* woman / warrior.

lightning flashes against your teeth and thunder rumbles through your throat. there is power in the sound and you hold it in your mouth like a kiss not yet given. ─ l.s aregelle baratheon. lady regent. a storm.

[stagsouled]

S T O R M B O R N

i am not a woman born easy to swallow     i’ve never known an ‘in between’. i exist only in extremities,             as a forest fire, or a hurricane,                     never as a light summer rain.

[stagsouled]

L A E N A H

Upon arrival at the tourney, Laenah had felt a sense of regret that she had been unable to get away from her home soon enough to take part in the archery tournament as she had so desired but she had reconciled herself with that fact when she realised there was still much to see and do. Everything about the North both fascinated her and set her almost horribly off guard when it was a stark difference to the Westerlands that she was so used to. Her sense of regret had faded to wonder and then just as she was beginning to feel at ease came the stabbing of despair. Death was something of a fact of life for her but the brutality of the murders and the suddenness of them had struck her to her core.

Since then she had tried to keep to herself and help where she could but there seemed little that House Sarsfield could do other than offer support and a listening ear. There had been no need for her to ask sympathetic or remind herself to keep up her crafted facade when her heart went out to each and every one of the victims. Death might have been familiar to her, an unwavering constant in her life when it had been so full of upheaval, but that did not mean that it was ever welcome. The solace of her room was what she craved after a few hours of comforting the grieving.

Second left, first right, third door down. In the maze of Winterfell that was how she made sure that she had found the correct room. Except when she pushed the door it was not empty as she had expected but occupied. Dark eyes widened and lips curved into an o of surprise. “Please forgive me.” Eyes get cast downwards to give the occupant some privacy and a step back is taken as she gives some sort of explanation for her intrusion. “I am still trying to find my way around and while I have never had cause to doubt it before, my sense of direction seems to have abandoned me.”

( ⚔*°*. ) → mornings and evenings had seen an i n f l u x of men calling upon her attention, having been beckoned to the frozen tundra of the northernmost kingdom by call of duty to their liege lady yet parting with a lost heavy upon the heart. the promise of glory to be found had enticed the young lord bolling to accompany her, leaving behind newly wedded wife with a p l e d g e to return with pockets bursting with gold. he had meant to build her a castle, the lord boasted on their travels, and laughter had filled the camp at such an audacious idea, at such youth. fingers shook as stilted letter had been written to the widow, sending f o r m a l words of finality and hefty sum of coin in place of a body, promising revenge and answers. the last of her lords had taken the oath and wished luck in the search for the malefactor of such heinous act, assistance having been sworn to the king and cousin, should the need arise.

    ( blade had been stained with the c r i m s o n of his enemies and aregelle would stand by him once more, to battle with word and steel against those who would see his crown topple before cranium had even molded to fit gaudy symbol. )

    door creaked with a pressure meaning to pry open and experience called for c a u t i o n as her figure twisted at the waist to greet intruder with furrowed brows. “the north is known to be a maze, my lady.” childhood had been spent losing her way between the labyrinths of winterfell with a wooden sword between grasp, daring to breach the s a n c t i t y of the crypts only once before a gust of wind had scared her away. temptation to venture to the land of the dead once more, now a woman grown, danced in the back of her thoughts. tattered quill was given place upon the desk as the storm born ascended from seated position.

    “come. i will show you to the rooms you are seeking. it is l u c k you stumbled upon me and not some knight, indecent after a day of training.” the slightest curve of the lip, dead, dead and cold gaze twinkling momentarily with mischief. “or perhaps it was not luck at all?” 

[stagsouled]

L Y A N N A

          Shadows crept around corners, rising like a tidal wave to wash away all beauty and excitement, leaving only destruction in its’ path. Curls had tumbled from her elaborate bun, pins caught midway down the lock, as frantic bodies pushed past her petite body. Crimson smeared across the soft fabric of her cloak, staining it with the terror of the event. A victim had fallen near her, dropping like a sack of potatoes that she herself had never had the displeasure of carrying. Swords in the dark could so easily had struck her, without provocation, ending her before she could rise to power. It had left her with an undisciplined feeling of unease, which caused her to claw for power with accelerated passion. 

