˖⋆✴︎˚。⋆ ( tully h , janhvi kapoor , 28 , cis woman , she/her ) the hand of the late king welcomes jannara tully, the lady of riverrun, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be sagacious and self possessed, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their guarded and cynical tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of flowing water gradually smoothing the strongest stone, eagle eyes studying a cyvasse board, and tidy calligraphy filling fresh parchment, they themselves dream of any sensible house, perhaps favoring house tully on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
THE BASICS ;
NAME : jannara tully. • NICKNAMES: nara, janna • PRONOUNS : she/her. • AGE : 28 • TITLE : lady of riverrun. • ALIGNMENT : lawful neutral • SEXUALITY : pansexual • MARITAL STATUS : unmarried • BIRTHPLACE & RESIDENCE : riverrun • LANGUAGES : the common tongue • RELIGION : the seven affiliation: house tully.
FAMILY ;
FATHER : ruling lord balan tully • MOTHER: lady consort hema tully. (deceased) • SIBLINGS : loird tbd tully, lady celia tully (good sister), lord mordred tully, lady nayana tully (good sister, deceased), lady sabitha tully • PARTNER : none • EXTENDED FAMILY: lady amerei tully, liege aila tully, lord grover tully, lord marq tully (deceased), lord edmure tully (deceased)
HISTORY ; (trigger warnings: parental estrangement, death)
-Unnecessary. Already an heir, a spare, and another spare have already been brought before the high seat, swathed in azure and crimson. But Balan Tully had not lived over seven decades to father a fourth child, a spare for the spare's spare, because he was an easily satisfied man. Of course Jannara never wanted for anything material or of earthly comfort, but her own father and to some degree her mother were largely strangers in her early years. In the case of Hema, this lessened as she became more an individual than another burden upon the tired woman, enough that Jannara truly mourned her loss six years ago. There were too many children and grandchildren already crowding Riverrun's halls, not to mention the true work of ruling an entire region of the Seven Kingdoms . So instead there were septas and servants to occupy the youngest Tully daughter's days.
-The resentment was quiet, never growing loud or bold in the ways Sabitha's did. Jannara merely simmered, waters growing closer to a boil with each passing a year, each turn from childhood into adulthood, but never flooding over into something truly tangible. If she was to be an afterthought, it was to be taken advantage of. Not missed on the occasions she stole away to read a stack of tomes or unnoticed in certain rooms where words ought not to be overheard, she used her lack of necessity as both shield and sword, biding her time, waiting. For what? Jannara remains unsure. But perhaps just as a new tide turns across Westeros thanks to the Kingsmoot, a new opportunity will come to shore for her.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ the hand of the late king welcomes olene tyrell, the lady of highgarden, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be independent and purposeful, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their sarcastic and impatient tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of an acid tongue, quick to hiss and eager to injure ; the curved edge of garden scissors, separating rose from thorn ; the curled and ragged edges of fading dreams ; spine stiff and chin raised: a refusal to bow to jilted pride. they themselves dream of any house that supports her on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
basics.
name olene tyrell. titles lady of highgarden. age two and thirty. alignment true neutral. motivations to ensure her brother is restored to his seat.
visuals.
height 5'5. eyes a flinty black. build not particularly tall, of middling build as well. notable features long hair that hangs down to her waist, loosely curling; lips often darkened to a deep rose red; strong brows, often furrowed, with a little line between them; bitten nails, a bad habit she cannot shake.
family.
parents grand maester mace tyrell; lady marianne tyrell née florent Ⅹ. brother lord harlon tyrell. extended family lord mors tyrell, evil uncle ; falyn and galyeon tyrell, evil cousins.
biography. always a wip
you are barely old enough to remember when your parents both leave you. it is not remembering that makes your early years kind: the joys and comforts of highgarden are no small prize, and you were born to this one. with time you learn of the circumstances that keep your uncle at highgarden's seat, but it seems almost not to matter: justice and chivalry are the code of the reach, and one day your brother will be restored to his rightful seat.
the day is slow to arrive, but you do not question it. your mind goes to other preoccupations; you embroider your sleeves and arrange flowers, and dance with slippered feet and clap for knights as they joust. it is knighthood and chivalry that you love best, as you collect their flowers and make favours at every tourney, and it is knights you dream of. when you are betrothed to one, no dashing dream in a golden suit, you beg and plead to be freed from it... and when that fails, you turn to your father. but what has grandmaester mace to offer you, a mere lady of highgarden?
rejection follows refusal; humiliation follows that. your dreams wither even as people whisper of the girl who brought such terrible embarrassment to the tyrells. you keep your chin up, and set your sights. rejection follows again. years pass, and the rose-and-gold hue that had set itself over highgarden all your life fades, as all false gilt fades in time. your uncle has no intention of restoring your brother. your cousins will take what is yours with impunity. your father has forgotten you both.
when the kingsmoot arrives, you have learned your lesson. your dreams have always been meaningless, and pride has been your downfall: you will swallow it, if just for now, for greater goals than love or beauty. this is no time for dreaming.
summary.
sometimes you get robbed before you were even old enough to remember it, and it ruins your whole entire life ! olene led a relatively charmed life as a girl, not exactly ignorant of her and her brother's position, but seeing everyone and everything in good faith. with years of disappointments, though, that has... really, really changed. olene is a little oversensitive, very quick to get mean, and sees the worst in everyone so she isn't hurt or wrong again. attempting to be more politically inclined hasn't gone great for her so far, but her endgame is to see harlon in highgarden.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ the hand of the late king welcomes rohan greyjoy née farwynd, the lord of pyke, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be shrewd and disciplined, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their short sighted and hot headed tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of wind whipped hair, looking through the eye of a longview and the thud of an axe finding its target. they themselves dream of house greyjoy on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
… # basic information.
