"she — a mellifluous hum of discernment in deliberation, a cascade of copper curls brushing the marbles, sugaried violets popped into one's mouth, the addictive reverie of adoration, and the echoes of harp weeping through the halls."
status: open to all.
location: the bustling streets of duskendale, the day after the coronation.
dignity is a currency aelina has spent her entire life hoarding. she is the lady of the tides, a woman who navigates court with the precision of someone trained to stay above water. yet, here she stands on the cobblestones of duskendale, her sea-green silks compromised by tiny, sharp claws, holding two squirming balls of ginger fur against her chest while her children assault the nobility with aggressive kindness. it had started as a stroll to escape the suffocating gloom of the rented manse—a place that felt too small without victor, too quiet without corlys. but grief makes one weak, and when daeron and saera had discovered the litter of six abandoned kittens beneath a hawthorn bush, mewling and motherless, aelina had crumbled. she could not leave another family broken. she could not be the one to tell her surviving children that sometimes, things are just left behind to die.
so, a compromise. they could not keep them all ("they may not survive the voyage back home, the ship's rocking will frighten them," she had tried to argue, weakly), but they would find them homes. now, the twins are little heat-seeking arrows of adorable guilt. saera, bold and imperious even at six, has cornered a squire, explaining with great seriousness that the black kitten in her hands is "very good at catching dragons," a lie she tells with a straight face. daeron, quieter, simply holds his chosen fluff up to passersby with wide, pleading lilac eyes. lady velaryon watches them, a soft, weary smile playing on her lips. it is a ridiculous scene: the elegant widow velaryon, turned into a peddler of strays. but beneath the maternal indulgence, her eyes are sharp. the fire in king's landing burned away the old court; the streets are filled with new faces, spares turned heirs, second sons turned lords. she needs to know them. she needs to see who stops for a child, and who sneers. kindness is a useful metric for an ally.
she steps forward as the twins zero in on a new target, cutting off their escape route with the coordinated precision of a military flank. "i must apologize," aelina says, her voice a smooth melody that cuts through the street noise, stepping in before saera can demand the stranger takes in the small calico she named pebbles. she adjusts the ginger kitten climbing her pearl necklace, offering a smile that is both apologetic and utterly charming. "my children are under the impression that the nobility of westeros is currently suffering from a severe lack of feline companionship. please, tell me you are not allergic, or i fear daeron might cry, and that is a terrible thing to have on one's conscience so early in the morning."
targaryen by marriage, but a rykker in her blood — carlys has always been proud of her family's seat. duskendale, under their hand for well over a century, was a beautiful stretch of bustling ports and pristine white mortar capped with terracotta shingles. meant to accommodate merchants and sailors, there was much housing to keep visitors of such a station, but never so many rooms to house a legion of petty lordlings. dun fort barely had the capacity to hold the targaryen retinue and the sprawling arms of the other great houses, regaling she and her husband to the apartments of her youth, still painted in sky blue as she had requested in her precocious childhood. the dusky pinks were too puerile, she'd said.
the city was crowded, she thought to herself. it had never seen so many bodies before. this could be remedied, however. they could use the months after court disbanded to rebuild the sept in a grander fashion. expand dun fort. this season alone would pay for it — a new wave of visitors with deep pockets, new merchants setting up shop in hopes of rubbing elbows with someone of importance. yes, with a few improvements, duskendale had the makings of a new capital. they were, now, the largest port in the crownlands. dragonstone was at a swifter distance too.
"ah, yes," carlys ventures to smile, lips pressed to a thin line, forced to speak more than she often deigned to. "duskendale has always been lively. you will surely find much to entertain yourself with along the waters."
it is a testament to the strength of their shared history that aelina does not flinch at the crush of bodies pressing against the dun fort’s walls. to anyone else, she might have whispered a critique about the smell of the unwashed masses or the suffocating lack of space, but to carlys, she offers only a knowing, violet-eyed soften of her expression. she remembers the girl carlys was—four years younger, standing on the edge of a ballroom with a braid so intricate it had stopped aelina in her tracks. ryella and melinsa had giggled, but aelina had marched right up to the rykker girl, demanded to know the artisan behind the plait, and been met with such a cool, unbothered deadpan that she had decided, then and there, that carlys was necessary.
