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#ˢᵗᵉᵍᵍʳ ______ liege jocelyn baratheon, the sable doe of storm's end, as written for @103ac. dni if not affiliated with the group.

#( pinned. )#( annie _ twenty1+ _ gmt+8 _ permaisuri on discord. )#( dni. )

arcan3ly

there was once a time when they were marked to be wed. now, looking back, steffon could not believe anybody with sane mind had made such a decision. they knew that their little escapade had done the two of them a world of good. a shattered betrothal, on paper, was something heinous, but those which such understandings did not know jocelyn and steffon like each other did. from the rubble of an abandoned marriage a friendship had been constructed ; it was why his mossy eyes illuminated at the sound of her crass language and quick tongue. “my lady wife,” before it would have been paired with a giggle, but the young arryn found it difficult to feign happiness. qian was poisoned. the feast had descended into chaos. all they had wanted since the beginning was to leave, and now it seemed impossible to stray from the pale red prison.

“if you had been born a boy, we could have been a good match. you lack decorum just as much as me.” their eyes met briefly, and he offered a gentle and well - meaning smile. it was not often that steffon revealed a softer side, one that wasn’t all jagged edges and broken promises. “they are both well. amaya made me attend this wretched gathering, lyanna returned to the eyrie a little less … whole.” a pause for breath, then ; “but marriages do that to a person. i hear that your mother is one of the afflicted. i am sorry.”

steggr

to be in possession of a broken betrothal was often a stain on the name of any individual seeking to advance themselves or their house through marriage but for jocelyn, who had first begun to notice the subtle withdrawal of names on their dance card when steffon was found to be alive and well after having fled the idea of marriage to them ( though they were certain that was not the only reason he had ran ), it was something of a boon. while it marked them as a problem, it also allowed them more freedom and a future where they may be able to remain in the stormlands, making a home in the hunting lodges of the rainwood. perhaps their renewed friendship was odd to some, but jocelyn only felt a measure of gratitude towards steffon, which in turn made them protective of him, even if words of consolation were hard to find. ❝ i have you to thank for that ... there is little need for decorum if there is no one to impress. ❞ and their sometimes abrasive temperament had been a point of bonding with their father, later on in life. ❝ my mo --- yes. the lady helvis. she will be well, she is strong. ❞ their brow furrowed. while they had sometimes thought of the lady as their mother in the privacy of their thoughts, it was still strange to hear her being referred to as such. ❝ i will pray that they both receive comfort for their pains. ❞ that seemed right to say, until they remembered that the arryns followed the seven ─ quite publicly, in fact, with their aunt being high septa. ❝ do you think we will be allowed to return soon ? they surely cannot mean to persist with the kingsmoot nonsense now. ❞

#( interactions. )#arcan3ly #( 103ac : the pestilence. )

balonstrong

who: open where: the godswood, the red keep when: the pestilence

"This is no true godswood," commented Balon, laying his hand upon the grainy carven face peering at him from the oak.

It was true that the southron regions of Westeros were sadly lacking in weirwoods -- a last, defiant gift of the Andals -- but somehow the replacement struck him as more crude than the chopped-down stubs which littered other, older castles. The Targaryens were, in many respects, a baffling people to Balon, but no more so were their religious exploits. Oh, their conversion to the Faith of the Seven was not difficult to comprehend -- Maegor's reign had made the reasons for that decision plain enough -- but small moments defied obvious reasons. Choices such as this.

Dragons or no, that their fiery reign had been a relatively short one in the history of Westeros struck Balon as efficacious enough. They'd never been meant to be anything more than petty lords of Dragonstone. Even in Valyria, the maesters had it, they had been but one of the lesser Houses, made great only by the eradication of all other dragonlords. Yet, the condition of his own home of Harrenhal stood in molten testament that, however pitiful their might by comparison to others of their kind, the power of the dragon was still no small thing. It had brought nearly all of Westeros to its knees, one way or another. Yet, that choice was as baffling to Balon as the existence of this pathetic godswood. Common men, he was told, were not to know the mind of the dragon, but they were not dragons. They were men, women, people as common as all others.

