#quvir

[misrybred]

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐄 ? 𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐓 as affectively as she could. sometimes she wonders if the feeling, that emotion, was tied to her soul but like a weighted chain around her ankle. just like shame or guilt or remorse. all of them serve to weight her down but no one ever taught her how to get rid of those feelings ... she just grew accustomed to sitting in the discomfort or the pain. ( alyrie would be ashamed of her father. a thought that often crosses the dowager queens mind in times of silence or reflection--he was suppose to protect her, guide her, but instead he made her life about his ambitions. otto hightower failed her but worse of all he willingly inflected pain upon her. & for what ? ) fingers continue to dig at one another with head dipped to focus only on it, eyebrows furrow when vic asks his question as it were more obvious than a question.

@quvir ASKED, " ARE YOU SCARED ? "

❛ it is much of all i feel these days. ❜ meeting rhaenyra in the sept seemed to clarify a few things for alicent: she had hurt the other woman greatly & this war, indirectly at the time, was her fault. or partly so. so many men, dragons, important people will perish because she misunderstood her husband's lasts words that night--like otto did to her as a girl she has put her children, her family, in danger. whatever happens to her in the coming time ... does she deserve it for this one ugly sin ? ❛ it in inescapable. like guilt or shame. it sticks to the skin, it is a constant reminder. i am scared for my children, for rhaenyra, for the people who wil die .. ❜ 'but not myself.'

[misrybred]

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃, 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐍𝐎𝐓 ? their world, society, people were littered with the notion of violence. ever quickly would a king or his hand decide that a problem required the use of soldiers, swords, or dragons. they wished to get blood on their swords or to seek glory in the battles they win beliving it will win favor or honor for whoever lives at the end. all of it was for the beasts yet that is, at times she thinks, what men are or, more like, all they are capable of being. thankfully her lord husband had been able to rule the realm under a peaceful reign ... one without major war or dragon battle safe for the efforts in the stepstones. viserys could throw events or hosts feasts, he had the ability to feed & tend to his people without much strain from anything else. alicent yearns for days like that now.

@quvir ASKED, " VIOLENCE FOR VIOLENCE IS THE RULE FOR BEASTS. "

❛ no matter what one of us does it seems that this is the way of people. of men. & they know no other way. ❜ is the only response queen feels she can give even if it does not feel like the answer vic wished the hear from her. what else is she to do ? she, nor anyone else, can change the nature of people. eyes glance out of her window before speaking, tone clearly heavy with reality of the situation. ❛ war is happening, violence is happening. there is nothing we can do about it. ❜

[lary5trong]

[ drunk ]   your muse takes care of my very drunk muse    ⤷   action by @quvir

Drinking was done on rare occasions for Larys.   Of course he sipped from the obligatory cup of wine at gatherings, but rarely more than that, head always left light and buzzed after a single serving.   Though the constant darkening on the horizon, war hanging over everyone's head,   the threat of death and chaos were rising day by day,   Larys sank into a moment of weakness.

It all started with the thought of where his brother would be if he were still living.   Where would Harwin find himself if he lived to see his princess flee from her castle?   Would he be loyal to his family and stay at Harrenhal?   Would he run to Dragonstone the moment he could?   Was his eldest sibling cursed to die no matter what?   The news of Daemon's arrival in Harrenhal made him sick,   he could only see that his brother's fate was sealed no matter what;   Larys had little faith that Daemon would let his queen's paramour live especially if he held the castle he desired.

By fire his brother was destined to burn. Why the Gods never warned Larys? He will never know.   He will never forgive.

“Wh-   I don't need that,   I don't-   I can stand fine,”   he slurred with irritation after feeling a sturdy grip on his arm that had begun to lift as he straightened.   Only shooting a challenging glare at Vic and waited for hands to retract from him.   Then on instinct,   he tried to rise again   (out of spite more than anything,   as his head was absolutely swimming)   but the grip on his cane was uncertain and the wood fell with a clatter leaving Larys stumbling back hard into the seat.   “Boy,   hand-”   a deep breath before a long sight,   the older man trying to sober up,   “hand me that I must get home.”

