⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ( swann a , jodie turner smith , 36 , female , she/her ) the hand of the late king welcomes daena swann, the ruling lady of stonehelm, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be dutiful and resilient, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their guarded and secretive tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of the ache of becoming a second mother to children who are not hers; love measured in sacrifices no one ever notices; calm words spoken while chaos gathers at the horizon; the quiet realization that everyone is waiting for her answer. they themselves dream of any house but her own on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles. ( krys , 33 , she/her , est , gore/body horror )
i. statistics
name daena swann age thirty6 place of birth stonehelm, the stormlands gender female pronouns she/her sexual orientation pansexual religion faith of the seven title ruling lady of stonehelm languages common tongue (fluent), high valyrian (proficient in reading, less-so speaking)
faceclaim jodie turner smith hair color black eye color dark brown
father ruling lord borros swann, deceased mother lady perianne swann née bracken, deceased siblings ser donnell swann, ser davos swann, lady anora swann, lady jerica swann related brackens affiliations baratheons & other houses of the stormlands
ii. backstory
( death tw, grief tw )
from the moment she was born, lady daena swann was raised to be a symbol of stability. the eldest child of the ruling lord and lady consort of stonehelm, she was the heir, the very symbol of a long and proud line continuing. her education was rigorous from the start. her parents expected much from her — she sat beside her mother during matters of household management, beside her father during audiences and disputes and with the maester for her formal education. she learned the histories of the stormlands, the names of bannermen and their heirs, the roads that flooded during heavy storms and the villages most vulnerable during harsh winters. while her brothers were sent to serve the world beyond stonehelm, daena learned the very heartbeat of stonehelm itself.
as she came of age, daena was given a list of duties and matters to oversee all in an effort to ease her transition to eventually becoming the ruling lady. there were guests to host, disputes to mediate, and younger sisters with lessons to oversee. by the time anora and jerica were born, daena was far more a fixture within the household than a sister, helping guide their upbringing. through it all, daena sought the council of her parents, seeking more than just validation and answers, but truly to understand why her father made certain decisions. why her mother deftly navigated through seemingly innocuous court matters with such care and precision. even after thirty years under their tutelage and guidance, daena felt they still had so much more to teach her.
she had expected more time.
at the very least, she thought she would have her mother at her side for a time after inherited the title. the fever that swept the stormlands had a much different plan and within weeks, both lord and lady swann were gone. daena didn’t have time to sit in her grief, not really. there were funerals to arrange, and frightened bannermen to reassure. there were younger sisters looking to her for answers she did not yet possess. younger brothers coming home with their own visions for the future. yet above it all, stonehelm required a ruler and so that is what she became.
at six-and-thirty, lady daena now rules a seat she hadn’t expected to inherit so soon. her father’s solar and council seat are now hers. the loss of her parents is still echoing through halls of stonehelm, but there is little time to dwell on her grief when so many are looking to her for guidance. her brothers return home and see only what has changed. they do not see the countless small acts that were required to keep it standing, the daily labors that carried stonehelm through the years, or the weight of being the one left behind to shoulder them.
the keep remembers, though. and so does she.
iii. headcanons
she’s inherited several of mother’s habits without realizing it. when someone points it out, it throws her for a loop and leaves her unsettled for the rest of the day
she still occasionally catches herself thinking, “i should ask father” before remembering that she cannot
daena knows the names of far more household servants than most nobles would bother learning
stonehelm’s smallfolk recognize her on sight because she spent many years accompanying her father throughout the lands
she rarely raises her voice. when she does, those are moments that are remembered.
despite her composed reputation, she has a habit of worrying over decisions long after they’ve been made.
among her siblings, she is the one most deeply tied to stonehelm. to her it's not just home, it's a whole component of who she is
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ the hand of the late king welcomes defne rivers, the bastard of harrenhal, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be tender and obedient, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their timid and sheltered tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of sleeping with your arms crossed over your chest, next to your dress neatly laid out in anticipation for the following day ; starry freckles spattered across your skin ; feather light steps gliding across the floor, swaying to the drifting hum of a faraway melody, not so different from the ghosts who haunt you. they themselves dream of a kind house on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
STATISTICS.
full name: defne rivers title(s): natural first born child of the ruling lady of harrenhal age: twenty4 birthdate: the seventh day of the seventh moon place of birth: harrenhal, the riverlands gender: demigirl pronouns: she/they sexual & romantic orientation: unexplored religion: the faith of seven languages spoken: common tongue allegiance: house strong, the seven
father: unknown lord mother: ruling lady leyla strong siblings: none marital status: unbethrothed, unmarried children: none related: house strong, house karstark pet(s): her beloved hounds: solace, jollye, and trouble
traits: sheltered, obedient, affectionate, sensitive, concerned, imaginative, shy interests: rearing hounds ; doodling ; dreaming of balls and handsome knights ; admittedly, defne cannot help but lend her ear to rumours, hungry for any news — no secret ever safe with her skills & talents: is very good with animals ; a talented flautist ; a gifted dancer though has rarely had opportunity to share it weapon: wide, tearful eyes playlist: vienna (in memoriam), the army, the navy character inspiration: neifile, the decameron
height: as much as she would love to be of a ferocious height — they're still holding out hope that they might grow a few more inches if they force themselves to eat just one more turnip at dinner each night — alas, defne remains a miserable five feet flat hair & style: born with a full head of dark hair that simply never stopped growing complexion: a pale pallour with rosy flushed cheeks eye colour: a wide, curious brown notable features: a spray of freckles across the expanse of her skin, told many a time when she was a smaller thing that her freckles were a starry night spilled from the mother's own goblet fashion: trunks upon trunks of dresses, shades of harrenhal hues ; owns more shoes for dancing than walking scent: the woods, of flowers, of sweaty palms
HISTORY.
