#smaragduseques

[frozenasterism]

@smaragduseques sent: " today isn't your day, is it? " (from smaragduseques for otto )

even just the sound of his son's voice elicited disdain, whatever semblance of peace he'd managed to grasp for himself in the silence that had lingered within a welcomely empty room over the past couple of moments lost at once, drawing a low, quiet sigh from the depths of older man's lungs that passed into the air, warmed from the nearby fire, near-soundlessly through his nostrils whilst his gaze only reluctantly, and slowly, pulled away from the window he was facing and shifted to the unwelcome presence at his side; one glimpse of that head of muted red hair and he found himself wishing once more, as he'd done so often already in his lifetime, that the nursemaids hadn't been so swift to grab the boy when he'd tried to clamber out of his crib in the night as a toddler. perhaps then, otto would've had a chance at a life of peace or, at the very least, something close to it. perhaps then this day wouldn't be filled by such disappointment and irritation. perhaps then he could enjoy quiet that lasted longer than mere minutes from time to time, without the inevitable reminder of the chagrin in human form he had been unfortunate to sire.

“ and whose fault is that, gwayne? ” he answered after another moment, during which he futilely, subconsciously wished the man before him would dissipate into thin air, and otto, at last, could wake up from the nightmare of having children, such useless sons in particular, who, naturally, had sired nothing if not useless grandsons with the princess he'd been lucky enough to wed, “ if you or your sons were even remotely of use, this day would not need to feel quite so gloomy. ”

[waveswallowed]

༄࿔*·⋅ starter for @smaragduseques.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀IN ALL ITS GLORY, whispering sound stretched before them, usually a lake of glittering turquoise sprinkled with the shapes of boats and ships of all sizes, their sails and banners a sea of colour, in the warmer seasons, now a muted greyish-blue in the rain that, once again, had started to fall from heavy, grey clouds after they'd made their way up here from the warmth of their quarters, thick fog spreading across the bay and the town attached to it, seeming to swallow everything in vicinity whole, palpable in a damp chill grazing skin from the nigh topmost part of the hightower, only the flame stretching higher still, emitting a warm glow somewhere above their heads that tore through the hazy veil. he'd been here a handful of times before, when he'd been younger, and nigh too long ago did it seem now with the last visit laying years in the past. it had felt different then, a new appreciation for what he stood to inherit having come with age, with leaving youth behind and entering adulthood, something deeper, a wonder linked with pride and readiness now opposed to the curiosity and astonishment at its vastness, which, at times, had felt a little intimidating, it had been then, but one thing had remained the same: the hightower had always been his favourite part of oldtown, only the unrivalled sensation of being on dragonback surpassing the thrill that came with being so high up, so close to the sky that, at times, the clouds floated close enough to the tall stone structure that they could be touched.

it was then that an approaching figure nearing the walls of oldtown caught his attention. a vagabond, surely, perhaps a hedge knight without horse or a beggar seeking shelter in oldtown, though there was a strange sense of familiarity to the shape of a man that only became recognisable upon second glance, dark eyes squinting somewhat against the thin spray of rain dampening his face and the distance separating them, palms bracing against the stone railing as he leaned forward. it was something about his attire, the way he moved . . . no, it couldn't possibly be . . .

“ is that . . . grandsire? ” indeed, it was otto hightower making his way through the gates and towards the courtyard, a slight stagger to his step, clothes sticking to him with damp and what, even from here, was discernible as a large amount of mud. he supposed that explained why he had not been in oldtown as they had assumed he would be after he had so brashly left dragonstone following a short, unwelcome visit nigh two moons prior after deciding, at once, that they all were ignorant and useless and he would no longer concern himself with any of them. “ fucking hells, it is. and i had hoped we had seen the last of him. ” was muttered as hands pushed away from the thick stone and he followed his father through a narrow arch back into the building, finding their way through luminous corridors and down steep, spiralling stairs, until they emerged into the courtyard just as otto set foot into it from the other side.

there was something undeniably humorous to the way he looked, once fine clothing clinging to his body like a drenched linen sack, fabric torn in some spots and smeared by soggy heaps of dirt and other unrecognisable substances, leaves and twigs sticking to his sleeves and his soaked hair, the pull threatening to tug luke's lips upwards just barely suppressed. “ he looks like he was carried here by the honeywine. ” he whispered to his father beside him, watching as his grandsire crossed the distance towards the hightower, at last taking notice of them, previously blank features quickly contorting into discontent as he lifted his arms, something slimy dripping off one drenched sleeve of a cloak that had certainly seen better days then and pooling on the wet cobblestone beneath him, gesturing their way. “ now look who we have here . . . my son and my grandson, waiting for me after leaving me to navigate the wilderness! ”

