#&&. threads.

[draconianmuses]

open starter for: everyone !! location: at the gardens, during the lannisport masquerade evening.

the lanterns cast soft gold across the garden, painting shadows over clipped hedges and marble statues. nobles drift past, laughter spilling between the trees, masks glittering in the evening light. laurentia steps onto the gravel path, her ochre-gold jacket catching the glow, embroidered with naath's feverish butterflies that shimmered along its length. her porcelain mask, edged with golden lines and adorned with tiny fake sapphire-blue butterflies, hides her identity perfectly. tonight, she could be anyone. tonight, she could be… foolish.

her cousin’s card had been clear: join the game, find a partner, and let the hunt begin. normally she would scoff at such frivolity, but for felyx-- her cousin, her constant ally--she allows herself a small, reluctant smile. and, admittedly, one or two goblets past sober, she feels lighter on her feet, her mood brighter, a little playful in a way she rarely allows.

the game itself is simple enough: the nobles are paired and sent into the garden maze, the paths winding past fountains, statues, and bursting summer flowers. at each turn, a station awaits with a small puzzle, a riddle, or a hidden token. collect the tokens, follow the clues, and the first clever pair to reach the heart of the maze wins a favor from lord felyx himself. it is a game of wit, observation, and just a little charm--perfectly suited for a night like this.

a small card is pressed into her gloved hand. she examines it, eyes flicking behind the intricate mask, reading the riddle aloud: “where the water flows yet speaks no word, seek the lion who roars unheard.” she rolls her eyes faintly, amused, and, with a sigh, laurentia lannister extends a hand, letting a masked noble meet her gaze. she doesn’t know who they are, and she doesn’t care. tonight, she can laugh, tease, and indulge in a little game without consequence. for felyx, for herself, for one rare evening, she will join the hunt.

“well... partner...” she murmurs under the mask, a teasing edge in her tone, “let’s see if you can keep up, shall we?”

[draconianmuses]

semi-closed starter to: @hozina, @tcrturedpoetx, @gniodnu, @paroch1al to: maron, aron, evanie & floris. where: the lannisport keep, after the chaos.

the quiet after felt wrong. too still. too heavy. for two days and two nights, the keep had held its breath-- and so had she. every shout from the city below, every flare of firelight on the horizon, had set her pulse racing anew. she’d prayed, paced, pleaded in silence. no raven, no rider, no word from any of them. only the waiting, and the pounding of her heart. now, at last, the storm had broken.

she stood at the edge of the courtyard, the air still damp from the morning rain, her gown wrinkled from sleepless hours spent pacing through corridors. when the gates creaked open and the first returning figures began to appear-- mud-streaked, soot-stained, but alive-- her breath caught. her eyes searched frantically among them. maron. aron. evanie. floris-- there.

the rest of the world blurred. her feet moved before her mind could catch up. she was running. skirts gathered in her fists, the gravel biting at her slippers. and then she was leaping, half a sob, half a laugh, arms thrown around the first familiar shoulders she reached.

“you’re here,” she breathed against them, voice breaking, laughter trembling through the tears she hadn’t allowed herself until now. her fingers clung tightly, as if afraid that if she let go, they’d vanish again into smoke. “gods-- you’re here.”

[draconianmuses]

open starter: to everyone! where: the stables of lannisport keep, two nights after lady lysa tully’s death.

the broth had gone cold. beef and barley stew-- her mother’s favorite. she used to order it when storms rolled over casterly rock, when thunder turned the windows to mirrors. laurentia would sit beside her as a youngster, cross-legged, spoon in hand, watching steam curl from the bowl while her mother spoke of news from court or literature-- one of the few things she could bond over with such a boyish girl like laurentia. the eldest had always been angos's darling-- a sword in hand and ledgers as soon as she could muster both the strength and logic-- but when it came to tales and whimsy books, they could sit together by the heath and be girls together. catryn had it ordered from the cooks, too, whenever laurentia seemed sad. it had worked then.

years later, laurentia'd learned that the stew never cured sorrow, it only gave it weight in the stomach. still, she’d kept the habit. the spoon clinked softly against the rim, circling the sheen of fat. she had eaten nothing since dawn. felix had sent the meal, bless him, thinking perhaps that warmth could quiet what ached in her. but warmth no longer helped. not when she knew what was happening beneath these same walls.