FULL NAME: rohan hilmar greyjoy née farwynd. NICKNAMES: n/a AGE: thirty. TITLE: lord of the lonely light. BIRTHDATE: twenty-second day of the twelfth moon of the year. PLACE OF BIRTH: pyke, iron islands, westeros. GENDER & PRONOUNS: cis man … he/him. SEXUAL & ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: bisexual, biromantic. RELIGION: drowned gods. MARITAL STATUS: wed … dagna greyjoy , wylla greyjoy née reed (deceased)
… # physical information.
FACECLAIM: assad zaman. HAIR & STYLE: curly and grown down to his collarbone EYE COLOUR: dark brown. HEIGHT: 5'9 / 180 cm. BUILD: lean and toned, stronger than he appears at first glance. DOMINANT HAND: left. SCENT: citrus, incense and driftwood. ALLERGIES: none. SCARS: a collection of small ones from his years fighting alongside his father and brothers, a large one on his back from a fall. DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: disarming smile and the hair he keeps perfectly coiffed at all times. CLOTHING STYLE: favours shades of brown and green or darker hues of red (the latter almost exclusively for days he knows blood will be on the docket), tolerates leather and more restrictive pants and shirts for fighting but will mix it with more flowing and breathable fabrics when at home (whether receiving guests or simply going about his life), has a more colorful palette than his fellow ironborn, having taken a liking to the style of the lysene when he visited the free cities.
… # personality.
TRAITS: hot headed, disciplined, envious, shrewd, disciplined, curious. LABEL: the unfavorite, the lancer, the broken bird MBTI: intj … the architect. ENNEAGRAM: the loyalist. ELEMENT: air. STAR SIGN: capricorn sun, aquarius moon, cancer rising. TEMPERAMENT: melancholic. DEADLY SIN: envy. HEAVENLY VIRTUE: temperence. GODLY PARENT: galene. SKILLS: seafaring, hand to hand combat, swimming. had a knack for accounting and public speaking, often keeping in line his father and then brother's crew. WEAPON OF CHOICE: a battle axe he named siren's song. CHARACTER INSPIRATION: jack rackham (black sails), gaia (spartacus), armand (iwtv), chris halliwell (charmed), wynonna earp (wynonna earp).
… # familial ties.
FATHER: lord hilmar farwynd (deceased). MOTHER: lady elinor farwynd née tbd. SIBLING: lord utp farwynd, lord utp farwynd. SIGNIFICANT OTHER(S): dagna greyjoy. marys haen (deceased), wylla greyjoy (deceased). CHILDREN: amara pyke (deceased). ETC: lord erik greyjoy (good brother) house reed (good family). PETS: two hounds.
… # history.
when you are born winter has only just begun and the bite the winds and snow have scarcely reached the isolated shores of the island your parents call home. your mother has been waiting, desperate to meet you and maesters have been called for moons stretched on and on and still you did not come. you arrive in the end on a quiet night, unexpectedly and your birth is a painstaking affair that leaves both your mother and you sick for days. you were cold, colder than your brother you've been told despite the blood that covered you and you did not scream for so long your mother started to fear the worst but when your did cry out at long last it was a fierce scream that echoed 'round the whole castle and your father thought you'd be a strong boy. the strongest of his sons, no doubt.
you proved him right at first. from small infant you grew into a child for whom fear was a chimera, it wasn't so much that you were immune to the feeling but it simply did not stop you from exploring and the falls and failures only made you eager to try again. your appetites were endless as you grew into a young man. for knowledge, for attention and for the pride you saw shining in your father's eyes whenever you bested him or anyone else though you did notice he cared more for the displays of violence and bloodshed than for your ability to balance books or your talent with a painting brush. you understood quickly and with a brutal finality that there would have to be of you if you wished to survive in the place you called home. for your father and your brother's love you would need to play act at ruthlessness, leave your other interests confined to polite conversations and entertaining ladies with your lady mother.
as soon as you could wield a weapon you were taken out to sea and the ocean despite it's unpredictable moods was easier to understand then your father ever was, your skills at navigating were impressive enough you could have become a captain but you watched and you saw enough of what your father called sacrifices to understand you'd never have the stomach for it. the bloodshed and the savagery you could live with, it was the way of the ironborn. the way the drowned god intended and there was a pride in earning things the way you did but there were limits. or there ought to have been and time and again you saw men take liberties, delight in their own cruelest and basest of instincts and you took it upon yourself to mold these men into better men, year after year, painstakingly until you had become the voice they trusted even more than your own father.
