#cognati.starter

[romanceur]

where:  casterly rock, the westerlands when:  the masked ball who:  open  !

— the  great  hall  of  casterly  rock  had  been  unmade  and  remade  again,  turned  from  stone  and  gold  into  something  nearer  a  dream.  candlelight  drifted  like  fallen  stars,  catching  on  the  carved  lions  and  the  jeweled  masks  alike,  and  the  air  itself  seemed  to  hum  with  promise.  music  rose  and  fell  in  slow,  graceful  waves,  and  alina  felt  it  gather  her  up,  light  as  breath,  as  though  the  night  itself  had  taken  her  by  the  hand.

there  was  magic  in the air tonight.  behind  a  mask,  a  stranger  might  be  anyone  at  all.  a  knight  stepped from  a  song.  a  princess wandering unnamed, or a lord  with  a  gentle  voice and kinder hands than most.  someone  who  might  choose  her  simply  because  she  was  there,  because  the  music  had  borne them  both  to  the  same  heartbeat, the same turn of fate. 

she  watched  the  dancers:  hands  met  hands.  skirts  turned.  a  bow,  a  smile,  the  gentle  press  of  fingers  at  a  waist — so  careful,  so  reverent,  it  made  her  chest  ache.  as the lord of gulltown's daughter, alina   grafton had  been  asked  to  dance  before,  many  times , often  enough  that  dear  vaella  liked  to  tease  her  for  it,  as  if  it  were  some  small,  inevitable  thing.  but  here,  behind  masks,  where  no  one  was  quite  who  they  seemed,  it  felt  new  again  —  a  quiet,  fluttering  anticipation,  tender  and  bright.

she  drifted  closer  without  quite  meaning  to,  drawn  by  the  slow  turning  of  the  dance  as  one  is  drawn  by  tide  or  flame.  the  press  of  bodies  shifted,  masks  brushing  past  in  murmurs  of  silk  and  laughter,  and  alina  lifted  onto  her  toes,  seeking  a  better  view of  the  dancers,  of  the  way  the  music  carried  them.

she  did  not  see  the  figure  before  her  until  it  was  far  too  late.

the  impact  was  soft  but  unmistakable,  enough  for a small splash of arbor gold to stain the stone floor between them, enough to steal  a  breath  from  her  chest  and  send  a  flutter  of  heat  to  her  cheeks.  she  startled  back  at  once,  hands  flying  to  gather  her  skirts,  heart  hammering  as  though  she  had  been  caught  in  some  small,  private  misstep.

“ oh — my  pardon,  my  liege, ”  she  said  quickly,  voice  warm  and  earnest,  threaded  with  embarrassment.   “ i  beg  your  forgiveness.  i  was  not  watching  where  i  went — ” she  dipped  into  a  careful  courtesy,  her  head  bowed  though  her  eyes  lifted  again  all  the  same,  curious  and  contrite  in  equal  measure.  “ i  hope  i  have  not  caused  you  any harm, ” 

[ofsealedfates]

setting: driftmark after aethan funeral open to any who arrive in driftmark

  Aethan   V e l a r y o n ’ s   d e a t h   l i n g e r e d   l i k e   a   b r u i s e   b e n e a t h   t h e   s k i n :   s e n s e l e s s ,   s u d d e n ,   a n d   i m p o s s i b l e   t o   f o r g e t .   J o y   h a d   b e e n   p r o m i s e d   h e r e   —   a   p r i n c e ,   a   p r i n c e s s ,   a   c h i l d   y e t   u n b o r n     a n d   s t i l l   b l o o d   h a d   f o u n d   i t s   w a y .     W h e n   a n o t h e r   g u e s t   f e l l   i n t o   s t e p   b e s i d e   h e r ,   A l y s   d i d   n o t   s t a r t l e ,    o n l y   s l o w e d . 