[waveswallowed]

starter for @smaragduseques.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ FOR LONG WEEKS, the thought had been lingering on his mind, unspoken, ignored at first, until it had grown so prominent it no longer could be shoved away as but mindless notions, some ridiculous wish that may have originated long ago, sometime in his childhood and followed him into adolescence, resurfacing as though it never had left, as though it always had been there, lingering at the back of his mind, biding its time. it was silly to even think it, that much lucerys knew — laenor velaryon was his father, always had been, always would be, even if he had quite suddenly passed when lucerys had been but five years old and no longer been a part of his life since. gwayne hightower, on the other hand, was naught but a rumour, a cruel rumour, for which tongues had been pulled out and heads taken in the past, one which never was addressed, nor should be spoken of, for it was easier that way, for all of them, from the woman who may have borne his children, to the sons he may have fathered and left behind.

the castle was quiet that night, too quiet, as it always tended to feel before something happened — it was in that lingering quiet that had fallen soon after supper and lucerys' retreat to his chambers, soon followed by other residents of the ancient fortress in the hours that had come after, that the decision, at last, came, and it, despite its nature, despite the risks it bore, came easy. the hour of ghosts had just begun approaching as the prince made his way from his chambers through tangled, dark corridors and onto the grounds of dragonstone, the air chilly and curtained by thick, grey tendrils of seasmoke rising up the cliffs, arrax not yet asleep where he found him in his usual spot within the pit, as though he could sense his bonded rider's intentions that night ( which he more likely than not could ). quietly, thick chains were loosened, and rider and dragon slipped away, at least as quietly as a dragon that size could move, taking to the sky once stony, warm walls no longer confined them, higher and higher, concealed by the clouds and scant light of a new moon against an otherwise black sky. for hours, they flew, across the country, west and then south, coming to a landing just past the hour of the nightingale, morrow and, with it, sunrise, still some time away at this time of the year. woodland concealed their descend, and within it, upon a clearing wide enough to fit a dragon, but buried enough between tall evergreens and foliage that he should not be so easily spotted, arrax remained, hidden betwixt trees and far enough away from where anyone may wander, whilst lucerys found his way through dense forest to the river's edge, and soon enough, the city he was searching, passing tall stony walls and walking slippery cobbled streets, where the cool breezes sweeping past him carried a pleasant scent of something sweet and flowery.

perhaps, it had been foolish to come here, to oldtown — he hardly knew if the man he was searching still looked the same as he remembered him from his childhood, nor if he even was present, and even less did he know how he would take to seeing him, or even if he would recognise him, having long grown from the five year old boy he had been when they last had seen one another in king's landing, shortly prior to their relocation to dragonstone and gwayne's, as far as he was aware, return to oldtown, but having come so far now, turning back seemed like no option, at least not until he could be certain gwayne was not here. it was then, as luke rounded yet another corner connecting one tidy, small alley to another, that he saw him, or rather, saw someone, near what seemed like vast stables, inside which horses were waking and whinnying, carrying something from an open door within the stone wall onto the square before the stables. training equipment. staying back long enough until the figure turned just far enough for him to catch a glimpse of his features, the very same features he remembered dimly of the knight he had known in king's landing, he then stepped forward, leaving the shadows of the alley behind, “ gwayne hightower. ”

[doronlaes]

@smaragduseques sent: "Do you always push buttons?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀“ I ONLY SPEAK TRUTH, UNCLE. ” gwayne's question was met with the trace of a smirk slowly pulling up aemond's lips, something that spoke of arrogance, something utterly inauthentic and twisted, as fleeting as a passing shadow, dropping again soon after. “ i have no need to rely on silence. ” the look he gave him then said it all — intact eye fixating on him, stubborn, lingering. gwayne may not remember it, and, truly, aemond would not put it past him if he did not; why should he recall something that must've been so insignificant to him? but his nephew remembered it clearly — four and ten he had been when his mother, all but in passing, had mentioned penning a letter to her brother, that he might be joining his little brother, daeron, in oldtown for a time. days had passed, weeks, months, years. she'd never spoken of it again. whether his uncle had rejected the suggestion, or never answered the raven, he did not know, but given his mother's lasting silence about the subject, he had convinced himself of the latter. perhaps avoidance was a hightower trait, and he could only be grateful that he did not resemble that side of his heritage too much.