somewhere below the keep, the septas and maesters were working-- the procession of mercy, they called it. mercy, laurentia thought, was a cruel word. she could picture it too clearly: white hands slick with oil, blades drawn not to kill but to unmake. flesh parted from bone, muscle peeled away like silk from wet stone. organs lifted out, washed, weighed. the smell of salt and iron and rosewater in the air, fighting to disguise the truth. what was left of lady lysa tully was being turned to relic-- the woman who once whispered against her throat now reduced to clean, dry bones that would not rot on the road home.

she pressed her knuckles to her mouth, fighting the rising bile. no one should have to imagine their love coming apart by the surgeon’s hand. no one should have to know how long a heart takes to stop smelling like a person. she stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the stone. the untouched bowl, the bread gone stiff beside it-- all of it abandoned. she needed air.

the corridors were mostly empty at this hour, just the faint murmur of sentries and the whisper of the sea outside. laurentia moved through them like a shadow. her jaw still ached when she clenched it, the skin purpled along one cheek and dark beneath her right eye. osric tully’s grief had left its mark as surely as her own. she had not sought a healer. some wounds, she thought, deserved to sting. she deserved to hurt.

the stables smelled of hay and damp wood, of earth and life-- real, breathing life. the moment she stepped inside, her lungs eased. opal stirred in her stall at the sound of boots, the palomino-overo mare lifting her head, ears flicking forward. she was sixteen now, old enough to have seen war and dread, but her eyes were bright as ever. laurentia reached for her bridle, stroking the line of her neck with a care she hadn’t offered any person in days. “there you are,” she murmured, thankful she had brought the mare to lannisport with her. the horse leaned into her palm, warm and steady, and for a moment laurentia could breathe again. “are you hungry? it has been so noisy in here lately, hasn't it? you must have been scared.” opal huffed softly, and laurentia almost smiled. she leaned her forehead against the mare’s, closing her eyes. “i know,” she whispered. “i know.”

behind her, the stable doors creaked. footsteps crossing hay, the faint intake of breath as someone saw her face. “seven hells…” a voice said quietly. “what happened to you?” she didn’t look up. her fingers traced lazy circles against opal’s coat, grounding herself in the rhythm of breath and heartbeat. “grief,” laurentia said simply, voice raw but even. “what else?” and before the silence could stretch, she straightened slightly, still facing the horse. “unable to sleep?” a polite way of asking: why are your here?

[draconianmuses]

open starter. location: by the garden's fountain in the red keep.

"and then it's going to grow roots," myriah said in a hushed, dramatic tone, "and then, great twisting branches! and your belly will swell, and swell, and swell, until it bursts open and the apple tree comes out fully grown!" she poked at the child's stomach, fingers tickling as if to drive the story home. the kid's eyes went wide with horror, small hands clutching at their belly as if to hold it together. "you're lying! you're lying, princess! no!" the child cried, voice trembling, eyes watering with tears that threatened to spill. "i'm not," myriah gasped, barely hiding the curve of laughter on her lips. "i swear it. i saw it once, with a boy your age. his mother cried so much, her tears turned into a river." she turned suddenly to the person sitting by the fountain, quiet until then, and dragged them into her tale. "you, tell them! isn't that what happens when you eat fruit and swallow the seeds?" her smile broke wicked and amused, the child shaking their head furiously, desperate for someone to prove her wrong.

[draconianmuses]

semi open starter to: anyone in the keep. location: the lannisport keep, during the chaos.

myriah martell had not seen the boat races.

she had been far too drunk the night before, far too tangled in laughter, music, and the sweet burn of wine to even remember what dawn looked like. she had danced until her calves ached, drunk until her lips were stained purple, and flirted until the world blurred into a haze of voices and lights. that was the last she remembered before collapsing into bed, skirts and jewels in a heap on the floor.

it was not the sound of rioting that woke her, but the sharp, insistent voice of marihsa uller, one of her ladies.

