#herah. thread

[bloomsred]

location: eyrie, an overlook on the side of the mountain status: for @synkvervx​ ( sigyn kvitravn )

the wind today has teeth, and herah finds herself glad for it. with her eyes closed it almost reminds her of home, atop the great dome of her temple. though time has curled at the edges of memory, the docks and sprawling skylines of myr are no less a comfort for it in the face of shale walls and stone faces. herah’s own iron skin braces against the foul weather and people, but even so the scrape has begun to wear her down. she is already eager for a blessed hearth, and perhaps a few steps without seeing that damned pointed star.

there is no warmth offered in the silhouette of the wilding, only the vaguest comfort of familiarity. on days like this, herah takes even that with a silent prayer of thanks she’ll seal with flame tonight, alone in her rooms. r’hllor forbid sigyn ever catch wind of it.

“i don’t suppose you’ve come out here for some quiet reflection, or to enjoy the view.” 

[bloomsred]

location: eyrie, the great hall status: for @guidedminds​​ ( elayna martell )

herah knew, of course, that the martells would send their own retinue to pay respects, and it would likely include the ruling princess’s own family. but she had not, until now, allowed herself to hope. had not let the lark in her heart out of its cage, lest it leap from her grasp into the open air. if elayna would be there. if they might have a chance to speak. if she even remembered, or cared for the red priestess of her childhood – all thoughts too dangerous to let linger. welcomed for a moment to her mindspace and sent away, left to vanish like paper curling in a flame. 

and what did she remember, the toddler who played at herah’s red skirts in the shadow of her fledgling temple? who listened in the garden, girlhood blossoming in the hollows of her cheeks and set of her shoulders, to stories from across the narrow sea? who wasn’t so old, really, when dorne became a crooked skyline at herah’s back, obscured by dust and carriages. herah’s own memories come unbidden, of a women who’s face is always obscured, who’s voice never quite makes the right words.

but no –– elayna was far older than herah’s own memories when she left dorne. there’s little harm, even of the diplomatic sort, in saying hello. 

“i’m sure you are very tired of hearing this from the other lords and ladies,” herah starts, coming up at elayna’s side with little more than a whisper of her robes. she doesn’t mean to startle the girl, nor catch her off guard, simply to seize a brief moment at which they might speak openly with one another, free of the hawks circling overhead. “but indulge me for a moment, please.” 

only now does herah allow herself to look fully at elayna martell, to take her in with the slightest tilt of her own head, a knowing curve to her lips. “how much you’ve grown.”

[bloomsred]

location: eyrie, the hall of house arryn status: for @nightcomes​ ( qoren sand )

if herah gave mind to every whisper passed her way, every glance that lingered or set of teeth bared in her direction, she would have gone mad by twenty. eighteen if she’d included their curses, too. these westerosi think themselves so refined – unique, even; coveted – but as she saunters the strange, rough-hewn halls of this strange, mountainous home, herah can only find the sameness. different window dressings, but the bones remain. there is only one face of hatred, and she knows it well. today, she rides the wake of someone else’s. 

“brother.” a pleasant, practiced smile secured, herah slips her arm through the crook of qoren’s to link them, binding him close. she knows well the ease he could shake her off, and hopes the whispers of heresy haven’t scraped in him too deep yet. the last thing either of them need is violence, even the smell of it. wolves and wild beasts, sea monsters and ancient unearthly things pace around them, teeth at the ready. their lord is beating heavy in her chest, but it will do little to save any mortal flesh. 

“you are making quite the first impression i hear.” she doesn’t look at him, eyes trained on the peculiar faces that swivel as they pass. a nod here, the hint of a not-quite-smile there. deference, always. like a child bending to her elder, but here the respect is unearned, a survival instinct only. it grates on her with every step, like a fresh brand on still raw skin. “i don’t think i need to remind you that we are on this mountain under the bolton banner and to serve the red king’s will, not our own.”