you are the curse upon harrenhal.
no one has ever said such a thing to you, but you know. you are a part of the curse.
of everything done in your name ... you must be.
you do not want to be. see, no one asks to be born. but, you were brought into existence, summoned to serve the hallowed and haunted halls of harrenhal. it is all you have ever known. it is your cradle, your creed, and your coffin.
your childhood is spent with your face buried in your mother’s skirts, trailing after her with a small fist full of fabric. you long for a handsome knight to sweep you off your feet, but you have hardly ever taken a step that did not trail behind your mother. a natural born daughter of house strong, though you are far from it. you are a cowardly imposter. seven forbid the finger is pointed at you for fear you’ll combust into tears.
you are sheltered.
you did not wish for it to be so, but you are so afraid of the world. you wish to be seen, but do not want to be seen for fear of them seeing right through you. seeing you and not liking it. seeing you and even worse — that is the curse. the doubt that fills you at every turn. the well of guilt for simply being born. afraid to be loved lest it entitles your house's curse to their bones too.
but, in spite of it all, you love your home.
you love to run small palms against its brick, and racing with your dogs in the woods, and swimming in the god's eye when the weather is warm enough. but, it is a cannibalistic kind of love — one that will devour you whole.
perhaps if it does, then its walls will finally be sated.
ADDITIONAL.
she is ... haunted. by anxiety. demigirl ... you would have loved — LOVED! — zoloft. of course, one could say that defne is well within their rights to be so afraid of existing. after all, wouldn't you be the same if you were so unfortunately and deeply aware of the curse ...
truthfully ... despite the campaign to legitimize them ... defne actually doesn't mind being a bastard. they would never tell their mother this — she could not throw that in her face. she doesn't like the word, but ... she has a loving family, a haunted shelter over her head, all the dresses she wants ... it stings some that she might never make a good match, but ... if it never happens, that's okay.
defne's dearest friends are a pack of hounds — solace, jolly, and trouble. found in the godswood when she was a child, the oldest of them have gone now, but their pups yip at her feet still. defne is so rarely seen without them.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ( hightower f , ruby cruz , twenty6, genderfluid, they/them ) the hand of the late king welcomes rowan hightower, the liege of oldtown, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be sincere and wonderstruck, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their unsettling and morbid tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of white moths nesting atop shrouds; the phantom sensation of a twin's fingernails scratching from underneath your skin; muddy hands carefully returning a fallen bird to its nest; and a hunger best left unnamed. they themselves dream of house hightower on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
i. basics.
full name: rowan hightower. nickname(s): they don't... have it. age: six and twenty. date of birth: 9th day of the 11th moon. place of birth: oldtown. zodiac: scorpio sun, scorpio moon, scorpio rising. gender: genderfluid (afab). pronouns: they/them. orientation: virgin. hair: brown, short (chin/shoulder length). eye color: blueish-green. inspo: death (sandman), ethel cain's discography height: 5'5. status: unwed, unbetrothed. personality stats: intp, fleumatic, melancholic. spoken languages: common tongue.
ii. biography. (tw: cannibalism, gore, child abuse, death, religious trauma.)
you begin in darkness. not alone, for that part comes later. for now, there is only warmth, a heartbeat not your own, and the steady rush of blood through your lady mother's body. a world no larger than the curve of a womb and the tiny shape curled beside you. you share everything in that small space, the nourishment and the future alike. you do not know that beyond flesh and fluid and darkness, your lord father kneels before the altars of the seven until his knees bloom purple and black beneath his heavy robes. you do not know that he bargains with the gods. you do not know that he presses his forehead against the cold stone of the sept and begs. one child, he prays, only one. the maesters whisper that the belly has grown too large. there must be two, they say. but your father does not want two. even numbers are a curse, a dilution, a fracturing of the divine arithmetic. he prayed for seven. he built seven vessels. mother, father, crone, maiden, warrior, smith, and at last, the stranger. an eighth child would ruin the grand design, and so he prays for a solitary delivery. he prays for your compliance. and ever obedient, you listen to him. a tiny mouth swallowing destiny whole.
