#knightsigils

[lordustin]

On their southron march, the winds change. The subtle things stand out the most to Wyllas: The way it whips through his reddened curls no longer cutting through him like a knife. His eyes no longer sting, and his skin tingles pleasantly as it brushes over him. The landscape changes from the plains of the Barrowlands to the wetlands of the Neck, and for now, their camp is pulled up from the muddied lakes as they prepare their short rest. A few hours at most, he hears, before they continue into the darkened hours.

❝ I did as you asked, grandfather. Whetted the axes, yours and mine. Rebound the grips, and brought you your drink. ❞ Wyllas makes good use of his time, as he's told to. In his hand, he holds out a tankard, filled with some kind of alcohol he knows the lads go mad over. ❝ Are you hungry? I can find you something to eat, if you wish it. ❞

@knightsigils / plotted!

[goldandcinders]

@knightsigils continued from here

“Perhaps,” Daemon mused, the start of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But optimism shall rally our forces, will it not?”

He reached out before Aegor could answer, his hand brushing briefly against the side of his jaw before resting upon his shoulder as the man knelt before him. A familiar, careless act from a man who had never quite learned where brotherhood ended and his own command began.

His brother? Of course. But even more so? His right hand.

Daemon held his gaze for a moment longer, violet eyes bright with confidence, expectation, and that dangerous charm that made men want to follow him into ruin with a single word.

“Lord Commander Rivers.”

The title fell from his lips as though it had always belonged to Aegor and perhaps, in a way, it always had. They had always been by each other's side had they not? It was an offer, yes, but also a claim: trust given openly and his loyalty demanded in return. And Daemon gave it with a charming smile, warm enough to honor his little brother, but sharp enough to remind him that from this moment onward, Aegor would stand not behind him, but beside him; sword drawn and name bound to his cause.

[alyafae]

Their family was torn apart, it was one side against the other. And for what? A throne, a crown, power. Something had once been promised to her once as well but it had been taken. And she had not started a war over it. Alas it was a different time; still it did not change the fact that they were here now.

"There is no war so hateful to the gods as a war between kin, and no war so bloody as a war between dragons." @knightsigils voiced his thoughts and Rhaenys could not have agreed more.

She looked Maekar then, expression neutral although there was just a hint of sadness in her gaze. "No matter how this ends, there cannot be a true victory." Where life would be lost, no one could be a victor. And yet it was war that they had chosen.

[barrowkings]

Will expects nothing less from his father, his lip curling from under moustache into a sharpened smirk. ❝ I could hear the words before they ever left your lips, father! ❞ Will barks, a laugh loud and whole, pulled deep from within his stomach. He knows Roderick well: Lord Father, shaped from both cold winds and bloodied steel. He shoulders the man, affectionate roughhousing as it were. He knows no other form of love for his father. Direct, firm — that is his way — and it be his, too.

Green eyes query the man, his wrinkles folding the ink that marks his face; an homage to their long gone ancestors. Prideful of his ancient blood. ❝ Naught to be done of it, eh? ❞ Will questions, his voice low, thoughtful. Fingers stroke through his reddened beard as he picks apart the argument posed by his father. No middle ground to be had with Roddy the Ruin; things either were, or they were not. Suffering or peace; life or death. One cannot live in half-death! ❝ Kill the tyrant and another takes his place; and on and on it goes. Still, we bloody our hands for the prosperity of our loved ones, do we not? We hope, that after our slaughterous toiling, that we avert the deaths of those who need live. ❞ A pause, the wind whipping over his head, ❝ What do you think of, lord father? Tell me. ❞

@knightsigils / cont. ( for the old batteaxe, roddy! )

[gachcuid]

"it's a small world when it only can revolve around us two." + to dyanna, from maekar

@knightsigils

It was an indulgence, to lie so late and send for sweet jam tarts before the midday meal. But one was allowed to lie late when there were only weeks left before an imminent arrival, and if one could not indulge during one's confinement, then it was a crying shame. Dyanna hummed happily as the sweet cherry flavour filled her mouth and the pastry crumbled pleasingly, but she swallowed it down quickly to smile as Maekar's hand went to her swollen belly and he spoke his sweet words.