they were the golden girls of a golden era. aelina’s father had pushed her toward viserys with every breath, scorning the "spare" princes. marry a ruling lord if you cannot have the king, he had said. so aelina had married victor, and carlys had taken aemon, the quiet brother. how the wheel turns. the fire that devoured king’s landing took the king aelina was meant to marry and the husband she truly loved. it left her alone with a usurper in her bed—victor’s brother, a vulture who stepped over six-year-old daeron’s birthright while the ashes were still warm. and now, carlys, the friend who married the spare, stands as the wife of the regent, the most powerful woman in the realm. aelina needs that power. she needs aemon, who loved victor like a brother, to look at her children and see the injustice of their plight. she needs to secure a betrothal between her daughter saera and the young king daemon, to lock her survival in iron. she hates the man she calls husband now, and she needs him gone. but that is a conversation for wine and closed doors. for now, she is simply a friend.
"lively is a gentle word for it, but if anyone can wrestle order from this chaos, it is house rykker," aelina says, her voice smooth as silk, stepping closer to link her arm through carlys's, ignoring the claustrophobia of the city for the sake of her friend's pride. "it reminds me of the tourney at maidenpool, though with graver stakes. the city is lucky to have you and aemon at the helm." she squeezes carlys's arm gently, shifting the subject to the domestic, the soft underbelly of the viper pit. "are the children finding any peace in this madness? my own ask for their father and brother daily… i can only imagine rhaenyra and lucerys feel the absence of their uncle just as keenly."
lyanna peers out into the dark water of the blackwater bay, crouched with her knees to her chest — a feat for a bodice as tight as hers. she pays no mind to how the golden silk of her dress traces the dark wood of the duskendale marina, truly nothing compared to the grime that blanketed their native lordsport. the air rang with a different sound than the islands, children's laughter set to a bright, clean landscape. it was nothing like the low-hanging clouds of grey, merging into the misty fog of their gloomy islands. the thought of the subsequent months passing beneath the crownlands' sun stretched before her like a tabby cat, languishing in a satisfied stretch.
"his grace was quite fetching in his finery," the pyke muses aloud, glancing at her neighbour, cheeks dimpling into a smile. "winsome even, i think. don't you think so?"
the sea breeze off blackwater bay did little to cool the fever simmering beneath nerissa’s skin. she stood near the edge of the marina, stiff-backed and wrapped in heavy emerald silk, fighting the urge to wring her hands together to hide their trembling. she had come here to escape the suffocating crush of the town—duskendale was bursting at the seams, a cup overflowing, ill-equipped to hold the grief and grandeur of the seven kingdoms. it made her heart ache for home; highgarden would never feel so cramped. its white walls and endless arbors would have swallowed this crowd with grace, offering soft beds instead of rented floors. but she was not here to petition, at least not yet. she was here to survive the hour. at the voice, nerissa turned, blinking through the haze of her withdrawal to focus on the girl crouched so casually upon the wood. she did not recognize the face—new to court, perhaps, or simply another soul she had overlooked in her years of self-indulgence—but the lack of recognition did not excuse a lack of courtesy. what would willam do? the thought was a mantra, a lifeline. he would smile. he would offer warmth. he would not let the darkness inside him spill onto a stranger.
"he was," nerissa agreed, forcing her voice to be steady, stripping the rasp from her throat to sound as pleasant and comely as an heir ought to be. she looked out at the water, then back to the girl, offering a smile that was fragile but genuine. "poised, too. i watched him sit upon that wooden chair and thought he looked more regal than half the lords who came to bend the knee. it is a cruel thing, to be so young and yet... so capable." she adjusted her shawl, the movement hiding a shiver. "i confess, at his age, i could barely sit still for a septa's lesson, let alone a coronation. to see him hold the weight of the realm when he cannot yet hold a sword... he puts us all to shame, does he not? though i suppose tragedy forces children to grow up faster than they should." she paused, studying the girl's ease with a pang of envy. "you seem in high spirits, my lady. does the sea air agree with you, or are you simply happy to escape the crush of the fort?"
where: in the courtyard at the dun fort, at the coronation
who: open to all! (1/3)
Oaths of fealty to the king were the highest oaths any knight—lord—might make, and Hugo had never thought he would be making them. He hadn't dreamt of the White Cloak, that illustrious symbol of ultimate honour and unrivalled skill, in years, not since his mother had first despaired so openly at the ambition that he had dropped it entirely, and so he had never thought that unless there was some sort of catastrophic war that needed every knight of the Seven Kingdoms to rally together, Hugo would have occasion to swear his oaths to the king. How wrong he had been!