Her neck craned to the side, glancing over the figure with subtle suspicion. Trust had evaporated, not that she locked even an ounce beneath her breast. None of the brave knights had been able to prevent the event, or even the Stark’s fearsome direwolves, a blink of an eye had twisted the course of the future. She knew that the North had to come out the strongest, the grotesque murders had been a direct slight against the joy that had been promised. Pressing a hand to her heart, she released a dramatic sigh, “I do hope that the pounding in my chest will soon cease. My gentle sensibilities were not prepared for such a tragic event,” Lyanna declared, moving to touch falling strands. The female Karstark was anything but gentle. 

( ⚔*°*. ) → overemphasized exhalation of breath d e m a n d e d attention from any whose ears were privy to dulcet sounding distress, the apathetic gaze of storm lady slowly sweeping over the entirety of the surrounding area before attention was finally bestowed to the woman by her side, chin inclining in the smallest of n o d s, acknowledging presence though mirth was stampeded into nothingness, lest the noble lady took offense to sudden laughter. it was difficult to find humor either way, though it prickled at the mind; lost was still too dear to the heart and thirst for vengeance still crawled beneath the skin. “you are as gentle as i am g r a c e f u l, my lady.” soft words, so intent could not be taken as insult. the cousin of her half-sister, admiration had been aplenty ( and still was aplenty ) when curious orbs fell upon the slender framework of lyanna karstark.

    a true northern lady; ice beneath the pomp of silk and gems, though perhaps it was presumptuous of her to believe such events could not s h a k e even the strongest of pillars.

    “once grief and shock ebbs away, vengeance will be at the forefront of many hearts. fools will blame the new king for the lack of hindsight.” opinion was freely spoken, though in hushed tones. “i do not l i k e the thought of them returning south with harsh memories of the northern region.” stern features school into genuine curiosity, brow arched at the karstark woman. “you did not lose any men in the attack?”

[stagsouled]

E R O M I R ─

        AN AMUSED BREATH followed her delivery of his designation, but only the hint of a smile tugged at the elder Baratheon’s lineaments. He had relinquished Storm’s End and Dragonstone in favour of verglas and hoarfrost, trading in what he had thought was a shackling existence for one bound in the brittle cage of winter, of obligation. He had flourished as First Ranger among his black-clad brothers, yet now, he found himself ensnared again by the weight of responsibility — by the weight of The Realm entire. It was a deserving answer to the act of selfish abandonment, to his arrogant dismissal of his ancestral House — so, he steeled his stubbled jaw and endured. Eromir would always endure.

He saw her spindly fingers twitch toward the hilt of her blade; he could remember the weight of it, a memory that refused the exiled borders of his mind. Fear had grown in her, a coiling black mass, that he might contest the steel she carried, the vestiges of his father’s empire, the unforgiving masonry of his throne.

“Your sister is wise; you carry the blade, after all.” An eyebrow lifted to punctuate his tilted smirk. “I know no other colour.” Arms made stone from the weight of his greatsword were drawn over his chest, and he forsook his niece’s familiar countenance to search for the crowned wolf among the crowd. “I’d hoped the gesture would help heal what was broken after Astris’ death. I kept my distance from Winterfell when I should have been here for them. Calder’s trust in me was shaken.” He took a breath and exhaled. “He will do well. The North will embrace him, just as they did Elias. A true leader.” Eromir turned his eyes on her once more, his gaze softer, now. “It is good to see you, AREGELLE.”

( ⚔*°*. ) → the tempered house of stags produced c o m m a n d i n g men, broad shouldered giants who towered over the rest of the room with daring bite in the curve of their smiles, an itch for battle constant beneath their skin. it had been impossible to live up to such a legacy, named after the stubborn-jawed durrandon princess that had r e s i s t e d against the invasion of dragons till the very end, surrounded by the tapestries of the great men that had occupied the seat of lord before her. womanhood would always be used against her, a constant reminder that she merely warmed the seat for a brother to assume position in time. the sword strapped to her hip would eventually f a l l upon his shoulders, should he desire to wield the blade of their forefathers. she looked to her uncle and could only see threat, not only to her precarious seat but to the future of a brother that she achingly resented.