when at last you emerge red-faced and squalling into the world, there is no sign of wrongdoing. no scales, no claws, no blood upon your lips but your own. you are healthy, strong, and perfect in the eyes of the midwive. yet the woman discovers remnants afterward, fragments and dark evidence of a second promise that never arrived. the maester examines what remains, and low murmurs follow, questions and conclusions. twins, she declares, there had been twins. had been, and that small distinction changes everything. oldtown has always loved stories more than truth, and in a fortnight, the white tower's servants whispered that you are a womb-eater, and the tale spread like wildfire through the city. your lord father is delighted, and that is perhaps the strangest part of it all. others recoil in horror, but your father rejoices. the seventh child has arrived exactly as foretold. the stranger has come alone, and the number remains unbroken. seven, the perfect seven. he smiles more after that day, prays harder, and speaks with greater certainty. every coincidence becomes proof, every misfortune becomes a test from above, and every unanswered question becomes another sign that the gods favor him above lesser men.
and you, you spend your childhood trying very hard to become whatever it is he sees when he looks at you. books are laid upon your lap first, heavy scrolls on anatomy and signs of decay, and the faith of the seven. tomes of funeral rites are given to you, along with dark histories of plague and war. you are told to pay close attention to the silent sisters in every funeral your house was invited to attend, to watch how they move and pray and tend to the ones no longer bound to the living, to admire their devotion and their most necessary bidding. orland inherits rectitude, posey, her womanliness, elyas, the knowledge of the citadel, ceryse, her sullen wisdom, seraphina, her delicate virtue, and willas, his bravery. you inherit only obituaries. your lord father calls it preparation, a higher calling, he says, a sacred purpose. you will join them someday, the sisters, a vow of silence to be taken upon the altar, so you must get used to talking less and less and less. you believe him because he is your father, and you believe him because children always do. besides, purpose is a comforting thing for the lonely. it explains why you seem to be constantly held apart without so much as trying, why the servants cross themselves when they think you are not looking, why strangers stare in the yard, and why your father only seems pleased when you speak of death.
so you learn. you memorize burial rites before songs, you learn how bodies decay and how not to be unsettled by them. nevermind the green things of the earth. seraphina and posey may frolick in the gardens, but you must hold yourself apart. or at least you try. the trouble is that earth's greenery insist upon existing. you find yourself distracted by them. a patch of wildflowers forcing its way through stone, blooming. a bird fallen from its nest. rainwater gathering in sunlit puddles. the ridiculous persistence of living things. the world keeps presenting you with miracles your father never taught you to appreciate. and whenever delight escapes you, whenever wonder shines too brightly upon your face, his approval vanishes. the silence that follows is worse than anger. after all, a blossom has no value to the god of graves until it rots. a laughing child bears no use as a bride of death. and heart full of awe musn't don the gray veil. so you take those bright pieces of yourself and drop them down into the dark between the joists, keeping them like stolen gold while you grow small and still and ready for the knife.
and, sometimes, you see things. a little girl standing in a doorway where no little girl stands. a voice carried by the wind when the day is perfectly still. small things, the sort everyone dismisses, except they do not always disappear. once, at eight years old, you spend an afternoon speaking to a knight seated beside a fountain. when a nursemaid whisks you away, you protest fiercely. it is rude to leave in the middle of a discussion. "what knight?" they ask. you point, but the fountain is empty. you cry all evening, because everyone insists there had never been a knight at all. such incidents become more common with age. you follow voices halfway across the castle before remembering nobody else can hear them. sometimes you find yourself staring over the edge of a balcony because somebody asked you to come closer, only for a frightened hand to yank you backward. when people ask who you are speaking to, you answer honestly. they look afraid. your father doesn't. while others whisper of curses, he smiles and speaks of blessings. you possess a gift, he tells you; the veil between worlds is thin for you. the dead have always favored the stranger's own.
you and your father share certain peculiarities, the same blue-green eyes drenched in obsession, the same way words gather speed and trip over themselves when speaking for too long. as the years pass, the rules under his roof multiply: seven precious words each day. your father presents the restriction as preparation for the silent sisters. you learn to guard your words like coins, until a nod becomes easier than speech, sometimes retiring to bed having spoken none at all. the servants watch under lord perceon's command, and whenever you fail, punishment follows. so you become quieter still, until silence feels like a second skin. by eighteen, came the time to be sent to the silent sisters, and you are received without fanfare, only a grey veil placed into your waiting hands. you do not mourn your old life; you have spent years preparing for this. but there is some comfort in routine, as the bodies arrive and leave. you wash them, dress them, and stitch shut wounds left by war and misfortune, finding it strangely beautiful. sometimes, you wonder about the lives they led and how they met their end. every corpse carries a story; everyone once loved something and believed tomorrow belonged to them, yet now they are here. why?