Lord Arryn had asked that he offer his own oaths, as the heir to the Vale right after his own oaths. Hugo had not stumbled—more than once—but he did not think it mattered terribly as the king was about seven and trying his damnedest not to yawn. But just because the king was but a child hardly meant *his* oath was less true! It was near unimaginable—him! If his mother could see him now... Rather lucky, all told, he did not attempt a White Cloak after all.
He turned on the spot at the sound of footsteps approaching, exiting the great hall, and dipped into a bow for the newcomer. "Needed some fresh air?" he asked. "Me as well. I didn't think I would be nervous—but it's quite something, isn't it, standing in front of everybody and swearing your loyalty? Haven't felt so tense since the day I was knighted."
the great hall was a mouth, and it was swallowing them all whole. nerissa had felt the walls closing in, the drone of a hundred oaths mingling with the pounding in her temples until it became a physical weight. she had fled not for air, but for survival, her skin prickling with the cold sweat of withdrawal that the heavy velvet of her gown could barely conceal. she had expected solitude, but instead, she found a ghost. not a real one, of course. ghosts did not bow with such courtly grace. but when she turned to face the stranger, the breath hitched in her throat, sharp and painful. he had the look of the vale about him, yes, but in the soft light of the courtyard, he looked devastatingly like him. the glow of warm brown skin, the same earthy, earnest eyes, the same sweet, unguarded candor of a man who still believed the world was as good as he was. for a split second, the haze in nerissa’s mind cleared, and she saw willam. sweet, dead willam, standing there as if the fire had never touched him.
an impulse, wild and irrational, seized her. her feet shifted, her body leaning forward as if to close the distance and bury her face in his chest, to cling to him and beg him to tell her it was all a jape. you’re here, her heart screamed. you’re safe. but the moment shattered. he spoke, and the voice was wrong. the face was a shade too dark, the jawline unfamiliar. this was not willam. this was just another boy thrust into a man’s boots by tragedy. she caught herself, one hand fluttering to her throat to mask the aborted embrace as a gesture of surprise. she forced a smile, though it felt brittle enough to crack. "fresh air is less of a luxury and more of a necessity today, i find," she replied, her voice soft, lacking its usual sharp wit. she studied him, trying to place the face among the blur of nobles she had ignored during her seasons of revelry. had she seen him before? or was he, like her, a spare suddenly pushed into the light? "and you are right to be tense. the gods have reshuffled the deck, and we are all trying to remember which cards we are holding. i confess... i do not believe we have been formally introduced. though i see the falcon in your bearing, i fear the wildfire has left my memory as hazy as the city skyline."
where: in the sept at duskendale, on the morning of the vigil
who: open to all! (0/3)
The Sept at Duskendale was little like the one on Dragonstone, which she had grown too familiar with over the past moon, but it smelled and sounded the same. The chanting Septon, the metallic swing of his thurible and the scent of his incense, which gathered thick enough in the air she might choke on it. It put her in mind of the fire. Everything put her in mind of the fire. Wildfire would not smell as sweet, she reminded herself, as she knelt before the Father's altar, tall black candle in hand. She had not had the head for prayers in days; all that ran through her mind was a wordless plea for something that she hoped the Gods understood, because she did not know how to give it words.
She went from one to the next, stopping before none but the Stranger, with whom she spent a few more minutes. There were songs enough about the Mother's mercy and the Father's judgement, but of the Stranger it was only said that the Smith had forged their scythe, sharp enough it would make no mark and never miss. That was a sort of mercy as well, perhaps. She did not know what it meant to pray for it when the deed was done.
When Cyrenna rose again to turn for the makeshift altar that had been erected at the heart of the Sept, she saw somebody standing there already, watching the few flowers that had already been offered. She offered a smile, somewhat flat; but she was rather poor at offering truer ones of late. "Do you think they can hear our prayers?" she asked softly. "Not the Gods. The ones we light these candles for."
the incense is cloying, a thick, sweet fog that tries to mask the scent of burning that still clings to the back of aelina’s throat. she hates it. she hates this makeshift sept, hates the chanting, and, gods, she hates the woman standing before the altar. it has been a lifetime since they were girls in silks, trading barbed smiles over goblets of arbor gold, measuring the worth of their beauty against the gaze of a silver prince. cyrenna won that war. she got the crown, the king, the throne. aelina had told herself, for years, that she had won the better prize: victor, who looked at her as if she were the sun itself. but now? now cyrenna stands there in her widow’s weeds, mourning a husband, while her son sits safe and crowned on a borrowed throne.