    ( it was c r u e l, she knew, to blame him for things that had yet to pass, to see in his presence, the men that had were before her time and those that would come after her ─ to know that she would be but a fleeting mention in the history books by comparison. )

    “i do carry the blade, for n o w.” words were spoken as though she meant to ease the frantic pattering that would sooner claw its way out of her than settle, disquiet emotion seeing an exchange of shadow for the dim cast of lamplight burning bright overhead. searching gaze warmed at the mention of the deceased, the delicacy of the matter d o u s i n g any potential hostility that threatened to spew from barbed tongue. questions of the estranged relative were answered in vague pauses but many had spoken with wistful fondness of the bond shared between siblings ─ there was no imagining the pain he must have felt at the passing of the other half to the pair so vividly r e m e m b e r e d. “he will find it in his heart to move past all faults, in time. he is not unwise or ruled by the change of emotions as his brother was.” the art of comfort had been a trick that remained elusive to her, sincere meaning sounding stilted and vaguely c l i n i c a l whenever attempts had been made. 

    yet an olive branch had been extended in doing so, smiled strained as unfamiliar ties were suddenly forged upon neutral ground. “it is good to see you too... uncle.” gaze moved over the vast room, hoping to find something or someone to settle her sights upon, to make l i g h t of the appellation, hoping to seem unperturbed. “will you stay for long? surely you are allowed some leeway to care for your own matters now.”

[stagsouled]

R O S A M U N D ─

          it was not too long ago that she thought herself so keenly ready to begin the trek that would return her to last hearth. she missed her home― a fortress built of wood and stone― a great deal. although she had enjoyed most of the tournament, she still longed for the familiar woods and mountainsides she had played in as a child. and lady rose truly wished not to leave her cousins in her stead for too long. least they get any unsavory ideas. they had accepted her rule well enough. after all, her father had made it quite clear after the death of her dear little brother that she would be the one to inherit when he broke her betrothal so that she would remain in last hearth. they all had plenty of time to adjust to the idea before her father was lost to them as well. still, she worried from time to time. 

          but it looked like she wouldn’t be returning quite yet. instead, she would remain in winterfell for a time. there was a lot to be said about umbers. their unwavering loyalty to house stark was often at the top of the list. there was little that her father wouldn’t do for elias. such dedication had been instilled in her and her men as well. and so she remained. with the deaths at the tourney, she would offer the aid of house umber to king calder. whatever his will may be, they would see it done.

          however, in this moment, she found herself in the godswood. it felt like the right place to be. sitting in front of the weirwood tree with her sword laying alongside her. her own dress matching the color of the leaves above her and scattered around her feet. rose did not pray often, but she always found peace in the godswood and hoped that today would be no different. she could use an ounce of it before she dared to face any of the lords and ladies among winterfell. the snap of a twig in the distance did not pull her gaze from the face of the tree. she merely called out as the footsteps of another grew closer.

          “ i do hope you were not seeking solitude in the godswood this day, for i fear i have ruined that for you already. ”

( ⚔*°*. ) → she had spoken of bloodshed with no small amount of interest, carefully neutral in the public discourse over the saboteur of the joust and briefly amused despite her lost in the axe-throwing, when a man had lost his arm at the hands of a greyjoy. to many, the stag seemed c o n t e n t with merely observing the squabbles of others, never quite placing her bets on a single house, unpredictable in her support, as though the entire tourney was a game in which lesser men competed in to prove their masculinity. liveliness seemed to return to her gaze, as she was a w a r d e d in archery and it returned again, as her cousin and king battled against his sworn sword in the melee, exuberant cheers leaving her otherwise tightly pursed lips.

    her hands had been quick to grasp the pommel of her father’s sword as shadowy figures commenced their well-planned course of a t t a c k ─ yet before blade could leave scabbard, the harbingers of death disappeared, taking with them the bodies of the deceased. 

    she had spoken with great interest, intrigued at the thought of a war breaking out between lions and dragons on northern soil yet n o t h i n g had prepared her for the blood that soaked through the ground, staining the snow red for days to come. the death of a distant relative, a loyal man, a father to three boys with no body to show for it ─ her fingers shook as a letter was addressed to lord bolling’s widow, sent to the stormlands a l o n g with the prize money she had won from the tourney. a small price to pay as a means of apology though aregelle did not hope to quell the sorrow of such lost with coin.

