#doloridis

[sanctamater]

new post because we kept writing between editors in our thread for @doloridis from here. <3 <3

it is a bitterness that the sainted mother knows intimately; one that greets her like an old friend. what's the saying? bitterness was borne out of a life worth living. our lady does not think so - for if she had the choice, if she could go back and do it over, she would not have done this, nor ended up here at the end of the long road. questions cloud her mind as surely as they do alicent's - what could i have been? who would i be now? amelia, instead of our lady of sorrows. her therapist has told her numerous times that there is no point on getting so upset about what ifs and could have beens. i am not upset, our lady thinks. i am furious.

" you are right, good sis- alicent. " alicent. alicent. her hands tremble something awful these days - a stigmata would suit them better than the monogramed lighter she holds once alicent takes the marlboro she so generously offered. the flame is neon against her pallid skin - and she lights it with ease; watching the embers glow in alicent's frail hands. it's laughable, she thinks - how lost they look; trying on old and new habits like a child wearing a parent's coat, trying so desperately to grow up. " ...men know little. but if men know little, then i know nothing at all. "

bright eyes, bloodshot and ringed with lack of sleep, glance to alicent - how wistful her voice is; how gentle the memory is - untainted. intimate. sacred in the same way memories of summers in the hamptons are to her; as autumns spent upstate. she can see alicent, then - younger, softer; and her brother, a boy both like and unlike her. " so, you have come from a family of rebels. " a dry smile; the corner of her mouth lifting in a half grin that never quite reaches her eyes. it doesn't suit her; rusted with disuse. " does the same inclination run to you as well? "

[bronzebtch]

❝ i remember first arriving here years ago — ❞ against the rocky side of king's landing, the sea beats violently. rhea has the vale's blood in her, and thus, she has never quite been a good reader of the shore : never could she anticipate whether one should expect a storm coming, or it was simply the water misbehaving simply by gazing your eyes towards the never-ending sea. no. her stares are more accustomed to the shadow-quick pattern of a game in the forest as she hunts, the flock of birds filling the sky at the sight of danger.

that, she knows like the back of her hand. the sea ... ? the sea was as treacherous and unknown to her as the back of a dragon, regardless of the union that was oh-so-promising. where is her husband ? she does not know. she did not come here for him. only for the queen who has passed, and the princess' investiture as viserys' named heir. to swear fealty to her, as decreed by her lord father, the king.

❝ — i feel as estranged then as i do now, i shall admit. ❞

@doloridis / unhinged mini para starter call

[joyuex]

the beginnings of rot hang heavy on him ... he can feel it starting, just there, as a prickle at the nape of his neck. something not right as he enters the seat of his king, his bowed head and downcast eyes still not enough to miss the pulled curtains and blazing fire. and there it is again as he takes his first steps forwards, this time more insistent, finding its way into a lump at the back of his throat. and here, a final time, as he gazes at his horror of a king ... here it claws its way into his very soul. he takes a step back, eyes flashing towards the door. but chivalry stays him, compelling him through his bows and niceties. keeping him captive of this man - shaped shell, this centre of rot – the king's words are a buzz in his ears, while his own taste tinged with bile. [ how horrible it is to expect a god and be given a man. ] it is a gift to flee, to breathe air not so heavy with disappointment ... and yet that rot remains, dripping from the walls and stained across the flagstones. and it must be in him, too. in him still. his hands press at his eyes, as if by force alone he can vanquish the thought. as if, as if ... when he lowers them she is there, and the world goes still. ❝        my lady – my queen,      ❞ he does not feel himself kneel, does not feel himself draw his sword. but he sees himself, shining half - distorted in the seven pointed star at her throat. ❝ i see now how i have shamed myself. i did not think ... i did not know. i ask your forgiveness for my unkindnesses. my sword is yours, if you will take it. ❞

@doloridis

[dragunstone]

❛❛  perhaps,  ❜❜     lilacs naturally wander to @doloridis​,  they pierce her with no malintent    –    for,  a sword cuts meaninglessly,  but rhaenyra’s eyes have been dead set on alicent since the tourney had come to an end,  awaiting a moment for her thoughts to be voiced in the compact of a lonely room.     head tilts forward cautiously,  averting her gaze to the floor and then back up,  admiring the bridge of the brunette’s nose and her soft eyes, before allowing herself to talk.     ❛❛  we are to take to the skies.  flee from this place.   is it not what you want?   to be free of all this bother?  ❜❜

