𝑇𝐴𝑁𝐺𝐿𝐸𝐷 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘀

"𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝."

[tangldthrds]

 # tangldthrds , the threads of fate may weave slowly but, they weave exceddingly fine. an  assemblage of  muses  , collected+  tormented by    — beau .  their anecdotes unfold  exclusively  for @ dracoregnitm.

beric dondarrion : ruling lord of storm’s end , portrayed by denzel washington. maris blacktyde :  ruling liege’s sibling , portrayed by sophia brown. serenya dayne : heir to high hermitage , portrayed by kylie bunbury.

[junkfoodcinemas]

Denzel Washington as Macrinus in GLADIATOR II (2024) dir. Ridley Scott

[lvndrmusess]

Alyssa turned her head to look at him and listened to his words attentively. She had always been one to seek knowledge, to listen to the words of those who were more wise and experienced than her. She knew that was how she would learn to navigate this world, a treacherous and dangerous one, mostly for a young woman like herself. Alyssa had never experienced something like this before, a riot to this level. She was used to the calmness of the Vale and the only time that she felt any kind of tension among people was during the rebellions. Her family had been on the rebels side, following the Arryn's lead and often would witness the gatherings and meetings of the rebels.

"I have never seen something like this before." She admitted to the other, a soft sigh escaping her lips. It was terrifying and her mind kept wandering to darker thoughts, about what would happen if the rioters managed to invade the keep. A massacre was sure to follow. On both sides. "I understand the smallfolk are angry and upset, we lived dark times and they were the ones who suffered the most. But I don't understand how more violence will make anything better."

Alyssa nodded her head at his words. "I know, we were lucky to be in here when it all happened. We can only pray for those who were caught outside, hope that they found a place of safety to wait this out." She said, looking through the window for a moment. "How long do you believe it will take for this to end? I know it will come to an end eventually, I just wonder how much longer it will be."

[tangldthrds]

his gaze drifted from the shuttered window to the shelves that climbed toward the vaulted ceiling. rows upon rows of quiet knowledge stood sentinel while the world beyond roared itself hoarse. his hand traced the spine of a book  something on the andal code of chivalry  its leather worn smooth like the hilt of stormfang. he listened as she spoke, this child of the vale with eyes too bright for the world she’d stepped into. her words trembled with compassion, an earnestness he had once known before the years had filed it away.

 “violence breeds not sense, only more fear, and fear hungers. the smallfolk think the blood of lords will fill their bellies, though it never has before.” his thumb idly tapped the edge of a shelf, a soft rhythm to match his measured tone. “still… i do not fault them. they have been made to suffer long, while those above feast and build higher walls. when hunger and grief rule, reason flees.”

he looked to her then, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth  not unkind, merely tired. “you are right to pray for those beyond these walls, though prayers seldom reach through riot smoke.” he reached for a nearby volume, brushing dust from its cover. “it will end when exhaustion does what mercy cannot. and when it ends, it will be quieter for a time. that quiet will fool most into believing peace has returned.”beric turned the book in his hand, studying the sigil stamped into the leather before setting it down between them. “peace, my lady, is a fickle thing.”

[glittxeringgold]

How pretentious did you have to be to make yourself a throne in this situation? Much less, scavenge from the harbor-master's stocks. Though, Raela admired Maris's bold moves. If she was not trying to lay low at the moment, then Raela would have probably joined the Ironborn's rigged "royal" chamber as a queen beside her.

"The mob will have to stop eventually" There were harvests to get to and work to finish. The smallfolk couldn't laze around all day like most of the feudal lords present, they would starve. Raela had avoided the knights guard enough times to know how ruthless they were. She felt bad for those she sent to do her tasks in Lannisport, her connections were (mostly) innocent in this and did not deserve to be injured.

Raela looked over the lords present. The last thing she wanted to happen was to bake alive beside these idiots. "There seems to be limited options" There had been a few nobles she recognized as highly talented with strategy. Raela would scheme her way out of this like all the other complicated situations she had gotten herself into. She just needed to gain their temporary trust.

[tangldthrds]

     a laughed, low and bright, the sound slipping through the tension like a knife through canvas. “A throne?” she echoed, her grin sharp as broken glass. “If that’s what you call it, I’ve sat on worse and ruled better.” With a languid stretch, she rose from her crate, the hem of her coat brushing against the dusty floorboards.