he on the other hand, watched you and thought you were becoming soft, shaming him in fact by not captaining your own ship. it mattered not that you followed him into battle every time, that you would fall on your sword for him without the command being given. you'd become to him no better than a sick dog he hadn't the heart to put down and the distance grew and grew until you snapped. a dispute erupted between a man and a bastard girl, accusation of thievery and two hands wrapped a throat. a skull being bashed in before you could intervene and a bloody map. the last piece of a puzzle your crew had needed to lead them to one prize. a prize that would ensure you would not have to see another raid for a long while after. and the man had murdered to keep his secret. his thievery, his treason. and thought a bastard girl would not be missed. you brought the treason to your father's attention and he refused to let you deal any kind of justice, covered the murder of the girl and had you been as soft as he thought you to be, as craven you might have let that stand but you instead took advantage of the cover of darkness to make your own justice, in the middle of another battle, for a much smaller bounty this time. only your father knew of your true intentions and incensed at your defiance of his judgment he sent you away.
at four and twenty and with a ship and no destination in sight you made your way around westeros, doing what you did best and charming your way into noble houses, speaking on behalf of house farwynd and the further away from the iron islands you went the clearer it became how much more fit for the life of a mainlander you were. your manners were more delicate than those of your kin and until you spoke of your heritage no one suspected. but missives kept coming, your father reminding you of your place as his anger at you died down and he expected your return. second son or not you were still his son after all. you came back after two years, with a woman in tow. a lysene noble you had fallen desperately in love with and who was carrying your child. you did not care you said if the child was a bastard you'd provide for him anyway but you did want to marry your lover, wanted a place for her at your side. your father did not have the chance to deny you either as marys died in childbirth along with your daughter.
since then you've been a shadow of who you once were, laughter coming delayed and in short manic bursts more often than not and you wore black for far longer than the mourning period required of you. you married eventually and to the most unexpected of all women. you had never thought dagna greyjoy would ever look at you and you did not blame her as lonely light was an island unto itself and you had merely crossed paths long ago. it was a marriage borne of duty but not one you resent, there's a love there and a fondness that has been brewing and you've often found it easy to turn your love into blind devotion, it's what has driven you to throw yourself behind her cause but of late you've started to doubt her choices, mostly because they are too impulsive to be predicted. you opened your arms to the salt wife she decided to take without consulting you, grew to care for the woman as a friend and never begrudged her and you do not question her decisions as she leads this crusade for the seastone chair but there's this gnawing fear at the back of your skull, this voice telling you you could be left behind again, the very second you do not serve her. it would not surprise you, it's the way it has always been. as long as you remain palatable enough you have acceptance. and when you step out of bounds you do not and you haven't known dagna well enough to know where the line is.
your father is dying now and has been slowly for years and your losses and his diminishment have begun to make him reconsider his choice of heir and you watch and you wait, knowing that if the choice presents itself you'll choose safety but play the doting husband now, acquiesce to what dagna orders. you've always been good at pretending and you, well you do not care who sits on that damn chair at the end of the day. you've only ever followed her out of love but even your love runs out when left unreturned or untended to long enough. you find yourself praying she'll choose to see you the way few others have bothered to.
⊱𓏲ּ ❀ 𝄢⊰⋆✴︎˚。⋆ ( corbray d , kong xue er , twenty7 , ciswoman, she/her) the hand of the late king welcomes shuying corbray, the lady of heart’s home, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be stalwart and charismatic, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their sharp-tongued and enigmatic tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of a trail of weeping hearts, priceless gems and shiny marvels clustered in a raven’s nest, calluses on palms earned through hard work and labors of love, a dagger tucked beneath silk robes. they themselves dream of any other house that will prioritize the smallfolk on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
THE BASICS ;
NAME : shuying corbray • NICKNAMES: ying • PRONOUNS : she/her • AGE : twenty7 • TITLE : lady of heart's home • BIRTHDAY : tba • ALIGNMENT : chaotic neutral • SEXUALITY : pansexual • MARITAL STATUS : single • LANGUAGES : the common tongue • BIRTHPLACE : heart's home • affiliation: house corbray
FAMILY ;
FATHER : lord corbray (deceased) • MOTHER : lady corbray (deceased) • OLDER SIBLINGS: liege dexian corbray, lady meilin corbray • GOOD SISTER : liege • PETS :
PERSONALITY ;
TRAITS : stalwart: despite her frail appearance, shuying's heart and spirit are strong, reliable, if given her loyalty is unwavering, charismatic: she is charming, sweet, and knows how to wiggle her way into one's heart, intelligent, sensitive: acts like she's got a tough exterior but is so soft on the side, feels big feelings, will fall apart, sharp-tongued: a vicious little thing if given the opportunity, she was always physical health has always been more frail, in turn she'll lash out with words, enigmatic: always smiling, stringing together sweet nothings, her heart is shielded by the thickest walls and she has a way of offering information while also sharing nothing at all
INTERESTS : ravenry, mathematics, medicine (and poisons), infrastructure • SKILLS & TALENTS: the gentle arts, maths, • WEAPON : a thin dagger • TROPES : quicker learner • INSPO : tba
IN ESSENCE ; (death tw, )
what is home when you lived most your life among strangers? what is love when the distance was for your survival but felt like abandonment? a raven that wished to stay in the nest but was forced to fly elsewhere to build a life. and upon a single return home left with unspeakable scars and hurts.
