#c: lucerys

[collettologist]

The rightful Queen Rhaenyra and her sons, Prince Jacaerys and Prince Lucerys, The Heir and The Spare

[malcontentswanns]

who: @lucerysxestermont when and where; wylliam makes a stop on green isle to seek out lord lucerys estermont, for two different reasons. the first being returning to the stormlands to see their condition, and the second being to ask specifically for how much the tax is causing an issue for islands such as estermont and tarth.

“lord lucerys, forgive the intrusion for the sudden call.” wylliam swann lingered in the doorway of the solar, his hands fidgeting at the cuffs of his sleeves. the room was dimly lit, the late afternoon light filtering through narrow windows set deep into stone walls. greenstone carried the scent of salt and seaweed, a constant reminder of its perch on the edge of the stormy narrow sea. a fire crackled weakly in the hearth, its glow doing little to dispel the strange dampness that clung to the air; it were uncharacteristically chilly in greenstone for this time of year. “your hospitality is, as always, gracious,” wylliam continued, stepping cautiously over the threshold. His boots left faint prints on the worn flagstones, still damp from the misty walk up from the harbour. “tell yer mama her fish stew is still impeccable."

he gave a faint, self-deprecating chuckle, adjusting his spectacles with a habitual push of his finger. his hair, untamed by the sea air, fell messily across his brow, and he brushed at it absently as he approached the hearth. the warmth there was inviting, though he didn’t dare sit—not yet. instead, he stood stiffly, his hands clasping and unclasping behind his back; there was something that they need to speak of, and in ways, how wylliam had failed the stormlanders by being unable to stop the latest thing from rolling out.

“truth be told, i’d not planned to visit, but i couldn’t pass so near without stopping. the condition of the stormlands, you see—it weighs heavily on my mind.” his voice faltered briefly, and he glanced at lucerys, searching his face for any flicker of agreement.

“and the isles—yours especially—are far too often overlooked. it’s all very well for the lords of the mainland, with their fields and forests, but when the tax collector calls on your harbour, what’s left? fish bones and salt, i’d wager.” he moved then, pacing the edge of the room in restless strides. his boots scuffed lightly against the stone, and his fingers traced the rough surface of the wall as though its texture might anchor his wandering thoughts. “i’ll not sugar-coat it; things are worse than i expected. every road, every village—thin faces and empty storehouses. the conditions are ready for disturbance, especially with nightsong being taken from our lands." he paused by a narrow window, the jagged coastline visible beyond. the sea churned angrily against the rocks, the foam white as bone. he pressed his palms against the cool sill, leaning into it as though to steady himself.

“it’s a dangerous thing, lord lucerys, the way the world looks at us,” he said softly, his voice tinged with weariness. as though this was the beginning of a churning current he could not stop. “the stormlands might as well be a bucket they’re filling from the storm god’s own river, and they’ll not stop until we’re parched. i’ve seen the ledgers—what they take and what’s left behind. it’s no accident we’re barely scraping by to pay off the lannister debt.” he turned back to lucerys, his expression earnest, though his spectacles had slid slightly down his nose again. “tell me—what’s it like here? the taxes—how much harder has the crown made it to keep your people fed, your ships afloat? i need to know the truth, lucerys. not for the king’s ears, but for mine."

[malcontentswanns]

who: @lucerysxestermont what: questioning, in reaction to this post.

there was an open window in the corner of the room of the tower of the hand, the breeze and the wind causing the curtains to waft as the hand of the king walked into the room. the questioning took place within the tower of the hand, precisely because wylliam did not want people to feel as though they were guilty of anything. there was a time and place for settings like dungeons, and as of this moment, wylliam needed to gather what facts he had - and what facts he still needed to know of.

there was an attendant who sat to the left of him who was responsible for writing down the answers given. word for word, no paraphrasing.

"his grace is thankful for your time and your cooperation." wylliam spoke, his tone remaining courteous as he took his seat, both of his arms coming to rest upon the solid wooden oak table. his opening statement was picked carefully though; for it showed that the king was wholly involved in this matter. four questions, four answers; and that was all - no doubt there would be times where wylliam would have extra questions, and they would be addressed then and there.

"i have some questions for you, and it would provide much clarity to the wrong done in this court." he cleared his throat slightly, taking a sip of the sweet wine in his cup, if not to stop his own heart from beating. "it is imperative you answer truthfully, with as much detail as you can remember. your answers are being recorded, and you may need to clarify, or follow up." he paused, as though to let his words sink in. "let us begin."

"what, if any, are your thoughts on the alliance between king jaehaerys targaryen and king tyland lannister?

[malcontentswanns]

who: @lucerysxestermont what and where: the red keep, following news of lady nadia estermont's return. wylliam is, undoubtedly, frazzled.

the hand of the king's meeting with king jaehaerys of house targaryen, second of his name, had become something of a distant, otherworldly experience the moment a certain name was mentioned. entirely in passing, a mere report as news was broken to wylliam within the same breath as news of the great games that had been organised. other great noble hands of the king in history had seemingly been able to separate themselves from being the hand, as though they were two entirely different personalities, people.

wylliam had not been able to do that as lord paramount of the stormlands, and he had not been able to do that as hand either; though what remained yet to see, was whether that was a strength or a weakness. the sound of jaehaerys' voice became distant buzzing, and it wasn't until the man's voice suddenly sounded very stern did wylliam come to his senses. he snapped out of it, and suddenly realised he could not be here right now.

he had somehow found himself on his feet, at the door, with the king's striking amethyst eyes looking at him. wylliam himself suddenly felt incredibly cold, each vein in his body running freezing despite the sweat that had broken out on his forehead. he knew not what he mentioned, what he uttered, what words essentially came tumbling from his mouth before he turned and departed from the chambers of the king. he thought not of the fact he would see the man again at the end of the day, and speak to him about everything. have to explain why he had all but run off. and run, was what wyllian swann had done. dodging by endless amounts of courtiers, both from their realm and the others as he made his way through the winding corridors of the red keep. it had never been home, it would never be home.

he wondered if it were true. he wondered if he were going mad. no, he had not been going mad; he heard the news directly from the king's own mouth, and the king was not mad. yes he was. he bumped into someone, he didn't know who, and uttered a rushed, panicky apology before turning the corner into the apartments of house estermont. there was an increased amount of guards, all waiting by the door - he knew not what he was doing. he knew he should not be here, that this remained all too private, all too sensitive. he did not know what he was doing here, only that in that moment, he had found himself running from the king of all people. he repeated the need to see lord lucerys estermont, he repeated it again and again as though they were the only words he could say.

and when lucerys estermont did step outside the main doors of his apartments, wylliam did not ask to be let in. he merely stood here, with a face that looked stricken. had this man found out his older sister was not dead? was never dead? "is she alive?" wylliam managed to ask, feeling an all too familiar choking sensation at the back of his throat. he wished to demand the question again, to yell it. instead, he felt as though he could not speak.