No, it was no true godswood -- but, then, they were no true kings, no more than the House of Hoare they had immolated upon the pyre of Harrenhal. Would a true king be elected here, he wondered, or would the realm crack, splitting into its ancestral settlements? For himself, he hardly knew which outcome to prefer.

Eyes turning towards his companion, he smiled softly. "But perhaps you disagree? Can there be a godswood without a weirwood, or is it all a sham?"

steggr

they had come seeking guidance. the sept had offered little in the way of instruction or comfort ─ the incense had burned at their eyes and the quiet, droning chants of the septons were only made worst by the constant rush of feet as septas were called out of prayer to attend to the sick. jocelyn could not say why they had tried the sept. perhaps because it was the faith of their stepmother, who had accepted the peculiarities of her stepchildren with a stiff chin, or perhaps it was because they knew they would not find the old gods in the red keep's pitiful excuse for a godswood. the fragrant air ( their nose twitched, picking up lavender and not tree sap, frowning at the wrongness of it all ) stirred with life and for a moment, jocelyn paused. was it ... ? a voice broke their foolish hope ─ it was not the gods but a man. ❝ it is not. ❞ they came to stand before the carved oak, brow furrowing. a hand reached out, finger poking at the face etched into the wood. it felt wrong, not because there were no gods here but because something seemed to be watching, prickling at the back of their neck. jocelyn shook their head slightly, turning their attention to the other. ( odd. ) ❝ ... maybe. i ... i don't know about the gods. ❞ if they were real, they had spared no thought for jocelyn. ❝ but i do know that the weirwood trees in the rainwood grow larger than this. you can smell the sap, sweet and sticky, for miles and see the red bleed of it when you get closer. ❞

#( interactions. )#balonstrong #( 103ac : the pestilence. )#teehee

↪ closed starter for helvis baratheon née selmy ( @liver-y ) in the sickroom allotted to the ruling lady baratheon.

it seems as though the servants have had enough of jocelyn being underfoot over the past week or so ─ a small stool is dragged from some forgotten corner of the room and they are being guided ( pushed ) gently onto it, told to watch their stepmother for signs of rousing as the healer needs to keep track of her symptoms to see if she was getting better ( or worsening, but the servants do not say that after their brows furrow so fiercely that it almost gives them a headache ). somewhere between watching the steady rise and fall of helvis' stomach and fighting back a small yawn, slumber finds them with their forehead pressed against their stepmother's side, eyes blinking open every few minutes at the slightest shift of discomfort. rest does not seem to come easily to helvis and it is not long before the ruling lady awakens ─ jocelyn does not dart up quick enough to hide where they had been resting just moments prior and to hide the embarrassment, they fuss quietly with the cup of water on the sidetable. ( they had kept a palm over the mouth of the cup, to deter any further attempts of poison, even if the servants had assured them that the need for such worries was not necessary. ) ❝ my lady. ❞ jocelyn clears their throat, awkward. ❝ um. water ? you need to stay hydrated while you sweat out the poison. ❞ parroting the instruction of the younger maesters as they try to catch the eye of their stepmother. jocelyn wants to ask if she is well, but the words do not come. ❝ ... you look better. ❞ ( do you feel better ? lies the unsaid question. )

#( interactions. )#liver-y #( 103ac : the pestilence. )

↪ closed starter for steffon arryn ( @arcan3ly ) in the royal gardens of the red keep.