    “if anyone has ruined the solitude of the day, my lady, it is not certainly not you.” winterfell was so f a r from the sea, with no high peaks to speak of. snow fell to the ground instead of rain and the skies were grey with no thunder rumbling through the clouds. aregelle felt so distant from her gods that she instinctively sought out the gods of her mother ─ older gods, that had made her shiver as a child. “... did you l o s e anyone in the attack?”

[stagsouled]

E R O M I R ─

Castle Black’s adopted son, the true shame of Storm’s End and the House Baratheon, waited in the teeming shadow at the edge of the room’s flickering warmth. The great oaken doors breathed bitterly at the back of his neck, and he tried to banish the unwelcome feelings of fear that bloomed with black petals in his chest. Encroaching vines ensnared his heart and kept his breathing shallow in the midst of this celebration. He trusted his nephew at the helm of the North, his judgement was as resolved as his late Father’s, and his spirit as unforgiving as Astris’ — the stag-born woman who had lost her life to the wolf in her womb. Eromir knew she would have given her life with no thought to see Calder thrive, and he did not fault her for that. It had been her final gift to the Warring Wolf. Alongside his life, she gifted him her strength.

Eromir missed her all the same.

The black web of his thoughts was interrupted for the second time that evening, however, this time, it was by the presence of his niece. When had it last been that he’d seen her? She had grown from the urchin of his memory into a woman, leaving behind breeches and hempen tunics for a fitted and stylish dress. His eyes went straight to the sword at her side, and he felt a touch of relief. “I thought you had traded your steel for silks. I’m pleased to see I was wrong.” Sluices of shadow stole her face from him, but he kept his eyes trained on her figure, waiting for the light to glint in the yolks of her eyes. 

( ⚔*°*. ) → a seemingly innocent greeting of an uncle to his niece, yet instinct had seen her spine straightened nonetheless, the familiar northern lilt of a near-stranger wrapping around the pale column of her neck like a constricting serpent, c h o k i n g all bravado from the very heart of her. fingers twitched in the numerous folds of the ridiculous dress she had been forced into, though there was enough sense left between conflicting thoughts to keep her hand away from the jeweled pommel of her father’s sword ( of her uncle’s sword, should he have desire to c l a i m it, and the stormlands, for his own ─ the thought seemed to choke all rationality from mind ). “lord commander.”

    familial title had teetered on the edge of her tongue, threatening to spill over with uncharacteristic warmth; through narrowed gaze, he looked hazy enough in unfamiliarity to be a s h a d o w of her lord father, should she wish to see it.

    "they seemed content enough to have won the battle of the corsets ─ my sister knows not to ask me to forgo my blade. you are still in the black, i see.” only cassana had been stubborn enough to demand from her and for her troubles, received grudging compromise in the end. “i did not think to look for y o u between the lords and ladies of court but i’m certain calder appreciates your attendance.” 

[setheverman]

why r u so angry.... why do u always look so angry...?

it’s the anger

[stagsouled]

R E Y A N N A ─

Head turns as soon as she hears the familiar voice, an almost warm smile curving onto her lips at the sight of her cousin. There was a closeness between the two of them that she didn’t quite manage to share with her sisters The two of them b o u n d by the weight of the positions they held but also their love for battle as well as simply blood. She took pride in being about to call the Baratheon her cousin and seeing her standing there looking perhaps even more serious than the men who had lined up for the sport, such a feeling only grew. A wry smile soon curves onto her lips, acknowledging both their shortcomings when it came to more ladylike talents. “They still leave something to be desired, yes.” But possessing five sisters meant that she had picked up something.

“Though I am willing to give it a try, if only to prevent my dear cousin from committing murder before she can win the title- it would be rather a shame for it to happen here.”

