#hammerthe

[imaginarianisms]

we’re all here. we’re all fine. ( myriah )

The scent of sea salt coursed through her nose, deeply inhaling as the Queen stepped onto the shores of Dragonstone, that great towering fortress the dragonlords built centuries ago. How many years has it been since she's been here? Gods, it was back when she'd been pregnant with Rhaegel and life at court had become far too much for them with that usurper on the throne, moving their household there to take up the rule of the ancient Targaryen stronghold, the tensions between father and son was the reason for Daeron's decision to depart to Dragonstone, and in doing so they took their entire household with them, many of them Dornish lords and ladies, clad in their bright sand silks, polished jewelry and mounted on beautiful sand steeds. Thirty-six years ago. That was so long ago, now. She allows the youngest to leave the ship first, brown optics watching the youth closely with the eyes of a watchful grandmother.

Baelor moves to stand beside her and reassure her. Her eldest son, her pride and joy, always doing his best to reassure her and the family that everything was going to be alright. Her gaze softens. It was a miracle that they'd left almost immediately after she'd told him about the disease that began to infect her husband. Mayhaps he could recover. The rest of the Seven Kingdoms, particularly the smallfolk, though... that concerned her. Maron had already ordered the borders of Dorne closed to quarantine it. Daenerys should be alright, as would her nephews and nieces, but already what the Maesters would begin calling it the Great Spring Sickness was spreading its claws across the land. Hopefully Egg wouldn't be caught up in this accursed plague, nor Aemon at the Citadel. The elderly Rhaena cultural keeper of House Targaryen remained at the Hightower. Regardless, the entire royal family who weren't away were shipped off to Dragonstone.

Her wrinkled hand coursed through her grey-streaked hair. Valarr and Kiera of Tyrosh brushed past them, Matarys not too far behind them. Myriah stands on the tips of her toes and presses a kiss to her eldest son's cheek and placing a hand on his arm.

❝𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐯𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐁𝐚𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐫.❞ Myriah praises, but notes his still bandaged head. Hopefully it would heal quicker. It was said that Dragonstone still had magic in its walls. Mayhaps the spirits of this fortress would be merciful to her royal husband and her son. ❝𝐈𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧'𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝, 𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐮𝐞.❞ she spoke lowly. Aelor and Aelora skipped out past them, arm-in-arm, inseparable as they usually were. After them follow little Daenora, accompanied by Rhaegel and his lady wife Alys Arryn, then Aerys and Aelinor, childless, for it seems her second eldest was only interested in books, as did the late Archmaester Vaegon. It concerned her a tad, that Aelinor had no children for the line of succession, but there were more important matters to attend to. Then follow Brynden and Shiera stalking out of the shadows of the ship like wraiths from the inky darkness, arm-in-arm. Ravens flew overhead in the bleeding red sky. After them, Rhae bounded after the two. Daeron was still being attended to by the Grand Maester, bless his soul. Hopefully once everyone was settled, they could discuss what to do about the quarantine of the cities. She could already sense the boredom that would soon radiate from the little ones, but this was for their own health and safety. Myriah blinks. ❝𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐉𝐞𝐧𝐚, 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫?❞

ANTIGONICK. || always accepting. || @hammerthe

[velcryons]

@hammerthe :: starter call ( accepting )

"I mislike this place."

The words were surprisingly venomous for the usually apathetic septa. Vaenna had an ill sense about Ashford the moment the prince's retinue left King's Landing. Now in Lord Ashford's chambers, staring through the window at the grassy field that lay just outside the castle walls, the sense of dread she felt was almost tangible, as if it were moments away from grasping her by the throat.

"We should return home. To Dragonstone."

[fatestaken]

STARTER for baelor / @hammerthe ft. daemon blackfyre

'you acquit yourself well upon the tourney field.' the words seem to freeze in his throat as he speaks them and the curt smile he offers prince baelor does little in the way of reaching his eyes. that the youth was simply more skilled than him was a notion that daemon felt disinclined to acknowledge. if anything, his performance at the wedding tourney and his inevitable failure to best baelor during the last tilt could be accounted for by his distracted mind for there had been much to occupy it as of late. if he had only been in his fittest form, the young prince would have stood little chance.

'i look forward to the next tourney when we may compete yet again.' it is perhaps unfair to treat the younger targaryen with anything other than familial respect and affection given that baelor is hardly to blame for the growing disillusionment daemon has begun to feel towards the man's father. 'are you enjoying yourself? the dornish seem to have turned out in full force for these celebrations.'

