#westerosxwhispers

[goldandcinders]

plotted starter for @westerosxwhispers

Auriel always seemed to feel a special kind of  thrill whenever she did this. Stealing one of her lady’s maid’s plain dresses and worn slippers, stashing away her silks and jewels, slipping from the place she was meant to be, and vanishing into the world below as though she was nobody important at all. For at least a little while, she could pretend she was not a princess and could wander without every little move she made being watched and analyzed.

This time, however, was a little different.

The tips of her fingers were still stained black from the charcoal she had used to dull the silver of her hair, darkening the strands that might otherwise reveal her true identity. In King’s Landing, whenever she wanted to escape from the Red Keep, her pale hair could be excused easily enough with any number of convenient lies. But here, at Ashford Meadow, with half the realm gathered to gawk at knights and princes for a little girls nameday celebration, silver hair would have been as good as announcing herself with a herald’s trumpet.

So she kept the rest of her braids that she couldn’t color with the coal tucked beneath the hood of her cloak and wandered freely through the press of merchants, mummers, knights, and smallfolk. Her violet eyes moved over everything with intense curiosity. Over the ribbons dyed in impossible colors, little wooden toys carved in the shapes of dragons and stags, sweets dusted with sugar and topped with preserved lemons, bolts of cloth that shimmered in the sun. The whole meadow seemed alive, louder and rougher and more wonderful than anything she was permitted to touch from behind the velvet rope of her station. After a while, however, her curiosity gave way to hunger. Her stomach gave a quiet rumble just as her gaze landed on a fruit seller’s stall. There, piled high among apples and pears, sat the ripest peach she was sure she had ever seen, its skin flushed rose and gold beneath the afternoon sun. Without thinking — forgetting for a moment, not who she was, but who she appeared to be — Auriel stepped closer and plucked it from the basket. She had barely lifted it to her lips when the stall owner’s voice cracked through the air.

“Oi! You planning to pay for that?”

Auriel froze as several nearby heads turned and her heart dropped straight into her stomach. Only then did she remember the one crucial thing she had forgotten in all her clever preparations: coin.

“I—” Her expression faltered, confusion giving way to embarrassed alarm. “I apologize. I did not mean to— I have no money with me.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, his hand already reaching across the stall as if to snatch the fruit back. “Then put it down, girl.”

Auriel drew the peach closer to her chest on instinct, more startled really than defiant. “No, please, you misunderstand. If you allow me to return to the castle and speak with Prince Baelor, I am certain he can settle this properly.”

That, unfortunately, only made him look at her as though she had grown a second head.

“The castle?” he barked, loud enough now that more people began to look. “Prince Baelor, is it? And I suppose the king himself will come down from King’s Landing to pay for your breakfast?”

A bright red blush colored Auriel’s cheeks beneath the shadow of her hood and suddenly she felt every inch of the borrowed dress, every smudge of charcoal on her fingers, and every single stare turning her from an invisible girl into the leading star of a scene.

“No, truly, I—” she tried again, voice cracking despite desperately trying to remain composed. “I can explain.”

[fiirescaled]

@westerosxwhispers liked for a starter (for morning!)

rheagal is the first to sense her.

he careens in the sky and dodges away, his nostrils flaring at the alien scent of one like them but yet not like them. viserion follows suit, dipping down past the clouds to evade the stranger that draws ever nearer.

but drogon does no such thing.

instead, he bellows his challenge out into the skies, fangs glinting in the light of the setting sun. another dragon approaches from, a blot in the distance that has him raising his spiny hackles like an agitated wolf. he picks up speed, ready to meet this combatant head on before he changes direction at the last second. he banks, dark wings stretching across the sky. confusion flits across his reptilian features, circling the pink-scaled newcomer.

a she-dragon.

[vezhave]

@westerosxwhispers || plotted

The tent's flap was open to let in what fresh air and sunlight there was to be found. On the edge of the Dothraki Sea, the land was hot and miserable. The mood in the camp was subdued; their numbers had been decimated, their khal's survival was uncertain, and their khaleesi was exhausted and distracted.      It seemed like the only sound was the squalling khalakka. Drogo's firstborn son and the son of their khaleesi, no one dared to complain about the sound.      In the khal's tent, with the exception of Rhaego's squirming and complaining, things were still. Drogo's eyes flitted beneath their lids, the only outward sign of anything happening beneath.