the years pass, and the silence grows heavier. when you forget yourself and speak, the sisters correct you. when they catch you speaking to things that are not there, they correct you harder. sometimes you hear footsteps in empty corridors, or a corpse opens its eyes only for them to close when you blink. you remind yourself to stay grounded to the land of the living, yet the dead keep speaking in fragmented conversations. that is when the fear begins. it is one thing to see things nobody else sees; it is another to see your own reflection lingering too long, or a figure standing behind you. you know who it is: the empty place beside you, the missing heartbeat. in oldtown, your sights were odd but golden, yet under the black vaults of the stranger's temple, all grows twisted and dark and terrible. the final drop comes when the hunger is greatest. your food rations have been lessened for a week as punishment for some forgotten infraction, and your stomach is a hollow, aching void. they leave you alone in the dim, cold room to embalm a body, a corpse so fresh the blood still runs dark and wet in its veins.
and then, the air grows thick. the mind fractures completely. the face on the table begins to shift. it is not a stranger anymore. it is you. it is your own face, your own pale skin, and then it turns into the one you swallowed in the dark. it open its cold eyes and looks at you. why did you kill me? the voice echoes inside your skull, scratching at the back of your eyes, though it seems the corpse's lips are moving. why? i wanted to live too. i had a right to the light. why did you eat me? you weep. you defend yourself to the empty room, your voice breaking the sacred silence. i didn't do anything. i didn't know. how could a baby eat a baby? and they whisper, mocking: you like human flesh, don't you? womb-eater! womb-eater! you already know the taste. do you not miss it? aren''t you hungry? taste it. taste it. taste it. when another silent septa opens the heavy oak door, she does not find a pious bride of death. she finds a creature crouching in the shadows, their mouth stained dark and bright with fresh, wet blood. a small, ruined piece of the corpse is missing. the horror is instant. the desecration is absolute. they throw you out. they break your vows and cast you into the light, shipping you back to oldtown. your purpose is failed, you are demaged goods.
your lord father, desperate to protect the holy lie of his family, pays a king's ransom: a massive, staggering donation to the silent sisters as an apology, to ensure the parchment remains clean and the information do not reach the ears of the realm. but rumors are like water; they find the cracks anyway. you are restored to the high tower now, older and hollowed out, another disgrace to your father's collection. no one knows what to do with you. no one dares to look you in the eye. you sit in the dark corners of the grand rooms, completely oblivious to the terror you instill, watching the living with that same, quiet wonder. you are even getting used to speaking again, no longer made to serve under the stranger's order. slowly relearning how to be--- a thrill unlike any other.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ( strong c , turku su demirel , thirty, demi woman , she + they ) the hand of the late king welcomes fahriye strong, the liege of harrenhal, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be pragmatic and amiable, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their aloof and insidious tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of peace in solitude weaving words into stories against a flickering candle, listening to whispers on the wind to repeat in quiet accuracy, fingers dotted with the colors of crushed flowers upon a palm. they themselves dream of riverlands houses 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: fahriye dilan strong. moniker: tbd. nickname(s): if anyone was to use one, they would not respond. age: thirty. date of birth: the third day of the eleventh month. place of birth: harrenhal, the riverlands. gender: demi woman. pronouns: she and they. sexual orientation: demi romantic, demi sexual. religion: none, but would consider the old gods. title: liege of harrenhal. languages: common tongue, old tongue through books and time spent at karhold. affiliation: themself.
faceclaim: turku su demirel. hair color: dark brown, frequently in loose waves as they pay little attention to it aside from brushing. eye color: a chocolate brown. height: five feet, nine inches. distinguishing characteristics: a small tattoo lining the length of their index finger as a testament to times spent away from harrenhal. signature scent: the smell of blossoms close to rotting, but not quite.
⸻ # personality.
mbti: infj. enneagram: the scholar element: air. star sign: scorpio. temperament: melancholic - phlegmatic. character inspirations: melisandre ( got ), ophelia ( hamlet ), odile ( the swan princess ), lisbeth salander ( the girl with the dragon tattoo ). deadly sin: lust. heavenly virtue: patience. traits: creative, independent, pragmatic, amiable, unsettling, manipulative, morally ambiguous, detached.
⸻ # family ties.
mother: lady consort cemre strong, deceased. father: ruling lord hasan strong, deceased. spouse: none. piblings: strong a, lord balon strong, aybüke rivers. issue: none.
⸻ # tidbits.
your first mistake was to ask questions. come into the world quiet as if already wondering to what was the reason of your birth, your mother had said. when you were able to first form words to string together to be understood, you asked why. why did the walls tower so high, why did they seem to speak, and why did no one else listen. why did the dark of night seem to be the only time the keep came alive, why did it seem no one else was as fascinated by it all as you. why could you not spend all your time on the banks of the god's eye digging in the dirt to try to pull up the weeds, why could you not learn more about the fauna than to embroider ? each time your mother pulled you back and attempted to redirect you to something she felt would be more beneficial to your future, was to each that you respected her less and less. you learned to pacify her, in a sense. you sat in your lessons, repeating each word dutifully while writing your own. scraps of pages began to appear in your books, looping scrawls of poetry and half finished thought that your mother encouraged because she only saw what you allowed. things she deemed appropriate all that you handed for her review ; never the ones that crossed between lines of lust and odd, hints of carnal desires and what you heard when standing upon the stone bridge.