[sanctamater]

pour one out for our girls they got lost to the alt right

[kingmaketh1]

'a good omen, they say in some parts.' - @doloridis

sarcasm? so easily ready on her. a figure from the table constructed upon by the king himself shattered by her doing. on accident? he could not say. but her response had a brow rising in response, though he said nothing at first. instead he should find himself upon his knee, gloved hand retrieving the figure that had broken in two and both pieces had been set on the outskirts of what had been fashioned into king's landing. ❝ what troubles you? ❞ he finially speaks. ❝ if i may inquire. ❞ he could only assume it had something to do with the king; now his work had taken a hit. (and though he cares not for the crown, even ser criston must admit such a shame for the craft to hold an imperfection now.)

[warwaged]

@doloridis // cont.

She has dreamed of this day countless times, imagined how a reunion with her darling baby boy would transpire.  But just as she has dreamed of it, she has feared it too.  What if he resents her for sending him to ward with her family?  For separating him from his siblings and his parents?  Would he ever understand that, though it was not her choice to send him away, it was perhaps the best thing that could have happened to him?  To grow up away from the blight of the capital, from the iron fist of his grandsire, from the snapping maws of the court.  From what Gwayne has told her, and from what she can already see from the young man that stands before her now, maybe he really has been saved the fate that's befallen his mother and brothers and sister.  Maybe the rot and the poison that infects the grand House Targaryen has missed one.

"Daeron."  His name comes on a croaking exhale, one that is tinged with giddy relief, even if her expression is more conflicted, stained with trepidation and uncertainty.  He reaches for her hands and she takes his gladly, fingers gripping flesh tightly, lest he slip from her grip once more.  "I can only thank the Gods for bringing you back to us."  She pulls him a little closer to her, bridging the distance that lies between them –– but she does not hug him, cannot bring herself to hug him.  Much as she longs to be able to, Alicent fears the thought of infecting him, filth rubbing off on him, tarnishing all the good that has been built up during his years away from this place.  Away from her.

There is warmth in her touch, the eagerness to reclaim something thought long lost. There is something else, as well, a trepidation in her strong grasp, a fissure. Distance, he imagines, that cannot be breached in a moment. Sincere joy means not complete ease; perhaps she, too, hesitates in the face of change. He is not the son she said her farewells to, a boy trying to be brave when sent into the unknown. Daeron wonders if the same is true of her; is the Queen before him his same lady mother, who had kissed his forehead ere he departed?

❝ I had hoped to be knighted already, when next we met, ❞ Lighthearted, aimed in a different direction. Earnest, the first stone settled in attempted bridge. He would not disrespect the boundary set, only invite her to draw near ( and wasn't openness, then, the mandatory tenet? ). The Mother above prizes honesty; the prince could only hope so would his queenly mother appreciate it, mirthfully delivered words no less true. ❝ Yet though I regret not making you proud, I am more than glad to not have waited for it, if it afforded the opportunity of an earlier reunion. ❞

❝ Would you walk with me? ❞ Hands released only to offer instead his arm, all gallant knight, despite lacking the rights to be called Ser. There is no forceful demand, no entitled command; only gentle, hopeful offer, bright in lavender gaze. ❝ I would hear more of how have you fared while I reacquaint myself with the Keep, should it please you. ❞

[harrenhail]

( 𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲 ) . . . for @doloridis

grotesque   pressure   builds   behind   shuddered   lids   .   .   .   this   dimly   lit   temple   knew   nothing   save   emblems   newfangled   faith.   old   gods   scream   in   protest   from   her   very   presence   within   another's   walls,   shelved   away   from   reach,   doused   in   green.   fabric   whispering   along   stone   floors   in   soundless   observation    ⸺    dowager's   own   belief's   were   steadfast,   visions   and   prophecies   would   fall   'pon   deaf   ears.   though   fine   many   gather   weighty   in   throat,   she   swallows   them   back.   stands   before   rings   of   remembered   losses.   how   many   candles   had   been   lit   by   those   hands?   how   many   regrets   were   placed   at   the   faith's   feet?       ❝       dae   ye   find   yer   comfort   here   often enough,   yer   grace?       ❞       was   it   worth   it   anymore?