Hoofbeats echoed in the murky darkness around him, uneven and chaotic.

     Drogo spun in the gloom. He sought any frame of reference- a landmark, a person... hell, he'd have taken a blade of grass at that point. But there was simply nothing.

     A horse screamed behind him, close, and he turned again. A figure finally appeared in the featureless landscape; the black Stallion with purple eyes, which had been with him since he was young. Something was different this time, though. Those purple eyes were wide with panic.

     The darkness fled beneath the horse's hooves. Golden grass sprouted from each spot a hoof touched the ground, but the blades quickly turned white and whithered. The ground beneath the Stallion's hooves began to roil. The uneasiness in Drogo's chest blossomed into fullblown panic but, before he could turn and run, the ground crumbled and fell away into blackness. He and the Stallion went tumbling into the inky depths.      He wasn't sure how long he fell- it could have been seconds, minutes, or hours he spent adrift, falling through empty space with no stimulus except for the distant squealing of horses. The first new sound, he almost missed. It was the faint coo of a baby.      He turned, trying to locate the source, and the ground came crashing up to meet him. A bed of wilted grass, and the bones of men and horses unburned, the dead who had never reached the Night Lands, surrounded him. The grave threatened to swallow him, but... a faint light illuminated the grim place.      The coo sounded again, from somewhere high above, and Drogo looked up. Sheer earthen walls surrounded him but, far above... sunlight, barely reaching him in the deep pit. He looked around and saw only bones and and wilted grass.      From above, a nicker and a baby's laugh. His son was up there. He knew it as surely as he knew his own two hands.      There was only one option: climb.

The khal's breath quickened. His fingers twitched, his head turned- and his eyes opened. The wailing of a baby pierced his ears, sending his skull pounding, but one weak hand felt along the edge of the cot.      "Dan Ares?" he rasped.

[valeurex]

Dark grey beneath garnish, chisel marks akin to human scars spoke of use and age and so did strong, rustic spines edged by the raw bark. Dust such as this was well-praised across Valyria, for the royal library held many values locked inside.

The visit of his brother's wife was surprising but not unwelcome. Good grief, it really has been that long?! An almost decade-long separation made detached consanguinity all more interesting. A shame it took that long -- if one asked Viserys; it was a part of his philosophy that boundaries should be strengthened in defiance of distance. The Young King upon ascension never had quite a chance to converse with Rhea and his knowledge about the strain of conflict between her and Daemon was built on the smallest amount of scrubs ( had he known the extension of it earlier he'd find it rightfully troublesome ) but because the Lady of Runestone was now among circle of his kindred spirits, he had full intention to treat her as a part of his family which she was and no less. But now, upon his arrival where he found a member of House Royce there, the King's attitude pleasant and open-handed as renown greeted her presence with a friendly and familial embrace.

" Ah, Rhea! You're not overstepping in the slightest for your presence is cherished in the Red Keep, I hope you journeyed well? And I see you have found a place of greater comfort than beauty, quiet, boring, but my favorite; The Hand navigated you well. " The way directing recommendation fell from Otto's side was not surprising, the man had keens in advocating mercurial scholarships and in fact, the place has had its chants; a sanctuary arcing like the end of a cat's tail, taking one from solitude to soulful bay of inky treasures.

His vision comes across the title Divination and Other Higher Mysteries. Old opalite with engraved integrity ... scratched carving a bit paled where it had been dinged. " Good piece, " ringed finger pointed with tonal emphasis at the one in her hold, " that one. If you're driven by curiosities the North section also holds archived records of both Essos and Westeros. " Gathering skeletal fractals in supporting knowledge is more peripheral to one's central passions.

'' I would ask how come, but I also strongly agree with what you just mentioned. Divination brings ideas of destiny and even a rock radiates back energy after sunny day. Perhaps we shouldn't forget that the future is also something we can create in the present time. ''

@westerosxwhispers || cont.