in the last years of your childhood, your mother thought it best for you to visit your cousins. harrenhal a cursed place she felt had enabled your tendencies that she never wanted to name. you thought the north to be cold and beautiful — everything you wished to be. you think your aunt had been ill warned of your demeanor. you knew that she found you to be unsettling in the way that you spoke little, stared too often and you enjoyed it. you would not say that you enjoyed fear, that being too strong an emotion. you enjoyed the confusion as people tried to anticipate your thoughts, learning from your time in karhold to do as you pleased with a lofty reason on the tip of your tongue that could not be well argued.
the years of carefully detached surveillance found you with more writings. not just letters sent by raven to your family, but books. full novels that you did not allow any to see, riddles and poems that became increasingly both morbid and sexual in nature. you explored what you could not under the hawk eyed stare of your mother, lips bruised by kisses from the stablehand, faint marks left on your hips from your aunt's handmaiden. when you were found out, you asked for them to provide the proof — and who would tell the truth for fear of losing their position ? it was easier to lie to save their job, just as it was easier for you to pretend to be none the wiser.
your journey back to the riverlands took a winding path you pleaded for, wishing to see more of the north and sights of the riverlands you had not seen before. the trip extended, letters from your parents gone unanswered as you enjoyed the simplicity of travel without expectation a balm. you went and did as you pleased without the perceived shackles of your mother and when you returned to harrenhal, there was little anyone could do to make you do what you did not want.
when everyone departed for king's landing, you remained behind. a kingsmoot meant very little to you, kings that would do little for the realm and serve only their best interests. the letter of poisons and deaths piqued your attention, little else. your arrival late with the intention to observe, only. you believe no one to bit, and have no qualms speaking it.
❛ the hand of the late king welcomes ser 𝗟𝗢𝗥𝗘𝗡𝗧 𝗖𝗘𝗟𝗧𝗜𝗚𝗔𝗥, the lord of claw isle, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be affable and debonair, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their flippant and misguided tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of fatherhood as knighthood or knighthood as religion ? ( for one came as a choice , a cause worthy of dedication. the other , a mere thief of joy ) / the realization of a wearied acceptance that this is going to end very , very badly ( pressing forward anyway because it's not like you give a fuck at this point ) / a waste of devotion , now turned hollow ( you too , had worshipped something once , had believed in something greater than yourself. but you're finally off your knees now , past the point of desperate prayers , and unwilling to ever return ). they themselves dream of house celtigar 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: lorent celtigar née rowan. nicknames: lore , lory. noble title: lord of claw isle. date of birth: third day of the eighth moon. age: fifty1. birthplace: goldengrove , the reach. home: claw isle , the crownlands. nationality: westerosi. gender: cis man. pronouns: he + him. orientation: bisexual biromantic. sobriquet: the goldtooth. languages: common tongue ( fluent ) + knows the best insults in a smattering of different languages ⸻ pentoshi , braavosi , myrish , dothraki , summer tongue ( always excited to learn more ). accent: reach westerosi with heavy crownlands influence on account of how long he's lived there. has a husky tone which tends to remain rather relaxed in his speech. people apparently say it falls rather pleasant to the ears.
... # physical information.
faceclaim: timothy olyphant. ethnicity: descendant of the first men , westerosi. hair: dark blond that has gone silver / ash grey streaked with age. longer at the top and cropped shorter at the sides like so. generally tousled but well kept. eyes: dark brown. height: 6'2 / 190cm. build: long limbed and broad at the shoulders ; toned and surprisingly powerful. scent: warm and spicy ; most often of mint leaves , tonka bean and vetiver. dominant hand: right. allergies: dairy. scars: has earned his fair share of scars throughout the years , but the most prominent of note include : a neat slash across his left arm from a training accident in his youth and a thin yet distinctive scar bisecting the right side of his face from temple to cheek where he caught a blade wrong. distinguishing features: laugh lines that crinkle most heavily at his eyes , long and elegant fingers that will tap when bored , an unexpected amount of grace to his movements , the famous goldtooth over his right upper premolar. clothing style: has a preference for red and gold tones in honour of houses rowan and celtigar ( though rarely ever together ⸻ seeing as he's not a fucking lannister ). best dressed for absolutely no other reason than to show off the wealth of house celtigar. particularly fond of dramatic , draping layers either belted or sashed at the waist. if not , usually has a bold toned robe thrown over whatever he has on. remains rather heavily accessorized at all times , at the very least rings and bracelets stacked in cohesive sets , and an unimaginable amount of weapons most likely hidden on his person. any armour that touches his body is to be polished enough to gleam and glisten.
hobbies: wine tasting , games of chance / luck , fishing , training , annoying his wife. religion: the faith of the seven. not particularly devout but the type to pray when he needs it. promises to find the closest sept as soon as they grant him a boon ( he never does ). loyalties: house celtigar , house rowan. personal goals: support his wife's plans. dream about fixing the fractured relationships within his house but never knowing how to start. family or power? he's not particularly good at either but family does come first.