( ⚔*°*. ) → her mother, on the occasion when the woman had been strong enough to entertain her presence as a child, had spoken about her home in the north with no small amount of f o n d n e s s, longing thick in her frail voice. it had been a pity, father had said, that the woman had only returned to her home in the dreadfort after her death, bones buried beneath the fortress as was their custom. aregelle had stared up at the stone walls with wonder, snow settling into her dark hair as she ran with her cousins, the g h o s t of her mother remembered in the pitch of their laughter and the determination in their shouts. yet as she stood before reyanna, she couldn’t help but look for similarities between them, wondering how much of her forgotten mother she could find in her cousin. 

    “a s h a m e ?” chair was pulled from a corner before weight was disposed onto the seat rather ungracefully, soft sigh escaping pursed lips. “if anything, it might liven things. i’m surprised there hasn’t been a fight between the houses of the south and the north yet. i wanted to see what sort of punishment awaits those who ignore the order of c e a s e f i r e.”

[stagsouled]

S A E R A ─

It was true that the dragon felt most alone in this new age, all the bad blood that had been created was still very much in the air, and Saera sensed eyes piercing her at every turn. She was truly glad to have the stag Regent on her side, and probably trusted her much more than she should, but what was the princess to do about the one true friend she believed she had? She took no offense to the words, and was actually comforted that Aregelle at least brought up the subject.

“It took some convincing, but we are glad she came.” She admitted. “Regardless, we would’ve been here.” Saera added, hoping to soften the slight blow she made towards her mother. Perhaps she tiptoed too much around her mother. The dragon princess gave a small laugh and nod. “Yes, it seems there are many here who have celebrated quite a bit.” She bit her lip at the next question and gave a small shrug. “I managed to run into the prince, but we were able to stay civil, at least in action. I cannot say that I didn’t speak somewhat harshly to him.” She tensed a bit at the thought, but tried to remain her composure. It did no good for a dragon to start a fire from within.

( ⚔*°*. ) → she looked at the dragon princess and saw potential to be greater than she was currently ─ potential that was h i n d e r e d by a grieving mother and the mistakes of dragons in the past. aregelle was not so foolish as to believe the targaryens truly defeated and she wondered at the woman the princess could be, given the right advice.

    ( of course, she was not about to give advice to someone who might use it against her. beyond that, she d e s i r e d the crownlands for herself and would not equip the dragon princess with the blade that could be the end to her ambitions. )

    “it is important that you remain a show of force, even in the north, princess. the vultures wait for you to make a m i s t a k e so that they can dismiss you as they do your mother. you must not allow that.” she hoped the advice would sweeten the thought of her ( and the stormlands ) in the plans of dragons, whatever those plans might be. “then you are a greater woman than i am. we stags are known for our t e m p e r s ─ i cannot say i could have resisted slapping him, were i in your place.”

[stagsouled]

( ⚔*°*. ) → purposeful s t r i d e s were taken towards the communing area where the contestants of the axe-throwing event were supposed to gather to be separated into various divisions, ranging from lesser skilled green-boys to more experienced warriors. aregelle did not doubt that there would be no gender-bias found in the north but she still made a show of s t r a p p i n g her axes to her back, a solid showing as well as a threat to anyone who would be foolish enough to remark on her appearance ─ she still had her hair loose around her shoulders, having not found her sister to assist in braiding it back. “cousin!” loud call rang throughout the area as she d i v e r t e d in her path to the woman with familiar gaze, genuine smile across her features.

    “are your braiding skills still dismal, reyanna? i cannot find alysana and if another man laughs at the state of me, i might start throwing axes and it won’t be at the targets.”

@reyannabolton

[stagsouled]

K A R O L I N A ─

Events were Karolina’s strong suit, it was only a matter of time until she put names to faces her tutors had drilled into her mind. It must be important for the Lannisters to be here, especially how far away Casterly Rock was to this tundra. She hadn’t seen any of the wolves or dragons up close, and she was beginning to wonder whether or not her siblings had the same fortune. Taking her seat at the tourney, Karolina was shocked that houses actually obeyed the seize fire. As a princess, there was no way she could have participated- even if she was rather good at horseback riding. She could only imagine the heart attack her mother would have if she tried to participate. “I haven’t even met this new Wolf King,” Karolina noted to herself quietly as she looked around curiously. Looking at the person next to her, she gave a small smile. “Who are you rooting for?” Hopefully, she could have some company for the event. 

