#204starter

[veridicals]

𝙤𝙣  𝙩𝙝𝙚  𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙝  𝙤𝙛  𝙩𝙝𝙚  𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙩𝙝  𝙢𝙤𝙤𝙣,  𝙖𝙩  𝙩𝙝𝙚  𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣  𝙘𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙗𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣  —  𝘍𝘖𝘙  𝘈𝘓𝘓.

aselle  was  delighted  to  find  that  there  was  dancing  at  the  end  of  the  celebrations.  however,  this  was  different  from  the  prospect  of  actually  participating  in  said  dancing.  although  she  had  insisted  upon  an  entire  trunk  of  slippers  in  the  event  that  she  had  danced  so  much  that  she  wore  out  the  bottoms  of  her  shoes,  the  youngest  dayne  had  yet  to  take  a  single  step  out  into  the  merriment  —  too  awkward  to  step  out  by  herself,  too  apprehensive  to  soothe  herself  into  the  idea  of  it.

embarrassed,  aselle  gives  a  sheepish  laugh.  she  clings  tightly  to  the  gild  of  her  goblet,  her  mighty  shield  filled  with  apple  cider.  more  to  herself  than  anyone  else,  she  muses  aloud,  "as  they  often  say,  first  step  is  always  the  most  difficult.  though,  the  second  and  third  are  rather  scary  too,  i  find."

[qu1etrage]

open starter.

(  Ꮺ  )    the night breathed indulgence — honeyed wine, velvet laughter, the soft rustle of silk against silk — yet beneath it all, something sharper lingered, metallic as the promise of blood not yet spilled. aera drifted through it as though she belonged to neither revelry nor restraint, a figure caught between candlelight and shadow, her presence subtle but never unnoticeable. conversations faltered just slightly in her wake, eyes flickering toward her before quickly darting away, as if acknowledging something they could not quite name. she let them look, of course — let them wonder — because it was in that quiet uncertainty that truths so often slipped loose. even here, amidst celebration, she could feel the realm holding its breath.

she lingered near an open pavilion, one shoulder resting lightly against a carved wooden post as her gaze swept over the crowd with unhurried precision. knights boasting of victories not yet won, ladies exchanging pleasantries sharpened by hidden intent, banners swaying gently in the evening air like silent witnesses to it all — every detail was noted, catalogued, understood. her fingers traced absent patterns along the rim of her goblet, untouched, as her attention caught on something — or rather, someone — approaching. this time, she did not wait for chance to dictate the encounter. instead, she turned fully, meeting their presence with a calm that bordered on deliberate provocation, as though she had been expecting them all along.

“you look as though you’re searching for something,” she remarked, voice low but clear enough to cut through the surrounding noise, her gaze settling upon them with quiet, deliberate focus. there was no hesitation in her tone — only curiosity, sharpened into something almost playful. “or perhaps someone. either way, you’ve found me instead… unfortunate, or fortunate, depending on your intentions.” a faint tilt of her head followed, studying them as though they were a puzzle she had already begun solving. “tell me,” she continued, stepping just close enough to close the distance without quite intruding, “what do you make of all this?” her hand lifted slightly, gesturing toward the glow of lanterns, the echo of laughter, the illusion so carefully constructed. “does it feel like celebration to you?” a pause — measured, knowing. “because to me, it feels like anticipation. and i find anticipation far more dangerous.” her gaze softened only slightly then, though the edge never fully left it. “but perhaps you disagree. i would hear it, if you do… i do so enjoy being proven wrong.”

[veridicals]

𝙤𝙣  𝙩𝙝𝙚  𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙝  𝙤𝙛  𝙩𝙝𝙚  𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙩𝙝  𝙢𝙤𝙤𝙣,  𝙞𝙣  𝙩𝙝𝙚  𝙢𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙚  𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙙𝙨  —  𝘍𝘖𝘙  𝘈𝘓𝘓.