aelina’s hands tremble, just once, before she stills them. she looks down at the two small figures clinging to her skirts. daeron and saera are solemn, their eyes wide and confused in the gloom. with a gentle touch, she guides them forward, placing a stalk of purple hyacinth into each of their small hands. one for victor. one for corlys. she watches them step up to the altar, their movements clumsy and heartbreakingly sincere as they lay the flowers among the offerings. she performs this pantomime of faith for them, holding space for a goodbye she doesn't believe in, so they might find a peace she cannot. corlys. the thought of him tears through her, distinct and jagged. twelve years old. did he scream? did he cry for her when the green fire melted the flesh from his bones? there is no body to hold, no face to kiss goodbye. just ash. just silence.
she straightens, smoothing the dark fabric of her dress as the twins return to her side, her lilac eyes meeting cyrenna’s. the queen mother looks tired, her smile a flat, fragile thing. do you think they can hear our prayers? it would be kind to lie. it would be the graceful, courtly thing to say yes, they are watching over us, they are at peace. aelina has spent her life perfecting such lies. but the image of her son burning burns away the courtesy. "no," lady velaryon says, her voice soft, devoid of the warmth she was once famous for. she looks back at the flowers, the vibrant purple stark against the grey stone. "they are gone, your grace. the dead do not listen." her gaze flicks back to cyrenna, sharp and unyielding. "that is just a lie we tell ourselves so we can sleep at night." and yet, her hand lingers on saera's shoulder, a protective weight, grounding herself in the only life she has left to fight for.
The vigil did not offer the princess the reprieve she had hoped for. The Sept, almost as crowded as the Dun Fort on the day of the coronation, had her nearly out of breath, inhaling the fumes of the incense and shrinking away from the tiny, little flames of all the candles lit along the altars. And the weeping, seven help her. The echoes of the cries along the walls of the Sept still ring in her ears minutes later, as she stands just outside the building, a guard by her side in the streets of Duskendale.
"I understand it is customary," She tells the man, "But lighting candles and incense, fire and smoke, for those burnt alive is truly in poor fashion." She notices eyes upon her countenance, and turns her head to look at the interloper, one eyebrow cocked, "Would you not agree, dear?" Her voice drips honey, though mustering it has become a bit of a hardship. Even if Jacaera does not make a spectacle of herself crying at altars, a feeling, cold and slimy, grips at her heart all the same.
the vigil offered no peace, only a suffocating heat that clung to nerissa’s damp skin. she had fled the nave not out of boredom, but necessity; the air inside was thick with myrrh and frankincense, a cloying sweetness that sat heavy in her throat, dangerously similar to the milk of the poppy she had been denying herself for thirty agonizing days. her body was in revolt—her hands trembling beneath the folds of her emerald silk, her blood itching with a hunger she could not feed. she felt raw, exposed, a nerve ending left open to the salt air. and then, she appeared. jacaera. the princess who was once a friend, then a judge, and now a mirror reflecting everything nerissa had failed to be. nerissa braced herself for the sting. she heard the honey in the princess’s voice and felt the phantom prick of the thorn. she knew what jacaera saw: the redness rimming nerissa’s eyes, the uncharacteristic disarray of her curls, the sheen of sweat that no amount of rosewater or perfume could mask. she looked like a ruin standing before a statue. gods save house tyrell, she imagined jacaera thinking. they have traded a golden sun for a withered, trembling weed.
she dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, fighting the shame she had carried since her dismissal when bowing her head. only then did she force her spine straight, the first act of the worthy heir she promised she would become."i find comfort in it," lady tyrell confessed softly, contradicting the royal commentary with a fragility she would usually mask in wine. she faced jacaera, her skin pale and damp with sweat, but she held her ground. "the smoke masks the smell of the city, and the candles… we need the light, your grace. duskendale is grey enough without extinguishing the only brightness we have left to offer them. it is for the living, i think, not the dead." she took a breath, the air rattling in her chest, and offered a smile that was more wound than warmth. "it is a relief to see you, princess. truly," she lied, or perhaps she didn't; there was a comfort in the familiarity of jacaera's judgment amidst a sea of strangers. "though i wish it were not in the shadow of such pyres. the realm bleeds for your brother... just as highgarden bleeds for mine. but i am truly sorry for your loss."