HISTORY ; (death tw, blood tw, violence tw, body horror tw)
you were born, too early, too small, sickly, silent, and with only half of life's breath in you. it'd been the second consecutive year of a difficult harvest and that is the foundation of your weak constitution. you were a frail infant and child but it never destroyed your spirit. too much vigor in play could leave you breathless but it did not stop you from playing with the other children of heart's home, attempting to work the farm besides your older siblings and parents. but bout after bout of illness leads to your parent's difficult decision to send you away. as an adult now, you understand the reasoning, that it'd all been done out of love and wishes for their child to be raised healthy and happy. for the youngest corbray with a sharp little mind to thrive instead of survive.
but the day comes when you are to join lady amaya on their trip back to oldtown, to go to the citadel and learn, to have maesters help alleviate the endless cycle of illnesses, to be in a place where your endless questions may be answered. you cling to your eldest sibling's leg, hiding behind them, begging to be allowed to stay. you are a child of six and had never been so far from home. you sob yourself into a wheezing mess and only let go upon the promise that everyone will write and per the name of your family keep as long as heart's home remained in your heart, you will always carry part of home with you.
with that promise, you close to a decade at the citadel in old town. you begin as a novice and are given the world at your fingertips. knowledge. opportunity. nourishing food. the most wonderful weather. you thrive under the sun and fertile soil of the reach. going as far as becoming an acolyte and receiving four chains, well on your way to the path of maester if that is what you wanted. except the idea of that life bores you. knowledge is thrilling but there must be something more. despite the visits back to heart's home, the idea of home grows paler each year.
it's during a tourney when you've somehow impressed lady amarys baratheon who herself has three children your age and you are brought on to be a lady-in-waiting. an entirely different life than at the citadel and though you miss the vibrancy in oldtown, there was something enticing about the challenge in befriending the three lady baratheons.
the first time you return home in years is to celebrate your eldest sibling's marriage. it's not one of love, that much is apparent and you have to wonder if it was worth them selling their soul for gold. gold that hardly does what it needs to because it's not long after on a journey to visit the ruling lady of the vale that the wheelhouse is targeted and overrun by belligerent smallfolk, the hunger and desperation riling them up to mercilessly slaughter your parents.
you don't remember much of the attack, you try not to. you have the vaguest recollection of trying to protect yourself but a blade leaves its mark down your neck, a horrific injury that bleeds and bleeds. you awake in the noise, the weight of your mother's corpse against you, watching your sibling atop a horse in their escape. you lose consciousness again, fading in and out, you drag yourself to the ransacked chests nearby, blocking the horror around you and it's through sheer luck you find the herbs that slow the bleeding. you're found barely clinging to life, the same way you came into the world.
the moment you're fit for travel, you return to the stormlands. to the place that you called home since reaching your adult years. it's where you stay, loyal to the baratheon triplets in the aftermath of their mother's passing. you're more reserved, your laughter doesn't quite reach your eyes the same way. your health returns to its old battle but at least you're equiped to help yourself now. when the kingsmoot calls, you're meant to travel with the sisters to king's landing but sickness leaves you bedbound (let the rumors swirl if it was self-induced or true, those who know, know, and you'll never confirm it for anyone else).
you had hoped they'd return soon but isn't until word arrives of the dire injuries suffered by mycella and syrenna and this business in dorne that draws you out of hiding. you're armed with your knowledge and familiarity of recovering after life altering injuries. you join the baratheons on their journey to dorne, dreading this godforsaken reunion with your siblings and the awkwardness that will surely ensue.
HEADCANONS ;
❀ a weak constitution: shuying was born premature and often fell into lapses of illnesses, especially as a child. in the winter months or after exertion, she would be easily out of breath and had what we'd know to be pediatric asthma. she's mostly grown out of her symptoms since moving to oldtown. since then, per the maesters' instructions, she keeps a pomander of herbs to help with symptoms on hand and keeps to medication of her wheezing is triggered.
❀ hidden shame: a long scar runs from behind her right ear down the side of her neck and across the front of her chest, almost to the navel. an injury from the attack that killed her parents. it's less noticeable from afar because her hair is usually braided in ways to cover the scar along with clothing and accessories. she's a bit more withdrawn since the attack. over time, she's begun to decorate her scar and try to become comfortable with her body again.
❀ ptsd: shuying actively still struggles with ptsd from the event. it's been five years but there are moments when she can be triggered into a panic attack.