blessedly,  jaide  did  not  need  to  appear  at  the  pit  until  the  late  afternoon  —  some  other  poor  soul  tasked  with  cleaning  the  overnight  muck  filling  the  dragon  stalls.  they  no  longer  had  mercy  or  empathy  for  such  things.  having  been  the  youngest  on  staff  for  a  handful  of  years  had  hardened  her  to  such  emotions.  it  was  high  time  for  someone  else  to  suffer  in  the  same  way.  jaide  would  happily  accept  the  evening  shift,  a  simple  feeding  and  standing  guard  at  the  entrances.  losing  a  handful  of  sleeping  hours  in  favour  of  watching  the  melee  was  well  worth  it,  wasting  their  energy  participating  in  the  melee  was  not.  they  were  rather  content  to  chew  on  peanuts  as  they  stood  against  the  barricade,  waiting  for  the  next  bout  to  begin.  "i  would  not  put  my  coin  on  either  one,"  they  laugh  airily.  they  hardly  had  the  coin  to  spend  gambling  on  another  man's  odds.  "neither  are  skilled  enough  to  be  a  clear  winning,  and  there  are  far  better  competitors  with  luck  at  their  back."

[veridicals]

𝙤𝙣  𝙩𝙝𝙚  𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙝  𝙤𝙛  𝙩𝙝𝙚  𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙩𝙝  𝙢𝙤𝙤𝙣,  𝙞𝙣  𝙩𝙝𝙚  𝙟𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜  𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙙𝙨  —  𝘍𝘖𝘙  𝘈𝘓𝘓.

a  terrible  gasp  tears  through  her,  gaze  falling  anywhere  but  the  stalls.  "i  shall  not  look—!"  sava  exclaims,  horrified,  turning  her  attention  away  from  the  fight  at  hand.  the  tyrell  found  it  all  too  gory  to  keep  her  eyes  fixated  on  the  bloodied  knight  unhorsed.  how  unpleasant  it  was  to  hear  the  heaving  rasps  from  them  anyway,  subjected  to  their  injury  even  as  she  looked  away.  she  had  only  interest  in  her  brother's  rallies,  truthfully,  but  it  felt  rude  to  avoid  all  but  his.  "is  it  done?"  sava  dares  to  ask,  hoping  they  have  dragged  the  body  away  in  the  fraction  of  a  second  she  has  looked  away.  "shall  i  look?"

[qu1etrage]

open starter.

elyra had not meant to stray this far. or rather — she had, but not with the expectation of finding anyone else foolish enough to do the same. the noise of the celebration dulled behind her, softened into something distant and almost unreal, replaced instead by the quiet rustle of leaves and the faint pull of night air untouched by wine and pretense. it was easier to think here, easier to breathe — away from eyes that lingered too long and conversations that demanded too much. she had nearly convinced herself she was alone when the subtle shift of movement betrayed otherwise.

she stilled. not out of fear, but caution — the kind that settled instinctively, long practiced. her gaze flicked toward the source, sharp and immediate, finding them where they stood as though they had always been there, waiting to be noticed. for a moment, she said nothing, simply watching, weighing — deciding. then, quieter than the wind itself, “you’re not supposed to be here.” it wasn’t an accusation, not quite. more an observation, laced with something unreadable. her posture remained composed, though there was a tension beneath it now, something alert, something ready.

a small pause followed before she stepped forward just enough for the dim light to catch her properly, revealing more than just a silhouette. “neither am i,” she added, almost as an afterthought, though her gaze never left them. there was no panic in her expression, no immediate retreat — only a careful awareness of what this encounter could become. “so…” a slight tilt of her head, studying them now with quiet intent, “we can pretend we never saw each other and walk back before anyone notices.” another pause, shorter this time. “or you can tell me why you’re here — and give me a reason not to.” her voice softened at the edges, but the meaning did not. “i’ll let you decide which is the better idea.”