comfort comes easier to jocelyn when it does not bear the face of an immediate family member ─ making themselves useful by carrying ( not dragging, after the earful they had received from one of the healers ) basketfuls of clean linens to conceal their true purpose in the sickrooms ( watching over the unmoving figure of their stepmother as she floats in and out of the fever ) allows them to avoid their sisters and the vicious whispers that drag the death of their mother and the plague that had swept through the stormlands back to the forefronts of their thoughts. embarrassingly, they had spent the morning with their head on the sweat - soaked sheets of their stepmother's sickbed, hiding their tears against the mattress until the servants had called them out of the room ─ their tears were not ( only ) for helvis, but for the memory of their mother, too, and that guides their feet to the gardens, where a familiar face makes their feet quicken. ❝ fuck off. ❞ jocelyn does not care to see if they have offended the curious onlookers that drag their gazes over the baratheon and the arryn, finding dull vindication at the scurry of feet. they press their arm against steffon's, staring quietly at the shrubbery. ❝ ... how is your sister ? ❞ they do not specific which one, allowing steffon to spill his thoughts without restriction.

#( interactions. )#arcan3ly #( 103ac : the pestilence. )

antagonistzz

somehow, her smile brightens further at the acceptance of the suggestion. "after my own heart. i must confess my own bias to it as well, but i have tried them all, and truly i swear it to be the best." a soft, customary clink of their cups — an exercised manner for vaiora. "not as many as you might imagine! our ships are rather large, my liege."

russett eyes register the colour of their robes. black. gold. stags. baratheon. the index at the back of her head rolls, siphoning through names. vaiora comes despairingly empty.

"forgive me for needing to ask your name," she begins to say next, earnest in her embarrassment, "for i know you must be one of the baratheon triplets, but we have not had the pleasure of meeting sooner than this — i have always hesitated to breach shipbreaker's bay, you see." petal lips jut into a pout, ashamed to admit. it never seemed worth to brace the storms, only ever going as near as her mother's estermont. "i am lady vaiora redwyne," she lifts her chalice with something of a giggle.

steggr

what must it be like, to simply know what to say ? if jocelyn had ever said something correct ( which they must have done, for the woman before them continues to smile ), it has always been entirely on accident and they have rarely been able to hold conversation for longer than politely necessary. perhaps the crownlands would be a place for many firsts ? swallowing around the nervous lump in their throat, they take a little sip from their cup, allowing themselves some time to process the words. their dark brows furrow and they lift a hand to roughly around the height of a wine barrel, trying to imagine how it would stack up in a ship without toppling or spilling over. a silly thing to fixate on, but jocelyn had long since given up hope on controlling where their thoughts took them. ❝ i would like to see it. your ships, i mean. i've never been one for sailing, for pleasure or for travel, but it seems as though i am trying many things for the first time in king's landing. ❞ drawing their bottom lip between their teeth to worry at the bit of dried skin, jocelyn looks more distressed than they feel with their knitted brow and thinned mouth, though the wine does warm them enough that they wave a hand at the apology. ❝ i did not know your name until just now either, so we are on equal ground, my lady, though you are wiser than many others. shipbreaker's bay is not one to be challenged. ❞ during one of the hottest summers in their lifetime, the seas had been especially rough and if one had sharp eyes, one could pick out the bodies of sailors amongst the ship wrecks that had crashed against the natural formations of the bay. jocelyn frowns at the memory, glancing up at the lady vaiora ─ perhaps they ought to keep that to themselves. ❝ i am liege jocelyn baratheon, as you correctly surmised ... the youngest of the three. ❞ they attempt a smile, a little too square around the edges.

#( interactions. )#antagonistzz #( 103ac : the harvest feast. )

adaptationsdaily

PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: THE CURSE OF THE BLACK PEARL dir. Gore Verbinski (2003)

#( inspiration. )#coincidentally on my dash and very relevant to joss' current pains

retrouviel

location: somewhere on the red keep, during the grand feast starter for @valarrghulis ; @faatedones ; @liver-y ; @hclvedhearts and four more !