“Limited options,” she mused, tasting the words like sour wine. “Only to those with limited imaginations.” Her tone was light, teasing, but the glint in her eye betrayed something harder beneath. “If the rebellion taught me anything, it’s to think quick and strike quicker. That’s how you live through a fire—or start one.”She took a long look around the room: pale faces drawn tight with fear, silks torn and soiled,The corner of her mouth tugged upward. “Seems both are in ample supply tonight”

Maris brushed past Raela, the air thick with the mingled scents of tar and sweat. Near the back, she pressed a palm against a loose plank and felt it shift beneath her hand. “Now there’s a blessing,” she murmured. With one sharp push, the board gave way, and the night rolled in—smoke, salt, and the erriy silence of the dock. She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes gleaming in the dim. “ The tide waits for no one.” And with that, she stepped toward the breach, the sound of her boots mingling with the whisper of the sea beyond.

[draconianmuses]

veronna tilted the wineskin back for another swallow, the burn trailing down her throat steadier than the pounding in her chest. the doors rattled again under the weight of the mob outside, and she flinched-- barely, just enough for the wine to slosh. she dragged the back of her hand across her mouth and forced herself to laugh low in her throat, rough and shaky around the edges. “aye,” she said, gaze cutting back to serenya. “you do stick out. like a pearl in a bucket of dull stones.” the words came out hoarse, meant as a jest but softer than she intended. the woman looked like something carved from heat and sunlight, all golden undertones and wild curls that framed her face like a lion’s mane. the sort of beauty that made the chaos around them blur at the edges. veronna hated that she noticed.

“ironborn,” she admitted with a small, lopsided grin. “good eye. most people just call me a salt-soaked bitch and be done with it.” she lifted the wineskin as if to toast the observation, then offered it toward serenya. “and what’s a pretty dornish lady doin’ prayin’ to a river all the way up here?” her brow furrowed, curiosity threading through the fear she was trying to swallow. “i’ve heard of her--mother rhoyne. old god, older than the sept. i thought only old crones and stubborn traders still whispered her name. and yet here you are, soft as honey, starin’ down a mob and talkin’ about stars and gods like the roof isn’t about to come down.” she stepped closer, boots scuffing the stone, and lowered her voice like the question was a secret. “does she answer?”

veronna’s thumb drummed against the wineskin, a small restless rhythm to keep from pacing. “my god’s got no mercy in him. he takes, and you’re meant to thank him for it. i’ve never known what prayin’ for kindness sounds like.” her grin flickered the--short, sharp, a defense against the unease. “maybe you could teach me before the doors give out, hm?”

[tangldthrds]

   her grandmother’s words drifted through her mind like a lullaby half-remembered, soft as river reeds swaying in the current. serenya’s lips curved—not quite a smile, not quite composure—just something caught between gratitude and quiet disbelief.

“i didn’t know i had to pray to one or the other,” she murmured, voice carrying the cadence of warm dorne even in this cold stone hall. “and as far as old crones go, my lady, you did best  calling me a pretty dornish woman.” the tease was light, deliberate, her attempt to keep some tether of humor.

her gaze wandered toward the mother’s likeness, candlelight trembling across painted serenity. “do any of the gods answer?” she asked at last—not with challenge, but with wonder. “i’ve often thought prayer is more for us than for them. a comfort, perhaps. a way to remind ourselves we’re still listening for something greater.”

sand-hued eyes found the ironborn again, soft and searching. “it sounds, at least, as though your drowned god is more honest,” she said with a small smile, half-wistful, half-wry.

when she extended her hand, her voice gentled further, almost melodic. “it isn’t so hard to pray for kindness,” she offered. “there’s kindness enough in breathing another night. whether by their grace or not, perhaps we start there—in thanks.”

[draconianmuses]

the sound of the ironborn’s voice cut through the loft like a blade, sharp and mocking, and laurentia’s jaw tightened so hard it ached. she drew in a slow breath through her nose, the kind that kept her from saying something she might later regret. though gods knew regret felt like a luxury these days. “you’ve got a tongue on you, blacktyde,” she said at last, voice low, controlled, but thrumming with restrained ire. “use it to pray the doors hold, if you must speak at all.”

she turned back toward the gap in the wall, shoulders stiff, every line of her body drawn taut as a bowstring. the crowd outside surged again, a wave of noise and fury, and laurentia felt the pulse hammer in her throat. she steadied herself on the brick, refusing to give maris the satisfaction of seeing her shaken. “i silenced a pack of bickering men before their noise gave our hiding place away,” she went on, quieter now, though no less biting. “if that offends your sensibilities, you’re welcome to try keeping order yourself. otherwise, hold your drink and your tongue.”