[gildedthcrn]

open starter for everyone! at the squire's joust; for the coronation of king daeron ii.

the final pass came like a held breath and it refused to break. the afternoon sun sat low and merciless and gilded the armor and the dust, until the world narrowed to the two riders and the line between them. lady lucretia stood within the crowd, in the high-seats meant for the great houses. below her, in the field, myrcella was a streak of crimson and gold upon a buckskin destrier that seemed nearly akin to her spirits. her lance angled true and her chin lifted just enough to betray the girl's frayed nerves. her opponent was a boy, lord urias dalt, with shoulders too broad for his years, who had also done admirably in his previous matches. but myrcella did not flinch; there were scarier things in the world than a dalt of lemonwood. for instance, being squired under your own shrew mother. the young lord spurred his horse first, eager and hungry for the finish, but the lady did not rush to meet him at his zest.

as they closed the distance at a terrifying gallop, the crowd fell into a vacuum of silence, where only the thundering of hooves remained. then, at the last possible instant, when the distance collapsed into inevitability, she shifted her weight and guided the point of her lance, not to glance, no, never that, but to strike clean. the crack rang out sharp as lord urias' lance caught her shield with a force that should have snapped her spine had he struck her body at full. lucretia's heart nearly leaped out of her throat at the mere thought of it. did her lord father feel the same ache when it was her in the squire's joust? but as myrcella's shield caught the impact, the girl leaned harder into the violence, her own lance exploding into a thousand golden splinters. urias was lifted clean from his saddle as if by the hand of the warrior himself, tumbling backward into the dirt. myrcella remained upright as she rode through the impact, screaming her own triumph into the sky.

the crowd erupted. a roar, raw and swelling. gold and crimson suddenly blurred together in lucretia's teary-eyed vision as she held her youngest daughter, cyrelle, and leaped. all around her, hands rose and voices crashed against one another, and somewhere within it, unapologetically, the lannister forgot herself. she was on her feet before the victory had even settled, her usual composure having taken a leave of absence while her green eyes burned with a light that was dangerously close to madness. cyrelle parted the embrace to applaud. lucretia joined. "that's it," she barked and finger-whistled, the joy of it all swallowed by the thunder of the throng. "that's my girl! well done! well done!" there was so much mirth in her laughter, a sound so rare it might scare those who knew only her iron heart. well done, were the very words her father had whispered when he kissed her brow after the babes were delivered, fourteen years ago. it all echoed and blended in the halls of her memory. the woman elbowed the soul beside her with a playful force in the midst of her applause. "i do hope you placed your bets on the right champion! else you just lost a lot of gold and well deserved."

[qu1etrage]

open starter.

if there was one thing daevon would commend the crown for, it was spectacle. not governance, not restraint, and certainly not subtlety — but spectacle? that, they had perfected to an art. the pavilions gleamed beneath torchlight like something spun from illusion rather than canvas, brimming with overindulgence dressed as celebration. laughter came easily here, far too easily, as if the realm had collectively decided that wine could drown out memory. daevon, for his part, made no such attempt. he wore his amusement plainly, a crooked thing at the corner of his mouth as he observed the gathered nobility with the air of someone watching a play he had already read the ending to — and found lacking.

he had claimed a space for himself with the kind of careless entitlement that either came from confidence or a complete disregard for consequence — in his case, perhaps both. one arm draped lazily over the back of his seat, goblet in hand, he let his gaze wander without shame or subtlety, lingering just long enough on passing figures to make it known they had been seen — assessed, even — before he inevitably lost interest. boasts of coming victories, hushed alliances, poorly veiled rivalries… it was all so painfully transparent. “remarkable,” he muttered at one point, not quite to himself, not quite to anyone else either, “how quickly grief turns to celebration when a crown is involved. i suppose mourning is terribly inconvenient when there’s a feast to attend.”

it was then that he noticed them — or perhaps they noticed him first, it hardly mattered — and his attention sharpened with something that resembled interest, though it never quite shed its mocking edge. “ah,” daevon drawled, straightening only slightly, just enough to acknowledge their presence without offering anything so sincere as courtesy, “come to join the performance, or simply admiring the cast?” his gaze flicked briefly over them, quick and cutting, before returning to their eyes with a glint of something unmistakably amused. “careful, now. linger too long and someone might mistake you for enjoying yourself.” a soft, humorless laugh followed, more breath than sound. “tell me — do you believe any of this?” he gestured vaguely to the revelry around them, the lights, the laughter, the fragile illusion of unity. “the loyalty, the celebration, the convenient reverence for a crown that’s barely settled on a new head.” a pause, deliberate, his smile sharpening. “or are you like me, and simply here to see how long it takes before something goes terribly, predictably wrong?”