 “ A   t i m e   m e a n t   f o r   j o y   a n d   c e l e b r a t i o n , ”   s h e   s a i d   s o f t l y ,   g a z e   d r i f t i n g   a c r o s s   t h e   w a t e r ,   “ o n l y   t o   b e   m a r r e d   b y   a   m e a n i n g l e s s   d e a t h . ”    T h e   w o r d s   s a t   b e t w e e n   t h e m ,   u n a d o r n e d   a n d   h o n e s t .   S h e    s w a l l o w e d   t h e   q u e s t i o n   t h a t   b u r n e d   a t   h e r   t o n g u e   —    w h e n   d o e s   i t   e n d ?       f o r   s h e   k n e w   t h e   a n s w e r   w o u l d   n o t   b e   k i n d .     A t   l a s t ,   s h e   t u r n e d   h e r   a t t e n t i o n   t o   t h e m ,   o f f e r i n g   a   p o l i t e ,   t i r e d    s m i l e .   “  H o w   d o   y o u   f a r e ,   m y   l i e g e ?  ”   s h e   a s k e d   q u i e t l y . 

[cursebounds]

in the early morning of the third day of festivities, DAERA TARGARYEN walks along the row of standing bows as the staff prepare for the archery contest. a hand runs along the string of one, fingers hooking to test the tension. the pressure aches; their calluses have long softened. // open ( 4 / 5 )

daera's lips thin. the last they aimed a bow was over six months prior: an afternoon taken after their and daemon's early arrival in dorne. before then, even longer. time slipped away, and so too did their skills. but even if they continued practice, kept their eyesight sharp and aim true, they wouldn't have signed their name for the contest. this time, daera is content to watch.

measured steps approach, and they turn, courteous smile already painted on their face. "seeking to test your skill before the contest today, my liege?"

[ivoryborn]

time: the hour of the owl.   location: palace hall, facing the water gardens.   status: closed

there  is  no  silence  in  the palace,  only  the  illusion  of  it.  even  here,  tucked  between  ivy-covered  stone  and  overgrown  rosebushes,  there  is  always  the  whisper  of  something  watching  ━━  something  waiting.  and  yet,  alarra  returns  to  this  corner  of  the  palace  as  though  it  offers  her  mercy  (  something  ever  so  unheard  of  when  it  comes  to what follows northerners down south, as if the north begrudges the distance  ).  the  winter's lady  rests  her  feet  after  chasing  sleep  but  being  ever  so  slightly  slower  and  she  stays  near  one  of  the  windows, listening for the fountains,  the  rushing  water  merging  with  the  rest  of  the  sounds  that  make  up  the  beautiful  dornish  mesh.  alarra  thinks  herself  alone  but  she  is  quickly  proven  wrong,  the  presence  of  another  pulling  in  an  otherwise  dull  interest.  "i  could  have  sworn  i  was  all  by  my  lonesome  not  long  ago."  the  comment  comes  laced  with  curiosity  and  annoyance,  though  none  are  heard  on  her  carefully  curated  tone.

"unable  to  rest  your  eyes  or  is  that  fate  saved  only  for  me?"

[frcstbitee]

when   :   the  second   day,   during   the   feast   . where   :   the   godswood,     by   the   weirwood   . with     :   alarra     +     anyone,   closed     (   5/5   )   . 

the   merriment   that   had   been   on   display,   the   dancing   .   it   had   all   felt   more   like   dancing   on   the   old   one's   grave   .   it'd   made   the   she   -   wolf's   stomach   turn   .   the   moment   her   jaw   clenched,   she   excused   herself,   veiled   as   a   momentary   absence   .   slipping   away   to   the   godswood   .   nimble   fingers   tying   the   rope   of   frostfyre   (   her   horse   )   nearby   .   hues   of   both   ice   and   fire   stare   off   into   the   black   water   pool,   crimson   leaves   of  the   weirwood   hanging   over   her   head   .   doesn't   flinch   when   she   hears   leaves   crunch   off   in   the   near   distance,   “   if   I'd   not   known   better,   i'd   believe   you   may   be   following   me,   ”   her   voice   echoes   through   the   woods,   in   perfect   timing   with   the   slight   breeze   that   sweeps  by   .   gaze   not   yet   moving   from   the   pool   at   her   feet,   as   if   looking   away   meant   returning   back   to   that   sham   of   a   celebration   in   a   blink   of   an   eye   .   “   quite   the   celebration,   ”   alarra   manages   out   .                        