[tangldthrds]

    a low hum, the sound curling from her throat like smoke from a guttering wick. the dagger danced in her fingers, silver flashing whenever a stray shaft of light found it. “pray?” she echoed, amusement bright as salt on her tongue. “my lady, spare me—my skillful tongue would be wasted on hymn and rosary.”

she leaned forward, shoulder to the wall, grin half-shadow and half-threat. “you’ve a steady hand, i’ll give you that,” she said, the lazy, mocking cadence she wore like chain. “but all that stiff pride’ll drown you quicker than a bad tack if you won’t unclench your jaw long enough to breathe.” her eyes dark, sharp as salt-glass kept their hold on laurentia. “order’s fine when you’ve oaths and longships to hide behind,” she went on, softer but no less barbed. “here, in this box of kindling and casks, smoke’s the true captain. unless you’ve a trick to charm flame into sleep, i’ll keep both my drink and my tongue.”

she set the dagger’s point against the wood between them, casual as a wink, cold as a nail. “learn the difference between warning and jest before the next mob tears the hinges off would be a useful lesson.”

[bybloods]

ysabel  felt  the  roots  of  the  dondarrion  family  tree  tighten  around  her,  constricting. she was held immobile, an ornament upon the wood such as she'd seen on the bowsprits of the ships that made up the royal fleet. she did not begrudge her father the blood he had spilled. whether it had been done by his hand or merely in his name, what was done could not be undone. she had, in the time after the rebellion had first been quashed, thought her father a ruthless man, power hungry. she remembers thinking him cruel - hearted but knowing that he was merely pragmatic. a man who loved his family enough to conquer for their longevity of their comfort. he had only ever cared, and deeply so. so deeply crammed is she within her shell, so withdrawn from the violent reality that played out on the other side of the keep's walls that she doesn't recognize her own father. at one time, she knew him by the weight of his feet upon the stone floor of blackhaven's corridors. there was much that time had stolen from her. still, it took. her father's embrace was a momentary mooring, and in it she finds a stillness that had escaped her for many moons. she relishes in it, motionless, before he begins to inspect her, taking lot of any injuries. what a blessing it is that he could not see the tempest that whirled within. " father, " at last, his name exiting her lips as more of a grounding tactic than anything else. he was safe, stood directly in front of her, looking as he always had, save for an air of urgency appropriate of the situation. the feeling of relief is immense, even considering her self - prescribed distance from her house over the weeks leading up to their summons to the red keep. " what of mother? " she asks, bracing in anticipation of the worst. her eyes squeeze shut, waiting. " i am well — " a confirmation of her health that comes shooting from her tongue like an arrow loosed from a bow, a covenant spat. " mother. " she all but demands, without having given her father space between her own words to provide her an answer until that moment.

[tangldthrds]

  beric’s hand stilled where it had lingered at her shoulder, the air between them humming faintly with the aftershock of her words. he had known that tone—he’d heard it in soldiers before battle, in mothers searching through the rubble, in himself once, long ago. fear turned sharp with love. “your mother is safe,” he said, voice steady but softened by something quieter, older. “shaken, but unhurt. she was tended to the moment we crossed the threshold.” a pause, brief and purposeful, the silence between them filled by the faint echo of the keep’s chaos seeping through the stone. “you have my word on it, daughter. i would not stand here if it were otherwise.”

he searched her face then—really looked. the candlelight caught her features in fleeting strokes: the set of her jaw, the tremor she tried to disguise in stillness, the defiance that was his own reflected back. for all her restraint, she was the storm he had once been, but tempered now by years of walls and whispered expectations. his hand rose, brushing a loose strand of hair from her brow as though such a small gesture might anchor her to calm.

his hand found hers—firm, weathered, grounding. “you are well. your mother is safe. that is enough for now.” a breath, measured and low, before he added, almost to himself, “the tempest outside will break soon enough..” he released her hand then, but not before giving it a final, deliberate squeeze—the closest a man like him came to saying i love you.