... # familial ties.
father: previous ruling lord laswell rowan ( ♱ ). mother: previous ruling lady sharis rowan née inchfield ( ♱ ). sister: ruling lady leonette rowan. sister: lady olene rowan ( ♱ ). brother: lord mathis rowan. daughter: lady daenys celtigar. son: lord daemian celtigar. spouse: ruling lady maelora celtigar. extended family: house mooton of maidenpool. pet(s): has an old hunting hound named auric , loyal and long since retired for a life of luxury at lorent's side.
... # narrative.
the fourth son of house rowan of goldengrove. your childhood is awash in that same warm glow. wanting for nothing , overly indulged. whatever duties are meant to be yours for the taking , come only as suggestion for a boy just as easily overlooked down the line of importance. a spare of the spare of the spare of the heir. even upon the early passing of your second sister , the grief only lasts as long as you remember to sit in attendance for your next lessons. you are simply , impossibly … flighty , on the kindest of your days , and wilfully ignorant more often than not. chasing glory over any real sense of responsibility , this life of hedonism stands to suit you just fine , and so it begins the new guiding light of your life. a different kind of golden than the one of your home grove , but burning ever brighter as it grows in its glow. near guaranteed to extinguish ⸻ but yours to chase with abandon until it finally takes you too.
your marriage into house celtigar comes as a surprise to nearly all those who knew you , but none so much as it does to yourself. seventeen and newly knighted , your mind is far , far away from marriage and all its duties. wanting for grandeur , chasing only the fairest of maidens. you are meant to be spreading your name far and wide beyond the reaches of your house , beyond the bounties of the reach. reigning victorious , from battlefields to tourney lists. you only get as far as the first look of intrigue , before your name is no longer your own to claim. a son of house rowan one moment , and someone's husband to be the very next. signed away between the trade deals and goodwill of both families , while you've always had very little say when it comes to matters of actual importance ⸻ the realization burns , to know how little choice you really have in the matters of your own life.
but on the tail end of such a cold realization , you grow into your new role as husband with little grace , and an unexpected amount of eager enthusiasm upon the meeting of your wife. the ruling lady of claw isle to be , maelora celtigar redefines the meaning of power through every minute spent in her presence. you fourth son with little in means of offering , but a heart just waiting to fall. tipped into her favour , your loyalty is sworn over with a smile and an oath. to serve no other , to hold faith to none but her own. marriage is … a gift , for the short while you deem it so , and so you take and you take and you take , until one day ⸻ you are overburdened , and burning with the need to run free.
fatherhood is your choice of an impossible weight that has been placed upon your shoulders , the one that begins to tighten as the noose around your neck. nearly begging for the excuse of it , you are nineteen when your daughter is born , and nineteen when you learn to flee. stretches of time where you are far more absent from claw isle , and more terrifying ⸻ the claws of responsibility towards an infant child , you take back up a far more pleasant pastime of chasing victory within the eyes of all those around you. from journey to tourney , anywhere that will take you far , far away from home. you accomplish your so - called dreams , and leave time to pass you by in the years you do not see of first your daughter , and then the son that follows on a few years later. for while you cannot bear to be a father , you love nothing as much as being a husband to your wife.
selfish in your pursuits , coming as you are called. decades pass , and you have accomplished everything you had set out to do and more. your name to be spread in song , enough days of glory for the stories to flow endless. you are a man so ready to be remembered in myth , and yet with so little in terms of actual legacy. estranged from your children , unsure of your standing with your wife. reflection coming at a heavy , ugly cost , and with the constant reminder for that all you have gained ⸻ you have truly , most sorely lost.
... # extra.
has never been a particularly ambitious person , beyond seeking general renown as a knight , so much of his role in the current power struggle for the realm is to play staunchest supporter to his wife's rights AND wrongs. king consort to be suits him just fine , just as husband to the ruling lady of claw isle always has , and he doesn't want nor expect it to change any time soon. so while he doesn't necessarily agree with all the choices being made , he's very me and my wife don't argue she tell me to shut up and i do.
currently in his newfound #dadera where he's trying a new thing called fatherhood <3333 lorent literally hit fifty and decided that now is the perfect time to start regretting his failures towards his family , and therefore has adapted a new year new me mindset of wanting to change. of course. just because he's wanting doesn't mean he's doing it , but he does like to claim he's trying. so far , it's mostly just caused a very steep downwards spiral that is being soothed and comforted at the bottom of a wine barrel.
a knight of knights in his #prime. which he claims he's still in , but excuse an aging old man of his delusions. it's nearly fascinating for how good he is with a sword in hand , even to this day , even when he's drunk at midday. ( though it's what he abandoned his children for , for the majority of time spent over three decades , so he sure as hell better fucking be ).
... # wanted connections.