“my princess, you must wake--”

“leave me alone,” myriah groaned, dragging the pillow over her head. her skull throbbed, her throat dry, every inch of her body aching. “i swear, if the sun has risen without my permission--”

“my princess!” the girl insisted, voice quivering. “there’s a mob in the streets. the boat races-- they turned to riots. the commonfolk revolted, the watch says. your brothers… prince maron, ser aron, they are not in the keep. the ward of sunspear is missing too. it is chaos, my princess. chaos!”

that word chaos cut through the fog of her hangover like a blade.

she bolted upright, hair in wild knots, last night’s kohl smeared in black streaks beneath her eyes. she snatched the nearest robe, pulling it clumsily over her shift, and all but stumbled out of her chambers barefoot. the halls were filled with whispers, guards clattering past, ladies clutching each other in fear. myriah barely heard them. her heart hammered in her chest as she half-ran, half-tripped into the great hall, her mind racing faster than her feet.

maron. aron. floris. evanie.

none of them were there.

she stood in the doorway for a moment, disoriented, her breath quick, her pulse a drumbeat of panic. then she began pacing, circling, her nails worrying at her lips until they were sore. she looked every inch the hungover mess she was: hair wild, last night’s kohl smeared all around her eyes-- which made her look like a raccon--, robe slipping from one shoulder... yet the terror in her eyes was still jarringly apparent.

“holy mother, please, i beg you, keep my family safe.” she whispered with her eyes closed, then turned to the nearest person. “how did this happen? what started it?”

[draconianmuses]

open starter for: everyone! where: lannisport keep, after the chaos.

the gates of the lannisport keep swung open before her, the familiar stone walls and banners a harsh contrast to the chaos she had just endured. laurentia stepped inside, boots heavy with grime, hair damp and streaked with dust and salt. the air was thick with smoke, tangling with the brine of the harbor that clung stubbornly to her coat. for a moment, she just looked, letting her eyes sweep across the courtyard.

nobles clutched one another in relief, children laughed, siblings embraced, wives found husbands, daughters found mothers. every reunion seemed to stitch a thread of normalcy back into the city, and she let herself watch, letting the tension in her shoulders ease just fractionally. mira, safe in felyx’s arms, looked serene, if still rattled, and the sight made a hollow ache in laurentia’s chest loosen. olenna back to maron's embrace. aemma and edmund were tucked safely into their family’s care. the others safe with their loved ones, too. the worst was over and the weight she had hoisted for forty-eight grueling hours was beginning to feel like it might lift.

she let herself exhale. really exhale, for the first time in what felt like weeks. her chest felt tight, lungs scorched by smoke and panic, but she didn’t care. she had saved those she could with a plan to protect the innocents trapped in the warehouse. by allying with lord steffon estermont, a warg of rats and a man whose own loyalties had been a little more than suspect, together they had turned chaos into strategy. steffon, once from a rebel house, had warged into a rat, drawn the mob away, and guaranteed that every soul in that warehouse slept that night without fear of death on their doorsteps.

she leaned against the cool stone wall of the keep, sliding her hands along it for support, her arms aching. for the first time, she allowed herself to feel the depth of the exhaustion. her stomach was full, thankfully, thanks to the stockpiled food in their shelter, but hunger mattered little compared to the constant thrum of adrenaline that had coursed through her veins for the last two days. finally, she walked to the balcony, fingers curling over the stone railing. she leaned forward, elbows resting on its cold surface, and let the night wind wash over her. smoke tickled her lungs, and she coughed lightly, but it was a good cough-- proof that she was alive, that she had survived. she closed her eyes, letting herself be still for a moment.

she was running her fingers through her hair. the gold now matted and pale-- reeking of smoke-- when a hand pressed against her shoulder. startled, she stiffened, spinning slightly to face whoever it was. her chest tightened, her mind racing. “seven hells! shit! i didn't survive this mob just for you to kill me of fright now. what is it?!”