ESTABLISHED CONNECTIONS;
❀ house baratheon: serves as a companion to the baratheon triplets
WANTED CONNECTIONS (open to collaborate and adjust!);
the hand of the late king welcomes loras martell neé fowler, the spouse of the secondborn princess of dorne, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be intelligent and strategic, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their idle and avoidant tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of sun - bleached book pages, worn away by unquenched and desperate thumbs ; livery of deep, royal purple and the metallic quiver of yellow gold, sun beating upon freckled shoulders, peppered sparse like kisses upon his back. they themselves dream of an independent and free dorne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
i. statistics
name: loras martell née fowler. age: five and thirty. place of birth: skyreach, dorne. gender: cis man. pronouns: he & him. sexual orientation: bisexual. religion: the seven. title: husband to the secondborn princess of dorne. languages: the common tongue, high valyrian ( learning ). affiliation: house martell.
faceclaim: reeve carney. hair color: brown. eye color: gold. height: 6'1". distinguishing characteristics: eyes that are almost gold in color.
character alignment: lawful good. positive traits: intelligent, strategic, resolute, carefree, devoted. negative traits: idle, avoidant, indifferent, vain, selfish. character parallels: tyrion lannister ( asoiaf ), dorian gray ( the picture of dorian gray ). disorders: general malaise.
mother: unnamed npc fowler. father: unnamed npc fowler. sibling(s): to be confirmed. significant other(s): jahanara martell. children: none.
ii. background & personality.
loras fowler was born beneath the red sun of skyreach, one of many hooded blue hawks of the same name, with blood thick with the lineage of the first men and the andals. family was everything to the wardens of the prince’s pass, and he was raised in tow of his siblings within the stony slopes of the wide way. unlike his siblings, loras was never one for fighting — he hadn’t been blessed with iron - wielding arms of a warrior’s might — but instead had been bestowed with cunning. from a young age he was less occupied by play fighting or brawling in the sands. instead he stayed within the keep reading any book he could, tearing his way through pages of scripture and history, committing to memory the ways of new and old. his mind was his weapon, although that did not pass when he attempted to tell his father as such. no son of skyreach would sit around idle, gazing out at the wilds and wishing to learn every secret hidden beneath the trees, the sands, behind the clouds.
there was a yearning for him to become something more. the citadel cried out to him, and loras dreamt of a world where he was able to earn his heavy chains by way of knowledge. whenever royal duty brought him within proximity he would make visits to the birthplace of the maesters, running his fingers along the stones and willing himself to one day command a seat at their table. such a life was not meant to be. his siblings thought it almost laughable that a fowler would want to renounce everything they were, to hand over a lordship and his claim to land, his rights to marry all for some jewellery and a life of servitude. so loras made the decision to stay ; education turned inwards towards his faith, and that is where it stayed.
loras is rather devout in his dedication to the seven. he spends hours in solitude practising quiet contemplation, breathing at the rhythm of the winds and the breath of the desert, listening to the sound of silence surrounding him. for a long time loras thought that his love for his gods was the only love that he would ever know. as his siblings fell into infatuation with fighting and strategy, so did loras with the ways of the gods. but peace never lasted for very long. when battles hit, when inevitable unrest reared its ugly head, he would not be left behind to cower behind leather-bound words. alongside his siblings and his dear gods he used the only spear he had truly mastered ; his intellect. as an army they worked to strategise and map attacks. some of the most successful dornish surges had been due to loras’s ability to see from an alternate angle.
perhaps it was that very same gift that brought harmony between the union of house fowler and house martell. his father had caught word that the second-born princess was unruly in her practice, could not be tied down beneath any circumstance. who better to bring her into alignment than a boy devoted to unseen beings, who longed for a lavish and idle life outstretched upon a bench with the sun beating across his face ? his union to jahanara marked a marriage no longer to only his faith, but to a woman who prayed only to jibes and sarcasm and whatever whim blew her direction. what a way to live, he thought, without care in the world or worry of consequence. they were two halves on one being ; loras, the brain and jahanara, the heart. alongside their union she opened him up to the ways of the martells, that unwinding and letting down one’s hair was not always a failing or measure of lack. to her, he gave a steady place to land — loras is unfaltering in his support for his wife and the ruling princess, and stands sentinel in their corner in spite of the whispers of further unrest on distant shores.
loras is distant and aloof, favouring his own company than the company of those around him. while others laugh and drink, he remains on the fringes with a book in hand, or vanishes altogether to haunt the dornish libraries and fill his mind with all sorts of stories, facts, proper names. he is no real lord, only lord in name, and for that he is thankful — if all his work was to sit and look pretty on the arm of the princess then so be it, for it was what he was best at. matters of the iron throne mean nothing. they are dornish and, like his dear wife, he wishes not for a ruler to sit atop the swords but, instead, for their land to be free of all influence from westeros. with them, they bring only strife — an existence of little resistance, of indulgence and enjoyment and slowness, was all that loras cared to preserve. what was the use in plaguing his mind with thoughts beyond their little lives upon the sands ?
there is still an ache, deep within, to learn, to be a teacher, to be overflowing with more knowledge than a mortal brain could ever comprehend. his yearning lingers in the quiet moments when he catches the scent of aging parchment, the burn of lamp oil in the lowlight, and when he hears the clacking of a raven’s talons bearing news from a maester’s careful hand. he assures himself that he no longer envies men with heavy necks, that he has made peace with his chosen life, yet he lingers within his unmet dreams to mourn the scholar he could never become. instead he hoards knowledge, a desperation to collect ideas and truths that the layman could only ever wish after. a shaky grasp on high valyrian, bound notebooks filled to bursting with pressed flowers and parchments and thoughts ; nothing for loras is left undocumented and, when his time comes and his diaries are left to his children, he hopes that they would be graced with more freedom than he had been.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ( tully b , sarita choudhury , fifty-five , cis woman , she / her ) the hand of the late king welcomes celia tully nee piper, the lady of riverrun, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be independent and perceptive, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their vindictive and stubborn tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of a mind as sharp as valyrian steel, maternal instincts woven into every action, yearning for what will never be yours. they themselves dream of anyone just on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
i. BASIC INFORMATION .