all things considered, myrcella had lasted longer than usual. she had danced when asked, smiled where expected, and endured enough empty conversation to satisfy even the most watchful courtiers. but eventually the press of voices became too much -- too many people wanting pieces of one another, too much noise layered endlessly atop itself. and so, she quietly slipped beyond the feast when she felt people's attention was fixed elsewhere.

the corridors beyond the feast were dimmer, quieter, touched only by scattered torchlight and the distant echo of celebration bleeding through stone walls. myrcella wandered without much destination in mind until she found one of the many sitting alcoves tucked throughout the red keep.

she settled there almost immediately, folding one leg beneath herself as she opened the small weathered book resting in her lap -- worn enough at the edges to suggest it had been tucked beneath sleeves and hidden within layers of skirts more than once before.

for a while, there was only silence. only the turning of pages and the faint muffled sound of music drifting from somewhere deeper within the castle. until approaching footsteps finally broke the quiet.

"before you say anything, my liege," she murmured softly, glancing upward slowly as one finger remaining tucked between the pages to hold her place. "i should warn you that i have no intention of returning to the feast."

steggr

in hindsight, perhaps wearing a bodice inspired by the proud stag of house baratheon had been a poor choice ─ even putting it on had been difficult, the metal antlers digging into the soft insides of their arms until jocelyn had been forced to push their chest out and pull their arms back to ease the discomfort. they had only accepted one dance, with their lord father, being sulking in the corner of the grand hall in a rather unflattering position. no one expected much from jocelyn to begin with and, for the first time in their life, they found themselves glad of the fact, even if they seized the chance to follow their older sister out of the room with the excuse of checking on myrcella before sprinting ( or rather, awkwardly hobbling to avoid being stabbed in the breast again ) out of sight. after struggling with the decorated bodice for a moment, jocelyn huffed, irritated, and stalked through the corridor in search of their sibling, nudging myrcella with their foot. ❝ what ? that's not fair. did father say you could ? ❞ for a moment, they were possessed by the urge to bite their sister but they tampered it down, one hand on their ribcage. ❝ wait. can you help me with this ? just ... there's a clip on the side to unhook it from the bodice. i'll cover for you if you want to hide away here and read like a maester, just ... get me out of this. ❞

#( interactions. )#retrouviel #( 103ac : the harvest feast. )

valarrghulis

STATUS: OPEN

LOCATION: the streets outside of the red keep, before the day of the feast.

the wheelhouse stopped once again, the third time in a couple of minutes, to amerei’s candid despair. it was to be expected when most of the lords of the realms were expecting to enter the keep at the same time, eager for glory or for the chance to step out of the scorching sun. all amerei cared, though, was how humid it was inside. summer may be ending but before the sweet chill of autumn could descend it was leaving its own powerful impression. and it didn’t make the city smell any sweeter. amerei was left to enter alone in one of the tully’s wheelhouses, alone with her thoughts and the sweat dripping down her neck for no cooling breeze would come through the window.

still stuck in the middle of the line, she was suddenly overcome with boredom. impulsively, she put her head out of the window, her brown ecstatic eyes falling on the first person outside; if either tending to their own ride or outside of a carriage, she would not care to observe. ❛❛ — would you like to join my caravan, my liege? this line is moving so terribly slow, some company would be mostly appreciated. it’s boring at these roads. — ❞ she smiled her bright smile, the one that tends to convince her grandfather of acquiescing to anything her heart desired. surely this noble company would not deny her such a simple request. opening the door before even receiving an answer, she continued her friendly chatter. ❛❛ — interesting what it takes for most of the realm to come together. not a nameday celebration or a summer tourney. but the death of a king. rest his soul. and the promise of a kingsmoot. woe that they would chose more joyful excuses. — ❞ kingsmoot. even the word even tasted bitterly in her mouth. what a ludicrous idea, by the gods. she would let the big brains with ambitious hearts get drunk on the idea of power, if it resulted in a lively trip to king’s landing before the weather turned to worse. ❛❛ — but by the mother, who cares? all these silly details will be resolved one way or another. how were your travels, my liege? — ❞