( ⚔*°*. ) → her body had been released from the c o n f i n e s of corset and silk and aregelle was now in her element, breeches clinging to her legs and tunic flowing loose around her waist. there was no judgment to be held in the north regarding a woman with a sword and for that she was thankful. she had sent her squire to enter her name in a few events, driven by her desire to support the new king’s reign rather than the rather hefty champion’s purse ( though she did have p l a n s for what to do with the prize, if she did win ) ─ anticipation made her restless and she made her way to where the preliminary rounds for horse-riding were taking place, seating herself down by a golden lady, no doubt from the south. “he is nothing but a gracious and kind king, believe me.” a wry smile twisted at the corners of her lips as she turned to face whoever spoke to her. “there is no one of worth riding today ─ this is simply the first day courtesies for the y o u n g e r ones to get some experience. you do not ride, my lady?”

[crownlessrp-blog1]

“ I HAVE NO LONGER THE STRENGTH TO ACT WHAT I DO NOT FEEL. ” - Anais Nin

FULL NAME: Aregelle Baratheon

AGE: Twenty-six

HOUSE: Baratheon

TITLE: Lady Regent of House Baratheon, ruling in her brother’s stead.

OCCUPATION / VOCATION: Lady Regent

ORIGIN: The Stormlands — has ties to the North and House Bolton from her mother’s side.

CURRENT RESIDENCE: Storm’s End, The Stormlands

ALLEGIANCE: House Baratheon

TRAITS:

+ Steadfast, Courageous, Honorable

- Inflexible, Biased, Judgmental

BIOGRAPHY:

A flash of yellow struck at highest tip of Durran’s Point, lightning up the surrounded areas and charring the ground black. Storm Born, the people had taken to calling her, for the babe had hair as dark as the raging sky that had heralded her birth and her gaze was as bright ( as pale, as piercing ) as the bolt of lightning that had greeted her in welcome, mouth parted in a scream as she writhed against bloodied sheets ─ returning the welcome with a roar of her own. The castle shook with her cries, unending and in tune with the storm overhead ─ her father had taken her to the charred ground of Durran’s Point, allowing the soot of the earth, the spray of saltwater from the seas and the clean rain water from above to baptize his daughter in the faith of the Storm God, in hopes to appease the raging deity.

Aregelle, she was called, after the loyal and willful Argella Durrandon ─ her father bore hope that she would grow to be just as stubbornly loyal to her family as her namesake had been. ( He did not know of the storm that had nestled deep in her body, hiding in the places between bone and flesh, waiting to be roused from tentative rest or he might have named her Elenei, daughter of the wind and the sea. )

It was expected, she had been told, that her mother was weakened by her birth ─ it was not easy, birthing a storm and when her care was placed in the hands of her father and sister, Aregelle lacked for nothing beyond fond memory of the woman with pale blue eyes and cold hands. It was expected, she told her father, that she did not grieve at her mother’s passing ─ Aregelle remembered nothing and so there was nothing to cry for. ( Seemingly unaffected, she did not speak of the blood red dreams that chased after her as a child ─ of a woman, blue and cold as ice, calling for a Storm Born girl and of sheets, stained red, wrapped around her throat. )

Childhood had bittersweet, filled with days spent by her father’s side, riding wildly through the barren fields of the land with her sister and reading softly to her youngest brother, when he had been born. ( An eventful birth, as hers had been and as Alysana’s must have been ─ full of rage and the roar of thunder and the death of a mother to pay for the life of a child. ) Steffon had been the only thing that had gentled the wild storm she had grown into, softened features meant only for the youngest child and the elder sister, a blossoming loyalty burning through her veins as she grew.

( It was loyalty that colored her words, urging her father to take up sword and stand by their Stark brethren against the Frey troops. Loyalty and rage, blind and reckless as all Baratheons were prone to being ─ she does not regret the action, only the price she had been forced to pay. )

The earth was stained red as her father was carried from the battlefield to the coffin, dying with a sword in his hand as he had desired and leaving behind a young heir and two daughters, ripe for the plucking. His death stirred unease and whispers of rebellion against her people and to silence them, her sister had made the decision to marry a Lord Estermont, cementing their position as daughters of the Storm and ruling House of the Storm Lands. Alysana’s marriage had placed her in a position of power, holding title of Lady Regent until her brother came of age ─ a place she had no desire for yet could not refuse.