full name celia tully nee piper pronunciation seal-yuh title(s) lady of riverrun, lady of pinkmaiden (formerly) age fifty-five date of birth eighth day of the 1st moon religion faith of the seven, devout place of birth pinkmaiden, the riverlands, westeros place of residence riverrun, the riverlands, westeros gender & pronouns cis woman, she / her languages spoken the common tongue allegiance house tully, house piper
ii. FAMILY INFORMATION .
father lord marq piper mother lady elenda piper nee cafferen siblings lord clement piper, lady elyana piper, lord armistead piper relatives house tully ( good family, children ), house cafferen ( maternal cousins ) marital status married, to tully a issue lord marq tully ( son, deceased ), lord edmure tully ( son, deceased), lady amerei mallister nee tully ( daughter ), liege aila tully ( adopted daughter )
iii. PERSONALITY TYPE .
abilities a gifted writer, though she rarely shares this with others. moral alignment lawful neutral positives independent, perceptive, kind negatives vindictive, stubborn, aloof pass times reading, writing, singing wields a pen
iv. PHYSICAL ATTRIBUTES .
height five foot, five inches build full figured, wide hips and thick thighs after years of a well-lived life and having braved childbirth hair dark, wavy, kept long and typically tied back in a braid or half-up eyes brown with an almost reddish tint notable features sharp, chiseled features and warm, inviting eyes face sarita choudhury
v. BACK STORY . ( TW: CHILD LOSS, MISCARRIAGE )
third born of house piper, there was never any expectation set upon young celia to be a leader. yet from the moment she could truly understand what it meant, she yearned for it.
alas, she was used as little more than a pawn in an attempt for house piper to gain more power within the riverlands, with celia being betrothed to tully a from a young age. but lucky for her, this meant she visited riverrun quite often while growing up, familiarizing herself with what would one day be her home.
she would marry tully a just a few days short of her 20th nameday. and though she knew him quite well due to her many visits over the years, it would take some time before love would eventually bloom between the two.
( TW: CHILD LOSS, MISCARRIAGE ) despite this fact, the couple would indeed do their marital duty, right from the start. however, the road was fraught with tragedy, for celia and tully a would suffer several miscarriages and death of children in the cradle. in total, celia would have at least 3 miscarriages that she was aware of, and the death of 2 children before their first nameday.
finally, at age 27, celia would give birth to a girl who she would name amerei. though she feared for the babe as she did her others, amerei would prove strong. the gods had gifted her a girl who lived beyond her first nameday, and celia would not squander the opportunity to shower with girl with affection.
some years later, little aila would come into their lives, and celia, no longer willing to put herself through the trials of pregnancy, welcomed them with open arms.
despite the many hardships she had faced over the years, maternal instincts came easily to celia. even more impressive, she was easily able to balance the softness of being a mother with the sharpness of her political mind.
she proved to be an extremely influential figure in riverrun, with quite a lot of dominance over her husband, the heir. though, she rarely voiced any of her thoughts in front of ruling lord balan, leaving her scheming for behind closed doors, planting thoughts within tully a's head to later then pose ideas as his own to his father.
now, with balan aged, celia hopes to see her husband ascend to ruling lord of riverrun and finally take what is his. she holds no ill will towards the aged lord tully, far from it, but she thinks it is about time that someone far more rigid rule the riverlands.
she does not really desire for the throne per se, but she certainly would not mind a place on the council or to see her husband sit it at least.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ( qorgyle a , baifern pimchanok , 30 , cis female , she/her ) the hand of the late king welcomes isara qorgyle, the ruling lady of sandstone, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be carefree and loyal, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their vengeful and hot-tempered tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of coiled whip constantly strapped to her hip, laughter that rings out through an entire tavern, unshed tears in angry red eyes she refuses to let spill . they themselves dream of no one on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
basic information.
official name: isara qorgyle. nickname: isa, sara. noble title: ruling lady of sandstone. star sign: cancer. birthplace: sandstone, dorne. home: sandstone, dorne. orientation: bisexual , biromantic. monikers: the red traitor. languages: the common tongue , fluent. low valyrian, semi - fluent. accent: light dornish accent.
physical information.
hair: naturally a dark brown, but currently dyed a deep red that's only truly noticeable in the sun. eyes: hazel. height: five feet, five inches. build: short, slim, slight curves, lean muscle. dominant hand: left. scars: one on her upper thigh from getting stabbed. distinguishing features: her red hair, she also likes to wear her hair in intricate braids after seeing the dothraki do it. clothing style: she couldn't be more dornish if she tried. she wears a lot of oranges, reds and yellows. she loves chiffon and sheer dresses, but she's just as equally seen in fighting leathers. she wears a lot of holsters on her body to hold various weapons, typically daggers and the whip that she wears constantly on her him.