[vezhave]

@westerosxwhispers || plotted

Drogo grimaced beneath his golden mask, tilting his head towards the ceiling of the ready room beneath the fighting pit. Those who would be fighting that day would prepare in other rooms in the network of chambers beneath the pits, then wait in rooms just beneath the arenas for their turn to step into the light and fight.      It hadn't been too bad, at first, this cyclical new life. He was well fed, and appointed rich bed chambers; all the better to keep him rested and energized to make his masters their coin. The fights had been a welcome distraction, until the distraction wore off.      Once a great khal, with 40,000 riders behind him and an untold number of women and slaves, as well as a wife and an unborn son, now he was nothing but a slave, propped up in a cage to fight until it was time to sink back out of sight. The lifestyle difference was stark and unfulfilling. He missed the open, rolling plains of the Dothraki Sea, missed the giggles of children and the voices and laughter of thousands of throats. More than that, he missed his wife. With hair like the whitest cotton, captivating purple eyes, skin softer than silk, and a touch so gentle it softened his hard heart, it was the all consuming will to see her again that had brought him back.      And see her he had, eventually. But she had not seen him.      Seated above the pits he fought in, she scarcely looked down. Even if she did, the mask he was made to wear prevented her not only from seeing his face, but from recognizing his voice, as the construction of it distorted any sound he made.      Another day, another fight. She would be there, just beyond his reaching, and that was the cruelest thing of all. At least in the Night Lands, there had been no way for her to reach across that veil, but here...      His thoughts spin away from him as a voice catches his attention- a voice he knows. His eyes flick back and forth across the chamber and catch on a head of greying blond hair that he would recognize anywhere. Jorah Mormont.      His heart seizes painfully in his chest as the memory of Daenerys' attempted poisoning shoots through him and he surges to his feet. Before he can head for Jorah, a horn sounds; the signal for the fighters to enter the pit.      He growls, heart pounding in his ears, and his eyes flick from Jorah to the pit's entrance before he mounts the ramp. Jorah and four other men step up as well, and Drogo quickly sized them up as he entered the pit.

The other four men had died well, and now Drogo faced a problem.      Jorah stood in front of him. Wounded, but only superficially, and he had a sneaking suspicion that Jorah had a sneaking suspicion about him; he saw something like recognition in the Westerosi's eyes. The old knight had seen him fight before, afterall, and a man's ability to fight could be as unique as his face or his voice.      Drogo did not want to kill him, this man who had once saved his wife's life. Even without that debt, he had a certain amount of respect for the foreigner.      The crowd screamed all around them, crying for blood; this was a fight that only one man could leave and Drogo did not have the power to change that.       His head turned, towards Daenarys, then snapped fully in that direction- behind her, in the shadows. He looked towards Jorah, and saw that he had seen the same thing. In an instant, enemies became allies.      Drogo turned from Jorah, rushing the stands. He didn't break stride as he crouched down to grab the long pike from the man Jorah had killed. He threw aside his arakh, touched one hand to his chest, feeling the blade in the strap that looped over his shoulder, and dug the tip of the pike into the packed sand of the arena.      Before the guards registered what he was doing, he was soaring into the royal viewing box. A flash of silver hair passed at the edge of his vision as he dove past Daenerys and her husband. There was only the briefest glint of bronze as he drew the knife from his strap and buried it in the chest of the masked man he had landed on in the box.

[bratheon]

@westerosxwhispers asked; Hold still. I mean it. Hold still. (From Danelle)

𝕳𝖊 𝖎𝖘 𝖒𝖔𝖘𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖇𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 𝖚𝖓𝖓𝖆𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖆𝖑. and yet ... he is not without his vulnerabilities. though he might move as shadows do , there are still times when mortals may reach into the dark and strike true. as such , there is an arrow that has now pierced his heart. it has made him weak and how the breath he does not need rattles in his cold lungs , rasping for a half-gasp that never quite catches.

it seems that despite all things having rotted , and fallen to such disrepair , that lyonel does indeed still have a heart. the notion unsettles him , even in this form. where he might appear as tall as trees , antlered and with eyes that reflect the eerie glow of the moon. that so terrifies those that would cross his path. here he simply looks frail , and small , and pale. dead stare finds her. almost seems to plead.

but it can't , can it? the will of a phantom to survive should not rely on a physical body , and yet he seems to cling on to such human notions. it seems he cannot even be very good at this. he has become of the forest beyond all he ever thought possible , bark and lichen growing where skin and muscle once were , lances of willow leaves in his hair , and yet still fears a death that will never come. fidgets with a panic unbecoming of a monster. ' please —— '