[oflcgends]

“mother  rhoyne?”  she  mumbles  curiously.  truthfully,  she  had  not  really  heard  of  such  a  thing.  not  when  she  grew  up  in  a  keep  so  far  north,  so  far  from  anyone  who  worships  such  a  deity,  in  keep  housed  in  a  bog  without  even  a  maester  to  teach  her.  she  had  tutors  over  the  years,  of  course,  but  they  had  only  taught  her  of  her  own  gods  plus  that  of  the  seven,  since  the  majority  of  westeros  seemed  to  pray  to  them.

“i  suppose  i  must  admit,  i  do  not  know  much  of  either.”  mother  rhoyne  nor  the  mother.  she  herself  adheres  to  the  old  gods  and  seeing  as  she  appears  every  bit  a  northerner,  she  imagines  that  most  of  the  septas  here  must  know  that.  it  explains  the  holes  burning  into  her  back,  the  way  the  other  woman  had  scoffed  when  alarra  requested  she  leave  the  two  of  them.

“because  she  was  clearly  bothering  you,”  the  northern  woman  shrugs,  as  if  it  were  as  simple  as  that.  “and  when  we've  already  got  a  mob  beating  at  the  doors,  the  last  thing  we  need  is  to  be  at  each  other's  throats  as  well.”

“how  is  it  that  you  came  to  worship  this  mother  rhoyne,  if  i  may  ask?  i've  noticed  most  everyone  from  the  south  adheres  to  the  seven.”  some  are  more  pious  than  others,  of  course,  but  almost  every  southerner  she's  met  has  been  pretty  steadfast  in  their  faith  to  the  seven-faced  god.

[tangldthrds]

    “a fair question,” she murmured, her tone low, threaded with that lilting dornish warmth that made even confession sound like poetry. “most of my kin do pray to the seven, and so do i… at least, when others are listening.” her gaze drifted toward the nearest icon of the mother, its painted serenity flickering in the candlelight. “but before the andals came, before their faith spread like ivy across stone, there were other gods who watched over us. mother rhoyne was one of them a river goddess, or so the old songs say. the rhoynar followed her from essos long ago, bringing her memory to dorne. my father’s people still whisper her name.”

she looked back to the lady, the corners of her eyes softening with something like shared understanding. “when i was little, my grandmother taught me her prayers. said the river listens best to the quiet-hearted. i don’t know if she ever answered, but there’s comfort in believing something older than war still cares to hear us.”

the doors groaned again, dust falling from the hinges. her hands tightened briefly against her silks before she exhaled, steadying herself. “you are right, though,” she said gently, her voice finding a trace of wry humor. “there’s enough fury clawing at the doors without us adding to it. i’ll take the company of one curious northerner over a room full of pious tongues any day.” her smile lingered, small but sincere. “do your gods still speak through the trees where you’re from? i’ve always wondered if their silence sounds different from ours.”

[draconianmuses]

veronna was crouched on the sill of that same tall window, one boot planted on the stone ledge, the other swinging lazily in the air. her heart pounded in her chest, the faint shimmer of blood drying along her sleeve from fighting a few commoners that stood in her way. she’d climbed up there to watch the mob outside, to listen to the rhythm of chaos like some could hear the sea in a shell. when serenya spoke, veronna’s grin was slow and crooked, half amusement, half something softer. “you’ve got a pretty way of sayin’ it,” she said, voice low and rasped from smoke. “but i’d wager those septas only stop lookin’ at other people’s sins when the gods stop lookin’ at theirs.”

she slid down from the ledge, landing with the lazy grace of someone too used to rocking decks and shifting ground. a few of the septas flinched at the thud; veronna only smirked. “you’re not from here,” she said, studying serenya openly. “too clean. too calm. too… sun-warmed.” she waved a hand vaguely, as if gesturing toward dorne itself. “don’t worry, my lady, i don’t bite-- unless you start preachin’ at me.” her eyes flicked to the trembling doors, then back to serenya. “whatever gods you pray to, pray louder. the crowd’s got a meaner faith than either of ours tonight.”

[tangldthrds]

her cheeks warmed at the words, unsure if they were meant as compliment or jest, though she chose to take them as the former. sand-colored eyes trailed after the woman, softening as her voice found its way past the knot of tension in her throat.