personality.
positive: tba. negative: tba. mbti: tba. element: air. moral alignment: tba. deadly sin: tba. heavenly virtue: tba. godly parent: dionysus. character inspirations: tba
tidbits.
hobbies: tba. religion: tba. alliance: house martell, house qorgyle. personal goals: tba. would they choose family or power?: family.
blood ties.
mother: ruling lady pimchanok qorgyle (deceased). father: arthit sand ( deceased ) sibling: sakchai ( deceased ) , achara, thara. spouse: tba, married one year, open marriage. children: none.
backstory.
she was never supposed to be ruling lady. born second to the qorgyle children, but she wasn't just a spare in her parents eyes. instead, she's spoiled, presented to the people of dorne with smiles and praise.
her parents were a soft people, kindness and reason raditing from their very marrow. the fact that isara was born during a sandstorm should have been some sort of symbol that she would not follow in such footsteps.
she was a temperamental thing, mood swinging violently from joyous laughter and soft smiles to a raging temper and retalliation against anything that went wrong. a menace to both her parents and siblings one minute, caring for them the next. after all, it was fine if she were to speak ill of them, but god forbid anyone else did.
she became obsessed with their house banner at age seven, taking an interest in the scorpions in particular. it took months of begging, but eventually her parents let her keep a hutch of scorpions. she cared for them like they were her own blood, pets that she did her best to train.
her house would never be particularly powerful or wealthy, but that had never been much of a factor to isara. she cared very little for the politics of the realm, and even within dorne to a certain extend. she was loyal to a fault when it came to the martells, but beyond that, she kept her nose entirely out of any political business.
her curiosity for the world only continued to grow as she did. by the time she turned eighteen, she told her family she intended to see much of it and left on her first trip. she'd spend six months of each year away from home only to return with stories of the waters of the sapphire isle, the ports of lys, the ice wall in the north. she would make new friends wherever she went, somehow managing to get herself both in and out of ridiculous situations.
when she was home in dorne, she loved to reconnect to the people there most. many a dawn would rise and isara could still be found in a tavern, laughter loud as she shared stories with friends. her favourite person to share her stories with though was always her brother, the pair of them often found huddled together sharing smiles.
little was expected of her, and that was the way she liked it. no responsibilities, no expectations, just the joy of life. whatever interests took her, she explored. it's how she ended up training not only hand to hand combat and sword fighting, but the whip ended up being her weapon of choice. she's never found without both strapped to her person, the qorgyle scorpion on the hilt of each piece of her weaponry.
reality struck similarly to her whip when the ships arrived on the shorelines. stock went missing, people were hungry, and what should have been a diplomatic discussion ended in disaster. a messenger arrived with a mere tatter from their sail and the news that her parents and older brother were gone.
she was never supposed to be ruling lady, her knowledge a minimal thing. while advisors were trying to train her for the role, she was drowning in the grief. overwhelmed with doubt that she could possibly fill such shoes, missing her brother, the sibling she'd always been closest with, above all else. and then there was the anger. horrible and ugly, filling every part of her and driving her forward and directed straight at the goodbrothers.
as food stores ran low and the news of the northern court arriving in sandstone, it became apparent that house qorgyle needed to be in attendance. not only does she need the trade to feed her people, but she heard the goodbrothers would also be in attendance and isara had never been forgiving. she wanted revenge, she wanted her family sword back, and she wanted to burn their fucking fleet to ruin.
tldr: used to be a fun party girl who travelled, now is swimming in responsibilities and grief and anger but fuck is she trying! all while doubting tf out of herself!
the hand of the late king welcomes iselin blacktyde, the heir to blacktyde, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be sanguine and mettlesome, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their domineering and cold tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of a girl with fawn eyes and iron blood ; the cold spray of salt as it whips in the icy air ; raven ringlets that fall like ripples into an unforgiving ocean. they themselves dream of a blacktyde on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
i. statistics
name: iselin blacktyde. age: seven and twenty. place of birth: blacktyde, blacktyde. gender: cis woman. pronouns: she & her. sexual orientation: bisexual. religion: the drowned god. title: lady of house blacktyde. languages: the common tongue, self - created sign language. affiliation: house blacktyde.
faceclaim: sophie wilde. hair color: black. eye color: brown. height: 5'4". distinguishing characteristics: wideset eyes, scars upon her face and arms from battles with the sea, an almost oil - slick look to her irises that turn brown to blue beneath certain lights.
character alignment: chaotic good. positive traits: sanguine, mettlesome, relentless, resilient, unyielding. negative traits: domineering, cold, withdrawn, distrusting, competitive. character parallels: varys ( asoiaf ), zoya nazyalensky ( grishaverse ), jane doe ( ride the cyclone ), eurydice ( hadestown ). disorders: selective mutism.
mother: estrid blacktyde. father: hrothgar blacktyde. sibling(s): ariyah blacktyde & blacktyde e. significant other(s): tba. children: none.
ii. background & personality.