[alcriti]

He's just another blonde man among the waves of people, at first glance. The hat wears obscures most of Astarion's silver-coloured hair, slipping through the gaps of bodies toward their known meeting spot. It's a step along an alleyway, lined with beggars, mummers and the occasional guard making rounds on patrol. His back is turned toward the top of the stairs, winding up and away into a street above; music from the street over lifts over the walls, settling in the path of winding stairs.

Every now and again, Astarion catches pieces of conversation; information he may deem useful to trade with. It's the prospect of information that has him standing in the streets of Flea Bottom. Always looking for something useful, and always wanting more; it was his greatest trait, undeniably. Ambition. Information was currency, and he knows someone who might be interested, but the catch is more of a headache then he cares to entangle himself in…

Thoughts wind in on each other, coalescing into ideas, until a hurried blur of black brushes past him, coming to stand in front of him, hidden amongst the dregs. ❝ I thought you wouldn't show, ❞ Astarion teases, turning a coin over in his hands. He tilts his head, looking Victor in his dark-coloured eyes. ❝ But you're here; I suppose I should be accepting of that. Victor, money is nice. It can buy you the things you need, what you want, but I can't help but feel as though I can do something more for you. To improve the situation of yourself and of the ones you're closest to. But you're being difficult. ❞ His tone is sharp, like a knife's edge, thrust forward.

@quvir ( @maereor ) / plotted!

[crypt1cally]

the   rose   road   stretched   ahead ,   a   languid   ribbon   of   dust   and   pale   stone.   by   the   wayside ,   the   afternoon   sun   —   warm   and   honey-gold   —   had   turned   the   rolling   fields   into   a   rippling   sea   of   green   and   gold.   willas   —   the   crippled   heir   —   sat   astride   a   dapple-grey   palfrey   in   a   slow   trot.   though   he   favoured   the   saddle   more   than   many   expected ,   there   was   still   a   measured   care   in   the   way   he   rode:   posture   straight   never   rigid ,   one   hand   resting   easy   on   the   reins.   the   party   with   which   he   travelled   was   small   (as   he   preferred)   and   had   settled   into   a   comfortable   quietness ,   lulled   by   the   hazy   heat   of   the   summer   sun   and   the   rhythmic   beat   of   the   horses’   steps.

now   that   quiet   was   broken   only   by   the   slow   tread   of   another   horse   drawing   nearer   along   the   verge.   willas   did   not   turn   at   once:   tilting   his   head   slightly ,   listening ,   the   way   a   man   does   who   has   long   learned   that   swiftness   is   rarely   his   ally.

‘ it   seems   the   rose   road   grows   busier   by   the   year ’   the   man   observed   lightly,   as   if   to   himself,   though   the   words   were   loud   enough   to   be   noted.   ‘ merchants ,   septons ,   hedge   knights   chasing   tourneys   that   may   or   may   not   exist ’   a   faint   smile   touched   his   lips.   ‘ and   now   you. ’ 

he   turned   his   gaze   toward   @quvir   now   riding   alongside   him   with   open   curiosity   rather   than   suspicion ,   bright   hazel   eyes   thoughtful   beneath   a   sweep   of   brown   curls   stirred   loose   by   the   wind ,   as   though   encountering   lone   men   on   lonely   roads   were   a   matter   of   passing   curiosity   and   not   potential   danger. 

‘ you   ride   as   though   you   mean   to   be   noticed ’   he   observed   at   last ,   voice   mild ,   almost   conversational ,   though   the   stranger   had   yet   to   announce   himself.   ‘ either   you   are   very   confident ,   or   very   courteous. . . i   find   both   qualities   refreshing   on   this   stretch   of   road. ’

he   shifted   slightly   in   the   saddle ,   favouring   his   injured   leg   without   making   a   spectacle   of   it.   there   was   no   bitterness   in   him   for   it:    only   long-practiced   acceptance. ‘ tell   me: are   you   bound   for   highgarden,   king’s   landing. . .   or   simply   following   the   roses   to   see   where   they   lead? ’

ᯓ★   a   starter   for   victor   from   willas!