˚‧｡⋆🏵️⋆｡‧˚ LADY NERISSA TYRELL of HIGHGARDEN attends the season within the capital! before the court, they are VIVACIOUS and BOLD. but every man has his shadows, and when darkness descends, they are HEDONISTIC and RECKLESS. another face appears in duskendale, reminiscent of sneaking out to venture into secret revels; a trail of highborn suitors forsaken for the company of whores; the cloying scent of opium clinging to a gown, but what can they possibly hope to achieve in the aftermath of the flames? to fit in her late brother's large shoes as the new heir despite her bad reputation and help her parents make highgarden the new capital. gods protect them from these dark winds. —ALISHA BOE, 30, CIS FEMALE & SHE/HER ˚‧｡⋆🏵️⋆｡‧˚
face claim : alisha boe. height : 5'4" / 163 cm. build : voluptuous and soft, a short stature. hair : a cascade of dark, unruly curls often pinned back with flowers and jewelry or left wild after a long night. eye colour : dark brown. complexion : warm and brown. clothing : when in court, she favors the daring fashions of the capital blended with the floral luxuries of the reach, bodices rich in embroidery of flowers and birds and fruits, and jewelry. scar(s) : a small, faint scar on her knee from a drunken fall. signature scent : damask roses, stale arbor gold, and the hazy aroma of milk of the poppy.
full name : nerissa tyrell. nickname(s) : nissa. birth place : highgarden. age : 30. gender : cis female, she/her. orientation : lesbian. house : tyrell. occupation : heir to highgarden. likes : arbor gold, sleeping past noon, strawberries, the numbing haze of the poppy, women with soft hands, secret revels and masquerades. dislikes : hangovers, the screaming of infants, snakes, the sight of a septa’s veil, leaving a party before dawn. type : esfp—the entertainer. temperament : sanguine-melancholic. positive(s) : vivacious, bold, astute, captivating. negative(s) : hedonistic, reckless, vindictive, machiavellian. character inspo : charlotte wells (harlots), kendall roy (succession), juan borgia (the borgias).
˚‧｡⋆🏵️⋆｡‧˚ BIOGRAPHY ˚‧｡⋆🏵️⋆｡‧˚
tw: death in childbith. blood. emotional abuse.
i. a mother's warning: to the realm, lady megga tyrell was a paragon of maternal virtue, a saint who suffered quietly for her house. megga loved her husband, lord lorent, but she resented the physical toll his love exacted. too proud to complain to a man who would not understand, she poured her bitterness into the only vessel small enough to hold it: her daughter. by the time nerissa could walk and talk, she was a fixture at her mother’s vanity, a silent audience to a daily ritual of grief. megga would trace the silver stretch marks on her stomach, the rounder, fuller waist that took shape since the birth of her boy, while nerissa watched and listened to her laments. then she would sit the girl upon her lap, brushing her hair with aggressive strokes, whispering about the youthful figure she had lost. “you are new,” she would whisper, her hands trembling as she fixed her braids. “and because you are new, i must be old. that is the way of things.” she taught nerissa that a woman’s worth is tied entirely to her beauty, and that aging is a failure of character. “do not let them trap you,” she would warn, her voice a mix of love and malice. “once you are a mother, you are no longer a person. you are just the soil for someone else’s roots.”
but the lesson only culminated in the year nerissa turned four. lord lorent was miles away, resolving pressing matters of the reach personally. megga felt the crushing weight of her duty and dragged nerissa into the center of it. claiming that she wanted her daughter to witness the glory of the mother, but in truth, she wanted a silent witness to her selfless sacrifice of birthing yet another sturdy, healthy heir to highgarden. nerissa watched with wide, terrified eyes as the labor stole the last of her lady mother’s strength. the linens turned a violent crimson, soaking up the life of the woman who had feared fading away, only to be erased completely by the act of giving life. megga died bringing rosalei into the world, leaving nerissa alone in a room that smelled of copper and sweat.
ii. the spoils of grief: the soil was fresh over megga's grave when the new lady tyrell arrived. to lord lorent, she was a second chance; to nerissa, she was a blasphemy. it felt like a grand erasure. paintings were moved, drapes were changed, and a new scent filled the solar where her lady mother used to sleep. nerissa fought to keep megga's ghost alive by rejecting the living woman who took her place. the stepmother was patient at first, seeing the grief behind the rage, but even saints have limits. after years of slammed doors and cruel words, the woman washed her hands of the "trouble child." she stopped asking about nerissa’s day; she stopped trying to braid her hair. the silence that followed was deafening. nerissa had won the war, but the victory felt like abandonment. she realized then that she was truly motherless, not just bereft of the dead, but rejected by the living.