the iron islands are cold mothers, but none are as cold as iselin’s own — she was born like a sickness, cared for by her fathers as though they had brought her in from the waves. to others it may have seemed cruel, that the eldest of the blacktydes had been shunned and pushed away, but not to iselin. it was their norm, the only thing she had ever known ; how could she mourn what she had lost, if she never had a mother to begin with ? unlike estrid’s sister she had lived through childbirth, but existed upon the periphery of iselin’s childhood. occupying the same halls, breathing the same salt - soaked air … existing as strangers, as acquaintances, as distant visitors upon the same sea. between them was not hatred, but something quieter — heavier. whatever it was, it settled between them like a wall of sea mist that neither tried to part, and grew with the strength of the iron of their name. rejection repeated became routine. but iselin was strong. iselin did not need the warm arms of another, the help of any but herself. she was a daughter of the tide. she could hold her own, and would.
learning to expect little from those who shared her blood, iselin found solace in the rhythms of blacktyde itself. she wandered the crags and watched waves assault the rocks, climbed watchtowers to feel the wind whip through salted curls, and lingered in the shadows beside serving folk and fellow ironborn that spoke truth louder than she had ever heard before. from aged sailors she heard tales of the grey king and the seastone chair ; from weathered captains she learned that the sea favoured neither the strong nor the weak, only those stubborn enough to endure it. iselin learned in her young years that silence was a weapon stronger than cutlasses and tridents. it quick became her artillery, sharpened by a pervading silence — a shark drifting silently through the depths until it was time to strike. whispers followed. rumours were like the tide ; brought in on the breeze, receding, before the waves climbed, crashed and destroyed the keepers of them.
it was only a matter of time before speech abandoned her entirely. those beneath the sea did not need words, and so neither did she — each morning her fathers would check her bed to find it empty, and their daughter out on the shoreline with her arms dangling beneath the waters. they were her greatest friends, the blessings of the drowned god ; she learned that family was not those that brought you into the world but those you chose for yourself, and so the fish became her family. oh, how she wished she could have grown scales and gills and joined them down below. it would have granted front-row seats to the bodies that were flung from enemy ships, souls sacrificed to the god they so dearly worshipped. perhaps, if she had been brave enough to take that single step forward, she could have become a more of a disciple.
instead, her silence continued until her six and tenth name day. it was then that she spoke again, in a distant and air-like tone as though speech itself had been bestowed by the depths. when in need, iselin is still able to communicate through the movements of her fingers and expression alone. there is an understanding deep within her that it is often what is communicated without sound that is the most vital.
as she grew the salt wind whipped her face and left her cheeks with pink welts, and yet iselin never retreated from the shoreline. she matured and became sharper than any rock face, meaner than any current, colder than an icy sea, and yet more beautiful than even the bluest of oceans. when she broke from her time at the water’s edge she sat up within her towers, watching from her window, watching out across the waves for ships of mainlanders that had dared cross into iron territory. when she noticed their shuddering ships iselin did not scream. the lights would dim, and without the warm glow of blacktyde atop the rocks many a vessel crashed into the jagged rocks below with one set of twisted, vengeful eyes upon them. she watched with pride as the waves finished what she had started and took those wretched things down below.
taught to be a formidable seafarer — the old ways ran deep within her blood — iselin would often venture out in her own ship to gather the rotten, water - logged shrapnel left behind. they were kept as trophies in her quarters, hung like the pelts of great game or the banners of long - extinct houses ; still, around her neck, in a soft pouch, hang the finger bones of one lost sailor that she had found still curled around the helm. she believes the sacrifice brings her luck. that the drowned god looks upon her from every pail, from every rushing stream, from every droplet of rain falling from the sky.
it was not a secret, her strange and bloodthirsty ways. in fact, she hoped that they would — one day — convince her mother that it was iselin that deserved rule of blacktyde. the world was cruel, they had learned it firsthand, and there was no guarantee that her mother would rule for many years. not with whispers of dragons on the mainland. not with war on the horizon, with dirty hands snatching for the iron throne, with families turning upon families and severing of alliances. there was no telling who would fall victim next. being the eldest did not mean that she would be next in line ; it meant iselin needed to rise above, to fight, to show to her mother that she was the strongest of the brood and, by proxy, the most deserving of them all. if blacktyde were to belong to anyone, it would belong to the daughter who had learned its cliffs by touch, its currents by instinct, its people by the secrets they had offered and the whispers uttered all too loudly. it should be handed to the girl who had taken many lives without ever lifting a sword, who could sail with the skill of any captain. love had always been a poor foundation to rule. best to do away with it, replace it with something more formidable ; spilled blood and the salt of the ocean.
she does not hate her siblings, not at all, but they have not been raised as though they were equals, and so — despite her love for them — there exists a fervent competition. what they can do, iselin vows to repeat tenfold ; every triumph a standard she must surpass, every praise one that she aches to hear herself. a blacktyde would take the throne, she knew that to be true. iselin was not going to let it slip through her weather - worn fingers and be given to the soft-underbelled mainlanders. her allegiance is with the iron islands but, mostly, her allegiance is with herself, for sharks did not need others for them to be the most formidable. in fact, was it not true that the most bloodthirsty of creatures acted alone ?
