market square, aashirya suffered a seizure, swarmed by dornish locals and its thick summer heat. some choose to believe the child when she says she saw a vision of the old gods appear before her. the young girl spoke in old tongue ; a rune based language, as if the deities were choking her throat with their words.
rumours bled through the streets of dorne, eventually reaching an aged priest, and a maester in his own right. he took her in, a prophecy blooming like spring.
aashirya grew, learning of language and politics, the anatomy of an economy and most of all religion. the girl became devout under his teachings, growing in the faith that she was meant for something bigger than the slaver’s chains that burdened her.
small acts of charity turned into small congregations. the woman had a bewitching tongue, and drew in many commoners from across dorne, preaching of her faith to many.
it was true that politics and religion benefited each other, and aashirya managed to catch the attention of the council and finance ministers within sunspear. now a matured woman, no longer a servant girl but a handmaiden to the martell princess, she advanced in position once more, now as advisor to the lord and lady of the house. (think rasputin vibes, a close confidant of the noble family)
aashirya’s intentions are not honourable. her words of faith or purely to line the pockets of herself as well as to aid government finances and that of the martell’s. she believes she acts as a vessel of the deities, but only to serve the martell house, and aid in their prosperity.
she is vv. charismatic and persuasive. she is a diplomat before she is a preacher, and knows how to manipulate the tales of the gods to serve her own purpose.
rumours have it that she is known to manipulate men in much the same way. whispers tell of foreign envoys and diplomats that have shared nights with her, often in an effort to leech out information.
to many she is called the serpent. known to weave herself among people, trapping them in her charms and lies, before sinking in her poisonous bite.