by the time nerissa turned twenty-one, her sins had long outgrown the shadows. stories of nerissa’s nights in brothels or clandestine revels and her booze/opium-fueled dawns had reached every ear in the reach. patience is a finite resource, even for a father. and she was a woman of thirty now. so, spurred by a wife who saw nerissa as a rotting limb that needed amputation, lord lorent finally drew his line in the sand. the conversation was brief and brutal: cease the madness, or take the holy vows. the sept of highgarden was prepared to receive her, to shear her hair and scrub the rebellion from her soul. for a woman who lived for pleasure, the prospect of a life of prayer was a fate worse than death. her father would strip her of her title, her inheritance, and the whims of the court. nerissa looked at lord lorent tyrell and saw a man pushed to the brink; she knew with chilling certainty that he was no longer bluffing.
iii. black wings & dark winds: but fate intervened in the grimmest way possible before her father could even sign the order for her exile. news of the calamity traveled on black wings: an explosion of emerald fire had wiped king’s landing from the map. the scope of the tragedy was unimaginable, a city of stone turned to a crater. taking the king, the council, and the visiting nobility with it. but amidst the lists of dead lords and ladies, one name stood out in stark ink. willam. her beloved, sweet, darling brother. the one who had always been perfect, just so she didn't have to be. who had bore alone the weight of responsability and consequence since he were but a boy, taking upon himself to shield his sister's faults; the one person who still believed there was some good in her, some way to fix the mistakes she'd made... gone. that person was gone. without even so much a hair from his head left to bury. highgarden's heir had been claimed by the ashes, leaving the spares behind to pick up the pieces of a broken house. nerissa was granted the mercy of not being sent away only by grief's sake, since her lord father couldn't bear to lose another child.
the explosion burned away the girl who ran from duty, leaving a woman who must run toward it. nerissa is the heir now, and the weight of it nearly crushes her. every moment is a battle against the sickness in her blood, the craving for the poppy, but she swallows the scream and straightens her spine. the realm is bleeding, and the boy-king daemon needs a home. nerissa envisions the court moving to the mander, protected by highgarden’s labyrinthine briars and slender towers. it is a bold play, one sustained by her family and advisors. but to show her father she is serious, she offers herself as a piece on the board. she will accept a match, ending her years of rebellion, on the strict condition that her partner is a woman. she will rule, she will serve, but she will not bear children; that duty, and the future of the house, she entrusts to rosalei.
˚‧｡⋆🏵️⋆｡‧˚ CONNECTIONS ˚‧｡⋆🏵️⋆｡‧˚
megga tyrell (neé ?): lady mother, 33, lady of highgarden (died 26 years ago)
lorent tyrell: lord father, 65, lord paramount of the mander.
willam tyrell: eldest brother, 35, late heir to highgarden (lost to the wildfire)
rosalei tyrell: younger sister, 26, lady of highgarden. nerissa's heir.
lady tyrell (neé ?): stepmother, her lord father's spouse. enemy.
step-siblings: children of the current lady of highgarden and lord lorent.
friends: people she met in court, or during those clandestine parties/masquerades she went to. people who would either indulge her in bad habits or try to warn her off of it. these people would have to be nearly saints or superficial connections because she is a very absent & selfish person. (open ?/?)
frenemies: it's not easy being friends with someone like nerissa. specially before the death of her brother, when she was still indulging freely in her addictions and hedonistic behavior. she could have been an asshole to people in multiple occasions. maybe someone she stopped talking to after they got married because in her eyes they would stop being cool. (open ?/?)
love affairs: there's lots of room for that here. bring over your girls! (open ?/?)