— pseudo children , with lore's relationship with his own children so obviously fractured atm , he's looking for a couple stand - ins to play the part against his new doting father figure act. a sore point for the rest of the celtigar's , most likely , but meant to prove that while lorent had the ability to be a good father to his own children , he simply didn't as a choice. so any muses who need a loving dad who is not actually ur dad and mostly ignoring his own kids as he has all his life … hmu <3333
— for house bracken eyes only , brackens give him a horse rn bls ....... he's been wanting one for ages ..... now is the time ..... he'll promise u allegiance ( if his wife says yes ) for a fast and strong horse.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ the hand of the late king welcomes rosamund lannister, the lady of casterly rock, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be resilient and loving, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their timid and apathetic tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of an empty gaze staring out through a window, preferring silence over loud company, embroidered dresses and flowers hiding what you don't want to say out loud. they themselves dream of house lannister on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
name: rosamund lannister. age: twenty5. date of birth: may 7th.
place of birth: casterly rock, westeros. gender: cis woman. pronouns: she / her. sexual orientation: queer. religion: the new gods. title: lady of house lannister of casterly rock. languages: the common tongue.
affiliation: house lannister.
faceclaim: nia towle. hair color: dark brown. eye color: dark brown. height: 5'3". distinguishing characteristics: full lips, rounded nose and birthmark under her bottom lip. slight tremble of the body.
character alignment: neutral good. positive traits: loyal, resilient, intelligent. negative traits: apathetic, timid, calculating. character parallels: bella swan ( but only during that depressi spin in new moon ), margaery tyrell ( game of thrones ). disorders: shaking sickness.
mother: rosalei lannister ( npc ). father: cerion lannister ( npc ).
sibling(s): mara, elayna & cerelle lannister. significant other(s): tba. children: none.
𝔟𝔦𝔬𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔭𝔥𝔶.
rosamund was born a small and fragile thing. and ever since childhood her family had known that she wouldn't amount to much. in the beginning they didn't even know if she'd make it past her first name day. the maesters tried to keep her parents expectation low , to not get too attached to the small bundle — who even then seemed to favour silence instead of screaming. it wasn't until she was five that spoke her first word while reaching out for her mama.
the shaking began suddenly , and once it started it seemed hard to get it to stop. it came seemingly out of nowhere and left her frail and exposed to the outside world. once again , the maester's whispered about a sickness — one that wouldn't pass with time — and that was the day rosamund felt the eyes upon her change from hopeful to pitying. being the youngest , as well as a burden , made her father quickly see her as nothing but the runt of the litter. nothing to invest in and put much effort in raising. potential future matches fizzled out and it was easy to see that lord cerion had better things to worry about than a shaking cub that was an embarrassment to the mighty lion on the hill.
her mother , on the other hand , made sure that rosamund knew she was loved. she was clever and attentive and made sure that rosamund knew how to weave tales and secrets into every interaction. rosamund clung to every bit of wisdom lady rosalei parted with , trying her best to embody the grace and wit her mother possessed.
it was easy to live once rosamund understood that her role in the lannister lineage would be one of embarrassment. she was spoken at and around , never to. but something people didn't realise was that once you got ignored for too long , you ceased to exist. people grew comfortable talking around her , divulging more than they perhaps would've liked to if they knew that the youngest lannister had picked up every word.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ( hightower c , olivia cooke , 32 , cis woman , she/her ) the hand of the late king welcomes ceryse hightower, the lady of oldtown, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be astute and incisive, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their deceitful and taciturn tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of winning the battle before stepping into the fight, nothing matters more than the hunt for enlightenment, a blessing from long unforgiving gods. they themselves dream of house hightower 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: ceryse gwyneth hightower. NICKNAMES: cery, cici, cey. AGE: thirty-two. TITLE: lady of oldtown. BIRTHDATE: june 11. PLACE OF BIRTH: old town, the reach, westeros. GENDER & PRONOUNS: cis woman … she/her. SEXUAL & ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: bisexual, biromantic. RELIGION: faith of the seven. MARITAL STATUS: unwed, unbetrothed.
… # physical information.
FACECLAIM: olivia cooke. HAIR & STYLE: long reddish brown with loose curls or tied into a low bun. EYE COLOUR: brown. HEIGHT: 5'4 / 162 cm. BUILD: slim, strong arms from carrying books but weak legs. DOMINANT HAND: left. SCENT: wood polish, vanilla, leather, mint. ALLERGIES: none. SCARS: none. DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: big brown eyes and long hair. CLOTHING STYLE: tends to wear green constantly, greys and reds too. she likes long dresses and capes. she also enjoys wearing pants when she is in the library or researching. she tends to enjoys long sleeves and likes to cover her arms.
… # personality.
TRAITS: astute, incisive, studious, deceitful, taciturn, complacent. LABEL: the phlegmatic, the sagacious, the crone. MTBI: istj … the logistician. ENNEAGRAM: the loyalist. ELEMENT: earth. STAR SIGN: gemini sun, virgo moon, aquarius rising. TEMPERAMENT: melancholic. DEADLY SIN: pride. HEAVENLY VIRTUE: temperance. GODLY PARENT: apollo. SKILLS: highly skilled at researching, strategy, inferring and manipulation. additionally, she is skilled in body language, keeping secrets, containing secrets, quick reader and avid astrologer. WEAPON OF CHOICE: books and her faith plus a small dagger she keeps on her when she sleeps. CHARACTER INSPIRATION: willow rosenburg (buffy the vampire slayer), penelope garcia (criminal minds), little finger (game of thrones), olenna tyrell (game of thrones)
… # familial ties.