[loreforged]

❛  you have mistaken bonds of family with fondness, i think, father.  ❜   he's lost all taste for the wine, a rich arbor red, the virtues of which lord redwyne himself had extolled profusely when he'd plied the prince with the vintage earlier… though he still pours himself a generous measure in the wake of his father's scolding, mild as it had been. it never seems to go down easy, admonishment or disappointment from his lord father, burns in the back of his throat like bile and makes it difficult to swallow. the wine does much to ease the way, and valarr chases the sweetness of it from his lips with a swipe of his tongue, back still turned to his father as he refills his cup once more.   ❛  i needs must share blood with aerion, it's true, but nowhere is it written that i must offer him any kindness, the likes of which he would never extend to me or mine.  ❜

it has been clear to him, for some time, that his father does not comprehend the true depths of the depravity his cousin seems to revel in, nor the cruelty and pain he indeed seems to take a perverse pleasure in inflicting on those around him. blinded, perhaps, by the toothy smiles and irreproachable civility and charm aerion dons like a mask around his own father, and valarr's alike. he has hopes, however, that his cousin's vile display in the lists has proved… enlightening for his father. pouring another cup, he takes this one to baelor, pressing it into his hand with wordless insistence, before finding his place, sprawled out on a cushioned divan.   ❛  he used to pinch matarys, you know.  ❜   despite the casual delivery, the ostensible detachment in his voice, it would be impossible to miss the way valarr's grip tightens on his cup, knuckles bleached white with the strain.   ❛  just to see how hard he could do it before matarys squealed. or until he left bruises. i had to… dissuade him from that particular game.  ❜

« ✦ @hammerthe from here ! »

[wyrdstaef]

“ congratulations, my prince. ” the dark haired woman swept a low bow, rather than a curtsy. they suited her better, and her knees were not as they once were. her spear-arm was just as well, however. lifting her head, ysilla’s smile was warm as she looked up - as shocking as it was to do so - at the newly named prince of dragonstone. “ you wear the mantle well, as i assured your mother you would. ” the last is said with a wink and a smile, eyes briefly touching upon the queen’s person. ever watchful, even at such a short distance. “ how do you find it? ”

@hammerthe, from auntie ysilla.

[woventapestries]

@hammerthe sent: ❛ fear cuts deeper than swords. ❜ ( to rhae )

Father has never liked when Rhae wandered like Egg, even though he's rarely scolded for it just because he's a boy. It wouldn't be so bad except that Father is always busy with work or making sure Daery doesn't drown in a puddle of ale or Aeri isn't getting into trouble. Aemy was at least fun, he used to read her stories before Grandfather sent him off to Old Town to forge a chain. Daella had stayed behind at Summerhall with her books instead of coming to the tourney, and Daery and Egg are still a day's ride behind them.

So Rhae, to her great boredom, is trapped in the royal encampment and the tourney hasn't even started. Lady Gwin is nice at least, but she's also doing her very best to seem lady-like on account of her nameday, so she doesn't want to go look at the horses or see if any of the kitchen cats have any kittens to play with.

The men are sparring in their little practice list-field, she's sure that all the knights present must be as well in their other encampments. Cousin Valarr is donning his own armor and speaking with a squire, Aeri wears his armor but not his wicked helm, Daery's armor is in his tent, as empty as the pavilion still waiting for him to arrive.

Rhae perches on the barricade, Father would surely scold her if he saw but instead it is Uncle who spots her and simply raises a brow. The little girl grins and pats the beam beside her. Once her Uncle comes close and leans in to hear her better she relates the comings and going of the practice field at rapid pace. What knights she recognizes and the sigils of the ones she doesn't, who has the prettiest horse, and who has a favor from what lady, "And everyone is afraid to hit Aeri and Valarr, but Aeri won't spar with him."

Uncle nods wisely, the way he always does, considering her words before offering, "Fear cuts deeper than swords."

Rhae can't help but giggle in response, nearly toppling over from her perch before Uncle's large hand steadies her, "It's a practice sword, Uncle, it shouldn't cut him at all!"

[lary5trong]

“They try to insult my intelligence sometimes,”   the book in his hand passed from his right to his left,   eyes following the cover,   some inoffensive tale of some Northerner family's history.   No sign of what the words meant behind Larys' eyes or in his movements as he carefully slotted the tome back into its place on the shelf.   “I fear I may act stupid too convincingly.   But we all hide a part of ourselves,   but that may just be me.   Forgive me,   my prince,   you caught me in something of a contemplative mood.”

  [ … ]     lyric starter for @hammerthe

[gryffn]

@hammerthe: ❝  facts interest me. not fairytales.  ❞

royalty is so often the same—quick to offer their judgement and dispense their thoughts with little consideration that what they say may not be how it is. lazare is unsure if such a constant trait applies to baelor, different though he seems. he has been called before more than his fair share of princes and princesses, kings and queens, lords and ladies and all in between. few have surprised him.

this one may yet.

"it is not fairy tales, your grace," the witcher begins, his face as blank and cool as stone, as he casts his gaze in assessment over baelor once more. what is he to make of him? how frank may he be? it is different for every noble, and while he is not one to fall over himself to please anyone, kaer seren taught him courtly manners and knightly bearing. he deploys those teachings judiciously. he errs for deadpan honesty, as he does in so many things. "though they can often be one in the same. a monster prowls your grounds. are the bodies that lay in your cellars and the viscera left behind fairy tales?"