˖°𓇼🌊⋆🦀.𓇼 𓂃 𓈒𓏸 LADY AELINA VELARYON (neé CELTIGAR) of DRIFTMARK attends the season within the capital! before the court, they are FAR-SIGHTED and SHREWD. but every man has his shadows, and when darkness descends, they are OPPORTUNISTIC and BEGUILING. another face appears in duskendale, reminiscent of three withered crowns of love and beauty nailed to a wall, the rhythmic stroke of a brush through copper curls, and a lilac gaze where ambition lurks and rattles. but what can they possibly hope to achieve in the aftermath of the flames? to ensure her son daeron's claim as heir of driftmark and to marry her daughter saera to the king. gods protect them from these dark winds. 𓈒𓏸 𓂃𓇼.🦀⋆🌊𓇼°˖
face claim : alina kovalenko. height : 5'9" / 175 cm. build : slender and tall, with soft curves. hair : hip-length, straight at the roots but curling at the ends, the color of copper under the sun with a single, striking streak of silver-gold. eye colour : pale lilac. complexion : fair, prone to flushing, with a dusting of freckles across her face and body due too long exposure to the sunlight. clothing : she wears the wealth of driftmark with beautiful silks in sea-green and teal and gold (amongst other colors as well), draped with generous amounts of jewelry. her wardrobe is extravagant, deliberate and expensive, with elaborate hairstyles braided by several of her handmaidens. aelina has never learned modesty, being raised spoiled and adored. scar(s) : none. signature scent : sea salt, rosewater and sandalwood.
name : aelina velaryon (née celtigar). nickname(s) : lina, the queen of love and beauty. birth place : claw isle. age : 33. gender : cis female, she/her. orientation : bisexual. house : velaryon (by marriage), celtigar (by birth). role : lady of driftmark. likes : dancing, strawberry cakes, her children, her siblings and cousins, court gossip. dislikes : the queen mother, her husband, being ignored, being told no. type : infj—the advocate. temperament : phlegmatic-melancholic. positive(s) : charming, observant, resilient, graceful, calculated. negative(s) : deceptive, ruthless, vengeful, vain. character inspo : margaery tyrell (got), gertrude (hamlet), catelyn tully (asoiaf), viserra targaryen (asoiaf), shiera seastar (asoiaf).
˖°𓇼🌊⋆🦀.𓇼 𓂃 𓈒𓏸 BIOGRAPHY 𓈒𓏸 𓂃𓇼.🦀⋆🌊𓇼°˖
i. the crab & the trout: born the youngest daughter of house celtigar, aelina was a striking contradiction from birth. she carried the blood of old valyria in her veins, evident in the lilac of her gaze and the silver streak that defied her mother’s auburn locks. to temper this fire with mainland grace, she was fostered at riverrun during her early adolescence, under the roof of her mother’s cousin, the lord paramount of the riverlands. it was a court of pleasure and excess, governed by a lord more interested in hedonism than ruling. in this environment, aelina did not learn to wield a sword, but a far more dangerous weapon: charm. she watched the court consume itself with desire and realized early on that she didn’t need to demand things; she simply needed to make people want to give them to her. she mastered the arts of the “perfect lady"—embroidery, dance, and etiquette—while quietly sharpening a keen political mind. she was scholarly, soft-spoken, and utterly captivating, learning that a smile could open doors that a battering ram could not.
ii. the three crowns: her beauty was not just noticed; it was celebrated. she collected admirers and suitors, both men and women, wherever she went. bards sang of her, poets wove eloquent words about her, artists would have her as their muse; her beauty and allure compared to that of shiera seastar. by the time she was a woman grown, she had been crowned the queen of love and beauty three times in different torneys of court, a rare feat that stoked the ambitions of her house. at 16, she was crowned by a minor lord, a youthful fancy that her parents quietly dismissed (open for plotting.) at 18, she was crowned by another champion (open for plotting). and the final crown was bestowed by victor velaryon, the ruling lord of driftmark.
iii. the seahorse bride: with the king already wed to a baratheon, aelina’s father secured the greatest remaining alliance available: house velaryon. she married victor, and what began as a duty blossomed into a genuine, happy partnership. they ruled driftmark together, their union blessed with three children: their heir corlys, and years later, the twins daeron and saera. for a decade, aelina’s life was a golden dream of wealth, love, and stability.
iv. the green fire: the dream ended in 365 ac. aelina, victor, and their eldest son, twelve-year-old corlys, were in king’s landing when the skies turned an unnatural green. the destruction of king’s landing consumed the city in wildfire, taking the king, the court, and thousands of souls. aelina survived by fate’s hand, when she decided to stay in driftmark with the twins instead of going with her husband and firstborn, but a piece of her soul remained in the ashes: victor and young corlys were lost to the flames.