( How could she refuse to do her duty, when her sister has done hers? )

She grew into a dangerous woman both on and off the field of battle, wielding her father’s sword and her mother’s sharp tongue as weapons against those who would strike her from exalted position. She had been counseled by the best men in her land on matters of allegiance and cleverly keeps a tentative peace with the neighboring dragons while maintaining loyalty to the North, feeding information to her cousin regarding the southern quarrels whenever possible. Upon first glance, the Baratheons of the Storm Lands seem unattached to any side, offering help and sheltering refugees whenever possible but only few knew of her desire to one day take hold of the Crownlands as dragons and lions battle among each other, patiently waiting till the right moment arrived ─ at which, ambition would see her unite the South and the North together, the stags and wolves ushering in a new era for all the lands.

FACECLAIM: Morgane Polanski

[stagsouled]

V A Y O N ─

The purpose of Vayon’s visit here rested on his respect for the soon-to-be-crowned King in the North, and the duty of representing the Kingdom of the Isles at an event of this historic magnitude, but that didn’t mean he was necessarily enjoying himself. He had somehow been separated from his sister, his only ally to make snide comments about the southerners to, and had not consumed nearly enough ale to be having a good enough time to forget that nearly half the pairs of eyes staring at him in the banquet hall thought him a barbarian and a savage. 

When the room toasted to the new king, Vayon, rowdy as ever, had joined in the chant, but had taken a moment afterwards to utter a prayer to his Drowned God that Calder Stark’s reign be a fruitful one for their northern allies, or soon to be allies, if Vayon’s negotiations proved successful. Iron fit with ice like a puzzle, but for now, the iron in him craved fresh air and a break from the ceaseless nattering of the finely dressed lords and ladies around him. 

Retreating back to the shadows felt like returning to safety under a shield against a volley of arrows, and he was surprised he was not the only one to have had this idea. “Is there room back here for one more to hide?” He said, a gravelly amused laugh, quiet though it was, accompanying his smirk. “Or should I find another uninhabited pocket of shadow to call my own?”

( ⚔*°*. ) → bloodied hands had offered up the heart of a stag to the storm god the night braddock stark was s e n t e n c e d to his demise, shaking fingers reaching for the lightning that flashed overhead, begging that calder’s sword struck true and through his tyrant brother ─ when news of braddock’s death and calder’s coronation reached the stormlands, weeks had passed and aregelle nearly wept in relief, knowing the north was now within capable, strong hands. not many knew of her true loyalty to the wolves ( and to calder, m o s t of all ) and might have seen her quick retreat to the shadows, lips barely touching the rim of her chalice, as scorn upon his sudden ascension.

    tall figure approached and lips parted, ready to defend her actions, though firm rebuke was silenced upon tongue at his words, lips lifting ever-so-slightly in amusement as she shifted to face the other, as well as give him space to j o i n her in the dim crevice.

    “i believe all other secret hideouts are otherwise occupied.” dark gaze blatantly searched his person for any semblance of a threat ─ she knew him to be a greyjoy and while the stormlands were not in any quarrel with the iron islands in present time, h i s t o r y had seen them at each other’s throats. “are you not enjoying yourself, prince? or do the stares of others push you to the comforts of the dark?”

[stagsouled]

S A E R A ─

The princess glowed at seeing a familiar and friendly face as she was approached by a friend of her families. This place seemed so full of strangers, not quite enemies, but not anyone she really felt comfortable with or that she could trust. She hoped Aregelle would help her find some strength this night as she knew she had to represent the Targaryen household well.

“Lady Regent.” Saera smiled brightly at the Baratheon woman. “I would love to.” She crossed her arm with the others, before turning to her mother. “I will be back soon.” She stated, before walking off. “I could use a barrel of hippocras right about now.” She sighed, feeling the weight of the evening coming down on her, counting down the moments until the night ended. “You look lovely as ever. How do you fair tonight?”