[cursebounds]

KARLON STARK sits in front of the tents where participants prepare for the melee. the crowds have already begun to gather, and he can already envision the money flowing between hands as bets are placed. leaning back amongst the grass, he lazily draws his gaze to the nearest figure, curiosity sparking in dark eyes. // open ( 3 / 4 )

"i haven't done one of these in years." the crash of swords sings different in battle, whether during a melee or in war. it's a specific type of violence he hasn't sought since the sands of dorne. though now, before so many who witnessed the blood he spilled a decade prior, the ache of a sword and ax in hand scorches.

"tell me, what do you find wise? to find an ally and work together until the need for betrayal arrives, or to strike on one's own to crush everyone in one's path?"

[ofsealedfates]

setting: kingsroad—a few day from harrenhal , open starter

The road to Harrenhal had not been kind. Though the maesters and septas alike had urged rest—had spoken in grave tones of bleeding, of weakness, of the body’s need to mend—Princess Rhaenys had not been made to linger behind walls while the realm shifted beneath her family’s feet. Her brother would stand before kings and rebels alike. The lions would bury their dead. The dragon would be spoken of again in whispers and oaths. She would be there.

So she rode.And yet the journey had carved its toll quietly into her bones.

By the time they reached the roadside inn along the kingsroad, scarcely a few days’ ride from Harrenhal’s blackened towers, the world had begun to tilt at its edges. Food would not settle. Sleep came shallow and broken. Her limbs felt heavy in ways she did not confess aloud as she handed the child into the careful arms of a septa.

“I only need a moment,” she assured them, voice steady though her stomach churned like stormwater.

She stepped outside, drawing in deep breaths of autumn air, hoping the coolness might steady the rolling nausea. The world beyond the inn spread wide fields brushed in gold and green, hedgerows tangled with late-blooming flowers, trees already beginning to surrender their leaves to the coming season.

Gods, she had forgotten how green the world beyond Dorne could be.

“I did not know I would miss foliage this much,” she murmured softly, more to herself than to anyone near enough to hear. For a moment she simply stood there, breathing. Then the ground shifted.

Not truly only within her but the sensation came sudden and treacherous. The edges of her vision blurred. Light fractured into white and gold. Her balance faltered as though the earth itself had slipped half a step away from her feet.

Her hand reached blindly for purchase, finding only empty air.The last thing she registered was the strange, distant thought that she must not fall that she had only just brought life into the world and could not possibly meet the ground like some fainting court maiden and then the world lurched sideways, spinning, as her knees began to give beneath her.

[ivoryborn]

time: during elinor and aeron's engagement.   location: highgarden.   status: closed ( 4 / 4 replies )

the  celebration  roars  not  too  far  from  the  ironborn,  the  music  and  loud  voices  muffled  by  the  tall  walls  of  the  reach's  castle.  were  it  not  for  the  greyjoys,  victaria  would  not  have  come  ⸻  unfortunately,  their  loyalty  has  not  found  it's  limit  (  not  yet,  anyway  ).  victaria  sits  at  the  fountain,  feet  inside  the  shin-length  water.  there  is  a  golden  goblet  on  one  side  of  them  and  a  stolen  jar  of  wine  on  the  other,  a  reprieve  from  the  crowd  of  unwanted  company.  relaxation  disappears  as  victaria  hears  the  gravel  shift  under  someone's  heel  and  when  the  sound  is  just  close  enough,  the  ironborn  speaks  with  their  back  still  turned.  "have  come  to  check  if  the  ironborn  is  up  to  not  good?  or  is  this  about  the  wine?"  it  sounds  as  ridiculous  as  victaria's  fate  at  that  moment,  having  to  put  up  with  someone's  company  even  as  she  seeks  solitude.