[bitterglories]

@smaragduseques sent: [ CHEER ] seeing that receiver is scowling, sender rubs their thumb over the furrow between receiver's brows

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ FOR ALL HIS courtesy, and mostly even temper, daeron was not immune to provocation. already frustrated by an incident earlier that day where a horse that had escaped the stables when the stablehand had opened the doors to escort another mount outside had nigh been doused in cobalt flame when the stallion had roused tessarion in his aimless, hectic canter away from his sleeping place and caretakers, he'd carried that weight with him well into the afternoon, and when that young knight had begun speaking out of order, the anger had been quick to rise, spread from gut to chest and lingered heavily behind his sternum, a firm press of something fierce that had violet eyes narrowing, skin creasing with the furrowing of brows of a forming scowl as fingers had curled around the blade at his side, not drawing it, merely resting there; a warning. there was something more to it than just this, what was visible from the outside, seemingly meaningless words spat between two young men whose tempers got the better of them after a long day, something daeron tried his best not to let his mind dwell on now, not when his uncle was so close.

as quickly as the flame of tension had risen and threatened to combust into something more out of control as the situation had grown more and more heated, it was over, with his uncle's steps carrying loudly across the slick cobblestone and the knight perceiving it as his cue to disappear down the narrow, dark path to the gardens — but not without another glance thrown across his shoulder at the prince, one that spoke loud and clear even without words, and had daeron take a step forward, though no further, staying where he was as he watched the figure finally disappear in the shadows, scowl deepening, gaze lingering still on that spot, even when his uncle moved up beside him, fuming still . . . until he felt the light press of a thumb against his forehead, swiping slowly across the skin between his brows.

whilst the anger did not wane, the gesture did cause the furrow to lessen, features relaxing somewhat as, entirely against his will, a small smile drew up the corners of his mouth and lilac eyes finally shifted his uncle's way.

“ you are being embarrassing, uncle. ” as he had to remind him every so often.

[bitterglories]

@smaragduseques sent: [ KEEP ] sender holds receiver's arm just above the elbow while they're talking or to get their attention

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ WRAPPED UP IN CONVERSATION with a young woman, mila, as he had learned when they'd encountered one another previously and easily recalled when they'd struck up conversation again that afternoon after he'd helped her haul sacks of fresh soil to the gardens, and who now was sharing their intentions to sow new seeds in the blossoming flowerbeds, evidently a little flustered by the prince's interest in what she had to say, he did not notice his uncle's approach across the cobbled stone, turning only when he felt the warm weight of a palm against his upper arm, the faint smile already resting on lips growing on an instant at the sight of all too familiar features as he pivoted fully to face him. he had not known he was coming back today.

“ uncle, you're home. ” and, just like that, the prince's arms were around his uncle, all but squeezing him into an embrace, silently thanking the seven, whom he had prayed to each morrow and night for gwayne's safe travels and return, palms still resting against his arms as he eventually drew back, “ i had not expected your return for another fortnight. ”

[waveswallowed]

@smaragduseques liked for a starter.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ EASY STEPS LEAD into the familiar study, dropping the small pile of sealed messages ravens reaching oldtown from allied houses across the realm had delivered that morrow onto the desk before the older man, dwelling still by the table's edge, leaning to peer across his uncle's shoulder at the ink-coated parchments that come into view when he opens them, " any for me, uncle? " a question asked with a trace of amusement accompanying his tone, not entirely serious with it. he has long abandoned any hope he might have still possessed when he'd been a boy and only just banished sent here that letters from the capital should arrive on days that marked not his nameday.

[notatelltale]

i don't need your help . ( from smaragduseques, for otto ! )

@smaragduseques / Gwayne Hightower.

With restoration of his old position, the fate of his son no longer seemed so daunting, as for prudent future action, the Hand had no fear for his daughter, for hers was stationarily secured.

" It is a boon to my research that you accompany me with your current knowledge of these lands and your skill in combat, but this isn't a matter of request. '' Eyesight drifting ward high eaves before dropping back upon polish of steel sword, for young Hightower had always keen eye for elegance, '' No help you say but everyone needs it from time to time, Gwayne. Your stubbornness on the other hand is starting to remind me of your uncle. You want to handle things yourself? Very well, you are the officer of the City Watch of King's Landing, I shall not interfere with your affairs if that's what you wish, but hear inofficious notice of your old man; not only walls but even trees have eyes and ears, stay vigilant on your tasks, there must not be a single failure to soil your sleeve. " We cannot afford to lose you. And he shall act as if not, unless —- the stench of fatality clouds the horizon.