steggr

several attempts had been made to convince the youngest baratheon of the benefits of occupying the carriage that brought not only the rest of the family but also their trunks over the courage of the two ( nearly three ) weeks that it took the stormlanders to reach the capital. their refusal had been vehement and loud, and pride kept them from admitting defeat on the third day as the insides of their thighs chafed from riding on horseback over such a distance, but after the pain had faded, jocelyn was rather convinced of their decision to ride ahead, considering the congestion that they now found themselves stuck in, their poor horse snorting in irritation. with a furrowed brow, they patted the creature on the neck lightly, nearly startling from their saddle when a head, followed by what seemed to be the largest, brownest eyes they had ever seen, peered out from a carriage window. ❝ oh, fu--- ❞ they paused, biting back the almost immediate refusal. while it was deemed somewhat accepted to cuss out their sisters ( and indeed, it seemed to amuse their father to be on the receiving end of their vitriol too ), jocelyn had to remind themselves that not everyone was deserving of such language. ❝ eh ... i meant to say ... no. thank you. ❞ there ─ that was polite. they blinked as the other continued speaking, following her words with their head. ❝ rather, you could join me on foot, if you'd like ? this fellow needs a break, i think, and they are selling dried fruit up ahead. ❞ jocelyn grunted as they slid down from the saddle, tugging the reins lightly to get the horse to follow as they walked alongside the carriage ─ gods, it was slow. their natural stride was quicker than the pace it was going. ❝ eh ... my travels were fine. it rained a little by felwood but otherwise, the roads were rather smooth. ❞

#( interactions. )#valarrghulis #( 103ac : the harvest feast. )

antagonistzz

FATED FOR ... any and all.

FOUND IN ... the feast.

vaiora smiles brightly, as if stepping into the role of hostess — as if king's landing is her home, already. the chandelier of wax and iron reflecting the lady of the arbor's warmth, amber candlelight allowing a halo of light in the darkness, the seven smiling down on her. it feels nice against the deep plum of her silks, drinking in the light's rays, warming the bare of her shoulders, imbuing the collar of rubies fastened to her neck with a gentle sparkle. “do be sure to imbibe," she advises sweetly, palm outstretched to hold. the other nurses a gold patinaed goblet inlaid with a matching scarlet, swishing nearly half empty. "we brought near to a hundred barrels for the occasion. the arbor's finest, of course." vaiora resented the favour of dornish reds. "they will not drink themselves!”

steggr

is it possible to be blinded by a smile ? jocelyn blinks in rapid bursts as their path towards a familiar face ( or rather, a familiar figure clad in the colors of house baratheon, to serve as a buffer between the crowd and themselves ) is interrupted by an enthusiastic individual sprouting a series of sentences that, at first, startles jocelyn into temporary deafness ( a dull buzzing in the ear that often comes as a result of being startled ─ a panic response not entirely unlike that of a deer ) and then forces them to intensely study the shape of the other's mouth until a few words are picked out and they are, at once, brought back into present. ❝ o---oh ! ❞ politeness prompts jocelyn to reach out for a goblet carried by an awaiting servant, fingers pressing over the etchings made in the metal. they find it easier to breathe with something trivial distracting them even as they nod along. ❝ oh, the arbor ! yes, i quite like wine from the reach ... dornish reds are far too sour for me, though perhaps i hold an unfair biased against it. ❞ the stormlands were not entirely fond of anything dornish, after all. ❝ ... how many ships did it take to carry a hundred barrels of wine ? ❞

#( interactions. )#antagonistzz #( 103ac : the harvest feast. )

heartcosmicsoul

Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.

#( inspiration. )

mirandahamilton

“I always thought that rule would mean conflict…”

#( inspiration. )

glumshoe

appreciation post for characters who can say “at your service” in a tone of voice that suggests they will gleefully do anything within their power to cause problems for you on purpose

#( crack post. )