v. the usurpation: aelina received the news by raven, becoming a widow overnight and shattering into her grief. little did she know there was an enemy waiting under her own roof. her husband’s brother—a person who had always lived in victor’s shadow—seized the moment. citing the "instability of the realm” and the infancy of the surviving heir daeron, this brother-in-law usurped the seat, declaring himself the ruling lord of driftmark. aelina saw the writing on the wall: displaced heirs often suffer tragic accidents. to save her twins, she dried her tears and walked into the lion’s den. she approached the usurper not with anger, but with a seductress’s whisper. “you must have known, deep down,” she lied, “that i always wanted you, but i was bound by duty to your brother.” she weaponized his long-standing envy and lust, manipulating him into marriage to secure her position and her children’s safety.
vi. the duskendale coronation: now, as the realm gathers at duskendale for the coronation of king daemon i targaryen, aelina plays the role of the devoted wife to a spouse she loathes. but beneath the facade, she is a mother at war. she has allied with the regent to broker a match that will restore her control over house velaryon for good: betrothing her six years old daughter, saera, to the new king daemon. it is a perfect match of age and blood. and if she succeeds, she will be the mother of the future queen. and once her children are safe under this alliance with the crown, she intends to ensure her usurping spouse meets a “tragic accident” of his own.
˖°𓇼🌊⋆🦀.𓇼 𓂃 𓈒𓏸 CONNECTIONS 𓈒𓏸 𓂃𓇼.🦀⋆🌊𓇼°˖
victor velaryon (deceased): her late husband, 36, lost in the wildfire.
corlys velaryon (deceased): her firstborn son, 12, lost in the wildfire.
the current lord of driftmark: her current husband and former brother-in-law.
daeron velaryon: her surviving son, 6, the true heir to driftmark.
saera velaryon: her daughter, 6, whom she wants to make queen.
house celtigar: her house by birth. her eldest brother is ruling lord of claw isle.
house tully: her maternal kin, with whom she grew up with for a part of her life.
royal regent: she has allied herself with them to wed her daughter to the king.
friends: aelina is a well-traveled and fairly social person, who enjoys attending court events. she would have a circle of friends from across the realm. open (?/?)
exes: aelina used to be quite the flirt before she got wed to her late husband, with an extensive list of admirers and a few fleeting affairs. this could've been either a casual fling or they used to have a romantic connection. open (?/?)
frenemies/enemies: queen cyrenna baratheon. her husband.
secret affair: aelina loathes her current husband. and to feel like she's taking back some agency over her own body and herself, she will find another lover. if it's someone from her past or one of the champions who crowned her queen of love and beauty, even better! preferably female/nb characters, in which case it would have to have been a mystery champion at the time it happened. open (0/1)
— 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝘂𝗰𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗿𝘀 ꗃ 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖺 𝖻𝗈𝖾 . by clicking on the source link , you'll be redirected to ( 282 ) gifs of alisha boe in the buccaneers , s01 ( 2023 ) ! they were born in 1997 & are of somali & white descent , please cast accordingly . all of these gifs are made from scratch . you may edit these , but do not claim as your own . this pack is free & accessible through a page & zip file .
"Highgarden is rightly hailed as the most beautiful castle in all the realm... Its great keep sits upon a broad verdant hill overlooking the Mander, ringed by three concentric walls of white stone, each one higher and thicker than the one below it. Between the outermost wall that girdles the foot of the hill and the middle wall above it can be found Highgarden’s famed briar maze, a vast and complicated labyrinth of thorns and hedges maintained for centuries for the pleasure and delight of the castle’s occupants and guests... and for defensive purposes. Within the castle walls, greenery abounds, and the keeps are surrounded by gardens, arbors, pools, fountains, courtyards, and man-made waterfalls... The keep is a palace like few others, filled with statues, colonnades, and fountains... Highgarden is filled with flowers, singers, pipers, fiddlers, and harpers. Highgarden’s tallest towers, round and slender, look down upon neighbors far more ancient, square and grim in appearance, the oldest of them dating from the Age of Heroes... The castle sept... is rivaled only by that of the Great Sept of Baelor... and the castle godswood contains three ancient weirwoods known as the Three Singers."
“Claw Isle was heavily garrisoned, its castle reputedly stuffed with Myrish carpets, Volantene glass, gold and silver plate, jeweled cups, magnificent hawks, an axe of Valyrian steel, a horn that could summon monsters from the deep, chests of rubies, and more wines than a man could drink in a hundred years.”
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