[draconianmuses]

closed starter: @hozina to: lord osric tully where: the lannisport keep, after the chaos.

the words reached her like arrows dulled by distance -- lady lysa tully has been found. slain. body disfigured with so many stab wounds.

the city watchman spoke with all the caution a man might have when facing a lannister, his helm tucked under one arm, his eyes fixed somewhere near her boots. his voice was low, measured, but the phrasing still struck like glass underfoot. in the streets, my lady… she tried to make for the bathhouse, and the-- “enough,” laurentia said, quiet but sharp enough to slice the air. she didn’t blink. didn’t breathe. the others gathered near the gates-- retainers, guards, a few curious nobles-- looked to her for the appropriate tone to take. outrage, sorrow, satisfaction; any of those would do, so long as she led. she drew in a slow breath, the sort that steadied an army, and inclined her head. “a regrettable loss,” she managed. “m-may the seven keep her.”

the news spread through the courtyard like a chill wind, the murmur of voices rising, falling, breaking into uneasy silence. laurentia stood among them, grime and salt still crusted to her collar, the stench of smoke and sea clinging to her coat. she should’ve been relieved to be back to the lannisport keep, after two days trapped in the shipyard’s warehouse with little more than stale air and the sound of distant screams-- but the relief curdled before it could take root.

she turns to her cousin, a hand clutching over his shoulder as she gulps down the lump in her throat. “felyx. i want your men moving before the sun sets again. quietly. ledgermen, trackers. whoever among your men is good with dirt and tongues. we cannot wait for the city watch to pick through pigslop.” he blinks, exhausted and worn, just as much as she is, but the world musn't stop. there's no rest for the lion-- and so he nods his head. he knows the toll this is taking on her. laurentia knows the toll having mira trapped away with the mob took on him. no word of it aloud is needed.

her mind went over lysa’s face, her voice, the betrayal, the love, the all-consuming hunger of what they had shared. and then, finally, the full weight of the news struck, unmitigated: lysa was gone. she had been murdered in the streets. brutally. the city had claimed her. “where thieves trade. the markets, the quay stalls, the pawnshops, the taverns that fence trinkets, the boats that leave at night for oldtown and the isles. ringmakers, silversmiths, any man who would buy a hairpin for a copper. the smallfolk who killed lysa sold everything of worth, they always do-- rings, shoes, hairpins, a necklace, possibly the mantle. follow the goods and you will find mouths willing to name hands.”

felyx’s jaw tightens. “and if they lie?”

“then we follow the lie,” laurentia continues, the air seeming slightly rare, voice shaky and raw. “and break where it leads. fishermen and dockhands notice new rings; marketwomen notice patterns; a fence will point to the seller if the coin is good enough. ask the sellers who came in with carts yesterday. knock on the doors of the inns where strange sailors slept last night. use coin where you must, and threats where you need.”

he nods, breath quickening. he places a hand over hers on his shoulder. “i will have men on it within the hour.”

but when felyx's gaze flicked up, something in his eyes-- that small, unguarded pity and understanding-- broke the fragile scaffolding she’d built. laurentia turned, the crimson hem of her pants cutting through the drizzle, her boots carrying her before she realized she’d moved, deeper into the keep. her breath came quick now, shallow, as if the air had turned thin. she reached the first empty hall and stopped. her hands were trembling before she realized it.

lysa’s name pressed against her throat like a bruise.

she braced a hand on the wall, her balance betraying her for an instant. it wasn’t supposed to feel like this. she had won their last game-- set the trap, sprung it, lived to see the lion banner rise higher for it. what right had her body to shake now? what right had her heart to ache at the thought of that dark hair soaked in her own blood, of those brown eyes gone still?

her knees hit the stone before she noticed they’d given out. a ragged, near-cry, laugh-- tore from her throat, too sharp to be mistaken for anything sane. “you always had to be dramatic, didn't you?” she murmured, voice cracking on the laugh. “even in dying, you find the stage.” she pressed the heel of her hand to her mouth, breath shuddering through her fingers. the tears came right after. long streams, warm and uncaring to any logic, to any grievances of war. gods, she had loved her. hated her. wanted her ruin, wanted her back and then far away, like a sickness you avoid for you are not immune to its affects; a most frail innoculation. and now-- now there was nothing left to want.

her chest heaved, body shaking from the exhaustion of two days of survival and a lifetime of hidden grief. thats when the steps became louder, and louder, and louder. the sounds echoed across stone, furious, quick, intent. she looked over to the frame coming in her direction. and saw the one person she didn't want to face now. “osric?”