FATHER: perceon hightower. MOTHER: rohanne hightower née hewett. SIBLING(S): elyas hightower, posey tyrell née hightower (deceased), orland hightower (deceased), willas hightower, seraphina higtower, aelora hightower. SIGNIFICANT OTHER(S): n/a. CHILDREN: n/a. ETC: house hewett (maternal cousins), house fossoway (good family through elyas), house arryn (good family through orland), house tyrell (good family through posey). PET(S): small black cat named midnight.
… # history.
ceryse was born with an eye for knowledge. her father, the man who she respected for most of her life, told her that her purpose was to guide him. to guide their family. the crone was as much a part of the fourth borns life as eating and breathing. she prayed constantly for guidance. to guide others herself.
the reading and research came easy to her but over time, it was the manipulation that started to make her feeling alive. not only did her father come to her for guidance but so did citizens in oldtown. ceryse pointed them in directions she saw fit, sometimes in her image but some to truely help others. for years, the hightower used her time and energy on constantly evolving her mind and ability to learn more about the crone and how she could become more like them, no matter the cost…. including her sanity.
after her older siblings died, the trust ceryse's father had in her faltered. she did not foresee this for their family, therefore, how could the crone be a part of her. she began to slip in madness… spending hours upoon hours in their library, other libraries. she was and still is made to believe that the deaths of orland and posey were her fault, despite not being there when they occurred.
through the crone, ceryse believes that she is all knowing. although her advice and her guidance is sometimes is wrong and ill-idvised… she is determined to remain true to her faith and to the crone. even if sometimes, ceryse selfishly puts others on a path they might not be truly destined towards.
now, ceryse is hesitant of her fathers path and while it is not affecting her faith, she worries about him and her other siblings. she spends almost all her nights in the oldtown citadel and the library, desperately searching for the answers to maintain her siblings future. since the death of posey and orland, ceryse has tried to retain a closer relationship with those who are left but the guilt she feels often overpowers her ability to think rationally when it involves them.
… # extras.
ceryse loves the night, she is often up all night and sleeping well into the afternoon.
she tends to journal frequently and keeps a copy of the people she helps guide and tries to adjust accordingly with new information or new lessons.
she loves wine and tends to always have a glass every night and before she goes to sleep.
loves to garden during the small times she is awake during the day and although she is not the best gardener, she loves the process of using her hands.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ( corbray a , zhu yilong, thirty-five , nonbinary, they&him ) the hand of the late king welcomes dexian corbray, the ruling liege of heart’s home, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be resilient and diligent, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their taciturn and reticent tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of breathing the sweat and blood shared with your people among the middling harvest / the peaceful soothing of a crackling fire in the hearth / phantom pain stirring you awake before you can dream of the past / pushing yourself forward, for you cannot change what happened to you, but you can control how your house thrives. they themselves dream of house cobray on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
( content warning - death, animal death, loss of limb )
wielder of lady forlorn, do you understand her weight? there was no way you could've known as a child, not when happiness blossomed so easily. where the keep was harsh, those around you never abandoned their warmth. you emulate the same; perhaps even more so with how lucky you are. the lessons of circumstance press on your shoulders early as you look upon your younger brother, sick and weak and striving to live. and so you forge forth with your heart on your sleeve and your sight set on a future built on the steady foundation your parents' built. in another life, your path would have followed your parents. in another life, your life would not diverge in such a devastating before and after.
there was nothing you could have done to prevent it. the truth settles on your chest each night, and you cannot stand it. the memories have long fractured. but the ambush along the mountains and --- the bandits swarming the carriage and --- your father pressing lady forlorn in your hands and shoving you toward a horse and --- your mother's screams --- falling and --- the horse trapping your leg and ---- not knowing whether to stay silent or finally unleash a scream and ---- and someone finds you, takes you, saves you. despite them needing to carve your skin and bones, despite you needing to leave your parents' bodies, your horse, and your leg behind ---- you survive.
( it's a hard truth, isn't it? you suffered the worst of your smallfolk that day, and you witnessed the best of them. how cursed you are; how lucky you still are. )
you try. every day, this is your beating constant. you tried following your parents' example, but the crops failed, and you needed to bow your head to the arryns. you tried working the fields like you once did, but you had to adjust to the cane, then the crutch, then the iron stump. you prayed every night for a miracle to save heart's home, but the harvests still lacked while the people still cried for help, and you finally turned toward accepting monetary support in the least likely of places.
but you never stop trying. not with your spouse and how they linger. not with your family, and how they do not understand what must be done. and not with your home, and how you must change and save it. you are not so much swayed by your father-in-law's words as you are cornered, but still, you endure. to save heart's home, you will endure whatever you must. to change your house's future, you will bear the weight.
