#conall 001

[visxionaries]

who: @conallblackbar when and where: an archery competition amongst the reach nobles, where all of the small council are in attendance, though far more than simply them. cedric takes the opportunity to get the gist of the younger son of house blackbar, the warden of the shield isles.

"what a shot." came the king's green voice toward his high commander, a whistle sounding as the arrow landed directly in the target - the whistle from the arrow, and from cedric himself. the sound of clapping filling the air as the oldest son of blackbar moved to draw his string back again, silently smug in triumph.

the blackbar brothers were noble, and yet compared to the might of their neighbours, were of minimal importance; that changed in the blink of an eye in the aftermath of a dance, and a crown which appeared to transform it's way onto cedric's head. a crown he now intended to hold onto and keep. "the prince of the riverlands was meant to join us."

the coronation of the tully queen to the north of him was something he had heard westerland advisors speak of, with some reprimand and wrong. all knew of cedric tyrell's closeness with the tully prince, and he wondered whether he were missing an opportunity to extend his influence by not supporting the claim of his boyhood friend? then again, what would he gain to lose by backing a claim that was not actively been sought itself - what if, despite her sex, iona tully truly was the better suited choice and could provide the reach more?

the westerlands would no doubt offend the proud riverlords, and eventually, their own pride would lead to their influence ceasing. it was the perfect backdrop for the reach to step in, and the cards were already in the process of being dealt. his vivid, florent ocean hues then fixed upon conall as he walked behind the man, moving to return his own bow toward a servant. "you know him? casimir tully?"

[devotionturns]

who: @conallblackbar where: litha festival

"I am leaving."

The mere words made it sound so final. Ben had said the same thing. The lingering question, disbelief as he'd asked whether she was leaving or not. For years, Cyrene had remained a constant at the Twins. Her position never changing, unwaveringly a Lady of the Riverlands. It had torn at her, ripped away bits and peaces, but she had persevered. Because of Adam, Ben, and others. And Conall. He'd had his part in it, too.

Ridiculous, just as she'd thought during her conversation with her cousin. She would return, as her duty dictated. She didn't dare to entertain the thought that her former self might have laughed at the very idea of duty.

"I will return to Winterfell in a few days. It has been years. I... need to return. I am taking Wylla with me. Mako will remain at the Crossing." With her husband. As a ward, in a sense, during her absence.

[lucreziasredwyne]

who: @conallblackbar when and where: semi-flashback thread to the funeral of lord garland hightower within oldtown, the reach nobles remain aware that alicent hightower, the murderess, remains at large.

the solemnity seemed to linger over halls and arches that once were perceived to be the most beautiful of buildings to the lady of the arbor; for even the stained glass that caused colour to beam through the aisle made no change to the moment of grey. there came the sound of the chants and the hymns, which in this moment, provided her the opposite of the comfort she so often was accustomed to within such a space.

instead, she felt the gaze of each of the seven firmly upon her, as though even the mourning black robes she had adorned did nothing to protect her from their gaze. and why would they?

because she had ultimately failed, in her role; all knew how when the beacon of the hightower flickered green, the sails of the redwynes were soon to be spotted over the horizon. what use was the physical help and support, support in regard to coin, and power, and patronage – when none of it followed him to the true place that mattered. her gaze did not move from the two shrouds upon the table, and the sight of the septons and septas did nothing to break her gaze from the sight of it. garland hightower had gone to the grave how he had lived: besotted by coin, arrogant and resistant to the guidance of the gods.

there was no space for hope, or interpretation in her eyes; for within her, she knew where her kin would be destined. she had failed in her attempt to wind him back on the righteous path, to consider not only the political implications of his disastrous marriage but the moral consequences too. now he would be entombed beside his only son; whose death had not been the lesson it was intended to be.

but why did her aunt need to be there too? mistaken for the redwyne that had waved the white flag and betrayed the hightowers….it was her. it had been lucrezia’s first act as ruling lady of the arbor, what felt like a lifetime ago.

the chants and hymns came to a close, and the trailing of people out of the sept began; none would have expected lucrezia redwyne to be the first to be so, and yet, she felt as though she could not inhale as deep a breath as she needed until she stood beneath the rays of the sun.

her veil was lifted from her face as she stood beside a column along the cloisters  of the sept, and when hazel hues seemed to all but dart upward in the sudden feeling of someone looking upon her, she found the sight of the second son of bandallon directly across the courtyard. Lowering her hand slowly from the column, she took a moment to compose herself – the last thing she needed was omer’s family witnessing her spiral. All knew of the tensions between the florents, blackbars and the hightowers in the end. “lord blackbar…connel.” she corrected herself, unsure of why her instinct was to address him formally at first.

stepping from the shade of the cloisters and into the light, she began to cross the ornate courtyard, again, rewrapping herself. stitching the threads back together. “thank you for coming.” she addressed the obvious in the room earnestly, her voice as soft yet firm as it always was – he had every reason not to. and yet, lucrezia’s fears of a small population of mourners became reality. “i am very much grateful for you all being here.” you didn’t have to, was what she left off.

[briannabrackens]

who: @conallblackbar when and where: shortly set some hours after conall blackbar and willow wylde's tense conversation, the clover folk are gathered around in the halls of the blackbars for dinner. amongst the dancing, the cheering and the drinking, brianna takes a moment to slip into the momentary vacant seat beside conall blackbar.

that was the thing about everyone being beneath one roof; suddenly it felt as though brianna bracken had found herself coming across situation after situation, a stark contrast to the voluntary solitary nature of stone hedge - one did not necessarily have to be looking to find something, and such was the situation when her dark gaze fell upon a familiar pair of figures. one far more familiar than the other, too distant and out of earshot to be able to overhear anything - but the expressions of their faces said it all.

a part of her would have gone marching over happily, doing what con could not do in putting his hands on a woman; but she was steering clear of willow blackwood for good reason. instead, she waited until their next family dinner; the bottles were pouring as they always were, and she popped the cork off a strong bottle of brightwater whiskey herself.

there was a sense of enjoyment that came in wandering around the room from person to person, filling their goblet with her own hand; and when there was a vacant seat beside the second son of house blackbar, she took her opportunity. would he even tell her? there was no telling her. still, she seamlessly slid into the seat beside him, just enough left in the bottle to fill his goblet.

no words left her lips as they turned upward, a streak of cheek and mischief coming over her expression as she rose the bottle, maintaining his gaze - as though to offer it over to him.

they were both slightly worse for wear than they had been at the beginning of the night, the small braids in brianna's hair coming undone and leave her raven locks in the form of twists. she reached forward, pouring him the drink, filling it right to the brim before putting down the goblet. in the morning, she would regret that move; but brianna bracken in the morning was a different individual to this woman here.

rose in her cheeks, her laughter louder than usual, a happy twinkle within her orbs - there was no heaviness or responsibility that danced within them.

"what did she want?" brianna asked, turning her body to look in his direction rather than needing to crane her neck to look over at him. her words were unintentionally vague, another hiccup slipping from her as she leaned back against whoever was sat behind her as they spoke.