( ⚔*°*. ) → her father had made p e a c e with the dragon queen decades prior and it seemed that despite his death and the queen’s slow decline into a grief-induced insanity, their children would continue such a tentatively struck agreement until better offers were made. the dragons did not have many friends, she knew this as well, and so milked the opportunity for what it was worth. there was no animosity between the two houses but aregelle was an ambitious little thing and placed her bets on whichever side was winning ─ at the moment, the dragons s e e m e d victorious while the lions licked at their wounds but things were always changing and so was she.

    “i am glad to see that the queen has made the trip. i did not expect to see her grace here.” soft words, so that intention would not be m i s t a k e n. “as expected ─ i keep to the shadows and stay away from the drunkards, as many. beyond that, it is a calm evening.” a boring event, though she did not dare say so. she did not want to ruin calder’s coronation, despite desire to be entertained. “has... has anyone been giving you trouble, princess? i saw the lion’s banner flying earlier this evening ─ if anything does happen, w e are here for you and your mother.”

[stagsouled]

S A E R A ─

“Mother, you have to at least try to pretend you’re happy to be here.” Saera explained in a kind and hushed voice, although inside she was frustrated. Her mother, a powerful dragon queen, was exposing her weakness, and was crumbling right before her. The princesses words were met with silence and after a moment, she sighed. “Fine, I’ll go get us something to drink then.” She said, taking off.

Saera felt a bit lost, completely unsure of where to even go as it was her first time in not just Winterfell, but all of the North. The grand room was bustling with people, but she seemed to be unable to find anyone for help, so she attempted to catch the attention of a nearby person, who looked kind enough to ask. “Pardon, do you know who I should ask for some refreshments? I can’t seem to find anyone here.”

( ⚔*°*. ) → soft whisper in the ear had alerted her to the presence of the dragon queen and her daughter, so far from their t r e m u l o u s seat upon the throne and in the realm of direwolves ─ she knew that the princess would be looking for a familiar face in a sea of cold strangers and enemies ( she had seen the gold and red of the lannister banner as she rode through the gates and had smiled; how f u n this coronation could be, if dragons and lions spat at each other to entertain the guests ). aregelle was not fond of niceties, hailing from a land where words were spoken candidly, fought over and then forgotten in laughter ─ the only slight was an u n s p o k e n slight in the stormlands, where men settled things with the blade and lost was taken in good humor. yet she must try, if only to keep with appearances.

    “princess saera.” she was not a smiling woman, though the corners of her lips lifted ever-so slightly as she dropped into a bow before the princess. “i believe there was talk of hippocras further down the hall. i was just about to go venturing for it, if you would like to j o i n me?” soft question poised, arm extended.

[stagsouled]

( ⚔*°*. ) → had she been younger, a girl who was sheltered beneath her father’s indulgent shadow, she would have protested against the p i n c h of the corset and the billow of the skirts that accompanied her every step. had she been younger, with a father still breathing, she would have arrived in breeches and an embellished tunic, knowing her cousin would not care for the supposed insult ─ she had lifted a sword by his side, surely what she wore held little importance in comparison to her a c t i o n s. painfully, aregelle had been reminded that she now carried the reputation of her land upon her back as well as the future reign of her brother and she would not, could not do anything to jeopardize or shame their family. 

    ( the jolt of thunder that rang through her ears c u r s e d at the thought ─ as though she had ever shamed her father, as though she needed to be chided by her councilors. )

    against their wishes, she had not relinquished her blade, finding comfort in resting her hand u p o n the pommel as chalice was lifted to her lips. the dark liquid within did not meet her tongue, gaudy carrier of wine shielding most of her face as she peered over the rim, watching for a moment before words fell from wickedly curled lips. “the north has now been blessed with a new king, a strong king ─ long live the king!” resounding cheers from the men that had followed her echoed down the table and she retreated to the shadows immediately after, having completed the task e x p e c t e d of her. 

[valyrianpoem]

list of costumes

character: Milady de Winter; series: The Musketeers, 2014; appearance: season 2, episode 9; period: 1640s.