where: the eyrie, the kingdom of the vale / featuring @rememberences and @kingarryn
what: self-para, containing guinevere lannister’s initial news of her aunt lanna lefford’s murder.
the courtiers of the vale of arryn were feasting, within the silver and blue hues of the eyrie’s great gathering hall, celebration of news of neutrality, just as it had been in times of old before the dragons soared. all the great banner houses had made their presence known, revelling in the change; though only members of the small council and the arryns themselves knew of all it had taken to get to this point. looking upon the face of her courtiers, noting how they seemed all so in unison, for the first time she did not feel entirely like an imposter. that perhaps this place upon this silver throne, could be hers; was meant to be hers, according to some plan dictated by the gods. there would be peace, regardless how the mountain they had scaled to get it, the heartbreak it took - it was time to begin again.
the dance floor was full, guinevere herself upon it with the daughter she never wished to replace the role of mother for; only ensure she were still given the motherly love and affection she deserved. in truth, she were surprised the young girl had timidly asked her to dance with her, finally using words to speak to her instead of slipping her notes beneath her chamber door and running off down the hall. unable to pick maddalena up in unison with the regular dance moves, no doubt due to her swelling stomach, guinevere held the girl’s hand as she twirled in unison to the beat, earning a happy, surprised laugh to fall from the queen’s lips. “come, let us show papa your special dance.” guinevere encouraged, taking the beaming child by the hand and peering the room for the king, who would not be far.
maddalena must have spotted him, for she darted among the crowds, though guinevere was distracted by the pageboy attempting to venture across the dance floor to her. lifting her skirts and meeting the boy at the edge of it, wondering what correspondence would come to her directly at such an hour, she found herself nervous to recognise the sigil clasped upon the envelope. the sight of it was enough to cause a small, pained smile to cross her golden features. the lion, handwriting that was scrawled in jason’s hand. a small breath of relief came over her for a minute; this was it, surely, was it not? news of the neutrality had finally broken, and perhaps, if the gods had blessed her enough, perhaps she would be able to ensure her child knew of the sunset sea, of those who had served and protected and loved her well. and so, she opened the note - how she would come to regret it.
aunt lanna is gone. poison, we think the reynes. tyland and i will handle it, i'll try to keep you updated. will talk to tyland about the funeral.
if one needed to understand what it was to feel despair, hope being ripped from one’s chest, a world of colours fading to mere black and white, one only needed to have looked closely enough at the queen’s face. the people danced around her, music played, the courtiers chatted; and yet, she suddenly felt as though the world had gone silent. she could hear a pin drop within the middle of this marble hall, a growing sense of numbness to the point where she felt as though she could burn and she would feel nothing. everything seemed slow, she had to remind herself to breathe.
“excuse me...excuse me.” she uttered, with a face as white as snow, winding around her courtiers as it seemed her legs moved on their own accord, toward the oak doors. “excuse-” she spoke again, a sense of pain coming to her chest now, as though each breath she took was crushing, searing, pained. your grace, your grace, heads bowed as the woman swished by them, a pained smile crossing her features; though her eyes, her eyes told a story of horror, of terror. there were too many people, the dance circle moved too quickly, and she managed to finally get herself off the dance floor, her own ladies involved in the dancing.
she would have sought her husband out, sought anyone out, if she trusted herself to be able to remain within this hall for another two seconds without letting out a scream that was bloodcurdling; her aunt’s body was laying somewhere, now, cold, lifeless. she could no longer talk, or laugh, or gossip, or call her darling cub again. oh gods, what did her voice sound like? was she remembering it wrong? it was gone...it was, crumbling. they were crumbling, calla’s marriage, they-
why could she not breathe? each inhale was pained, a struggle, her chest tightening more and more, until it felt like agony. she gasped, each breath forced, as her hands clenched on either side of her. she was in the hallway outside the main gathering hall now, a ghost of a figure in torchlight, noting how some of the servants peered in her direction, wondering where she was going. up the staircase, guinevere, get up the staircase...“your grace?” the voice of the hand of the king came from before her, as she lifted her skirts; trust him to be avoiding a party, trust him to be around every corner she turned.
“i-” guinevere looked upon him, hand clasping the sides of the grand staircase, the shock and concern in his voice only reaffirming that her reaction was visceral in itself, this was all real judging by the note she clasped in a tight fist, and it was enough for the mountain to finally full upon the shoulders of guinevere lannister. the inhale she took was one of shock, harrowing as though she was desperate for air; she was too high up, she was too high up; they were below, they were down-
she was gone. they were gone. this was a new beginning, this could have been-
her legs had given way then, and thankfully the hand of the king had managed to ensure she had landed upon the marble staircase rather than tumble, though the gut wrenching sob of utter anguish that had come deep within her chest as she finally reached the bottom - not a scream of horror, not a scream at all, but the sounds of one attempting to take in breath, harrowing and harsh, wracked between the silent sobs that had caused her body to appear more of a rag doll. “call the king, call the king!” the ruling lord of runestone bellowed, though guinevere was blind through her tears. she saw nothing, only hues of arryn blue and purple - and red. they need not have called him, for she heard his voice only a moment later; not his words, only his voice, and his touch upon her waist.
“she’s dead.” she managed to get out through pained breathing, only noting how her wet her cheeks, the tears that had poured from from raw grief. “she’s dead, they killed her, reyne...” her voice rose, bouncing off the walls of that marble hallway in the eyrie that fateful night.