"There have been many times I have wished for the child to come, to end the toils of expectancy," she admitted to him. "But now that I am left alone to rest with my dear husband's company to cheer me, I must say that I wish these days would go on forever." Her smile was bright, and a pretty laugh bubbled from her lips. "It is, as you say, a small world with just us two. But a delightful world, all the same. And a world with, I hope, just enough room for a darling little third party to fit in with us soon," she said, before stealing a soft kiss from his lips.

[absolventiia]

@knightsigils , otto hightower & aurane targaryen (cont.)

the wine does little and less this night, as some sort of sickness works its way through his veins unbidden. aurane feels himself dizzy, and then righted again, each time he gazes at his grandsire. they are family. they share the same coloring, as alicent points out every time the prince brings up the strong boys, how jace and luke and joffery also have darkened hair. seeing his own looks upon otto's features should sway him to feel that familial bond, but there is none now. too many lines drawn, & too many times have his siblings been brought into harm's way due to his grandsire's ambitions. there is much aurane may know about otto no matter his want to ; he swallows more wine before speaking. " you know what i speak of, but if you wish it aloud i shall grant you that. "

he glowers at the floor as it tilts beneath him again. nights have passed this way, with aurane spouting words from depths that he cannot explain. still, most times, his dreams and small instincts have grown from his fears surrounding his siblings : aegon, with blooming red flowers from his mouth. aemond, held in a cold, deep dark somewhere with no eyes. helaena, with needles pricking her skin that are so large, they leave gaping holes within her. even daeron, caught in the blaze of some distant fire, no matter how hard he runs. and there is otto ! otto, carrying his own head through the halls of the keep like a ghost.

when aurane finally looks up to his grandsire again, his eyes are clouded and heavy with knowledge that so few possess, or should have. it haunts him. " you will lose your head by the end of this war. i know you have felt it. something deep within you knows, does it not ? "

[goldandcinders]

' i’ll hear no more of it. you’re hurt. ' from aegor, to daemon i.

idk what meme this is from oops <3 | accepting! | @knightsigils

Daemon wiped at the blood steadily dripping from his nose, hissing through his teeth at the sting. Even more so at persistent ache pulsing through his wrist that refused to go away. He flexed his fingers once, regretted it immediately, and curled them back against his palm with a quiet string of Valyrian curses underneath his breath.

In truth, the physical injuries across his body were the least painful of his wounds; the embarrassment hurt far worse.

He had boasted loudly before the joust, promising any man within earshot that he would unhorse his nephew easily before the second pass. He could see it clearly in his mind. Baelor laying in the dirt, the crowd laughing and cheering, and Daemon riding past him with a grin and some clever remark. Instead, it had been Daemon who struck the ground hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. Daemon who had been dragged several humiliating yards through the churned mud when his wrist caught in the reins. Daemon who now sat bloodied, bruised, with his armor coated in dirt, and his pride hurting far worse than any broken bone ever could.

The worst of it all was that Baelor had done it well. That, more than anything, irritated him. His nephew had not won by sheer luck or because Daemon had been careless. The boy had sat his mount like a prince ought to have, kept his lance steady, and taken the opening the moment it appeared. There was no simple excuse to soothe Daemon’s wounded pride and no flaws to scrutinize. No reason to call it anything but a clean defeat. And Seven above help him, some small part of Daemon was proud, impressed even. Not that he would ever say such a thing aloud, certainly not with everyone watching him.

“I’m fine, Aegor.” Daemon said, forcing a smile and pretending as if none of this affected him, lifting his uninjured hand to wave the matter away….only to wince when the movement tugged on his bruised shoulder. “It is not the first time I have bloodied and broken my nose and I am certain it will not be the last.”

[artisanals]

@knightsigils / @dansetoile , cont .

a drop of comfort in his loyalty as sharks so often seemed to circle at the scent of blood in the water. lopsided, quirked smile betrayed true fondness as his display of affection sent sunlight into her. ❛ i miss you, too. ❜ ( it was always so easy to admit to him ). ❛ another week, and no pointe for two. ❜ groan tore from her as head lolled back, supplicating whatever god could spare her the inactivity. ❛ save me from my boredom. ❜