❝ well then, i fear the gods will continue their search for a very long while,❞  she murmured, the corner of her mouth curving,  ❝ for none of us walk without sin. ❞

her gaze drifted toward the septa, now several feet away, whispering sharply to a cluster of novices. serenya sighed, a breath of desert wind slipping between clenched teeth. ❝ better my words be laced with honey than with sour wine, like theirs, ❞ she added, her smile turning slyly toward the group until their whispers faltered and their eyes dropped. startled, they withdrew with a scowl, and she let out a quiet laugh. ❝ such silly women. ❞

when she turned back, the other woman was no longer perched upon the ledge but closer, too close—serenya startled, clearing her throat with a nervous, melodic laugh. ❝ i am rather obvious in a sea of northerners, am i not? ❞ her words were soft, teasing, placating in their lilt. ❝ you’ve guessed rightly—my house is of dorne. and you… ❞ her gaze lingered, head tilting with open curiosity, ❝ you carry salt and sea in your bearing. stormborn, perhaps… but no. ironborn, if i had to wager. ❞

the admission came without malice, more wonder than judgment. a quiet hum followed, her fingers brushing the pendant at her throat. ❝ i do not make it a habit of preaching. i am no septa, only a woman who has worn grooves into the floor with her prayers. ❞ her eyes followed the trembling doors as the mob crashed against them, the sound of shattering glass echoing like a storm tide. ❝ i suspect the mother and mother rhoyne both will grow weary of me before the night ends. ❞ a nervous laugh escaped her as her arms folded against her body, bracing herself as though to hold the walls upright.

when she looked back at the woman, her gaze was steady once more, curious, almost inviting. ❝ tell me, who do you pray to? i know not all here bend to the seven. i’ve always found it fascinating… how many gods walk among us, how many names we give them. nearly as countless as the stars above. ❞

[oflcgends]

how  had  she  ended  up  here,  of  all  places?  alarra  knows  chaos  well,  is  willing  to  greet  it  like  an  old  friend.  so  how  is  it  in  the  face  of  it,  she  managed  to  get  swept  up  in  a  crowd  and  forced  to  find  shelter  in  house  of  prayer?  now  that,  she  cannot  quite  explain.  and  for  right  now,  all  she  can  be  thankful  for  is  the  fact  that  her  beloved  nox  is  still  back  at  her  chambers  in  the  lannisters'  keep.  no  doubt,  though,  the  beast  is  now  restless  due  to  her  extended  absence.

she  can  only  hope  the  lannisters  do  not  find  him  to  be  a  threat.

deep  brown  hues  scan  the  crowd  for  anyone  she  can  call  a  friend,  but  then  again  it  is  not  as  if  the  lady  has  many  of  those.  she's  always  been  the  loner  type,  unfortunately.  as  she  anxiously  begins  to  pace,  alarra  stumbles  upon  a  scene.

a  septa  disapprovingly  looking  upon  a  dornish  woman,  though  for  what  reason  alarra  does  not  know.  almost  the  whole  of  her  being  tells  her  to  step  back,  to  stay  out  of  it.  yet  she  speaks  before  she  even  realizes  what  it  is  she  is  doing.

“leave  us,”  the  northern  woman  says  bluntly  to  the  septa.  the  older  woman  scoffs,  but  does  end  up  walking  away.  “why  was  she  looking  at  you  like  that?”  she  then  asks  once  the  septa  is  out  of  earshot,  brow  furrowed  at  the  dornish  woman  before  her.

[tangldthrds]

the other woman’s words earned her a faint smile, almost wistful, and she inclined her head in thanks, sand-colored eyes drifting back toward the narrow window where torchlight flickered and the mob’s roar swelled like a tide battering unseen shores.

❝ rhoyne vala, dorra emes, ❞ she murmured, the words soft as a lullaby, half-prayer and half-comfort, a dornish cadence rolling easily off her tongue. her lips curved with a private sort of warmth before she turned her gaze upon the northern lady, studying her as though weighing some hidden truth. ❝ it is an old prayer, ❞ she explained, voice quiet, almost conspiratorial. ❝ a plea to mother rhoyne, asking her to keep our families safe. ❞

her attention wandered then, slipping toward the painted icons and carved faces that lined the motherhouse walls. the gentle radiance of the mother looked down upon them, and serenya’s expression softened. ❝ they are not so different, you know—mother rhoyne and the mother, ❞ she said, gaze lingering reverently. ❝ but people fear what they do not know. they choose not to understand. and fear… ❞ a soft chuckle escaped her, low and rueful, ❝…fear leaves the mind rather limited. mine, at least, has always been bound by such limits. ❞

her hand fell from her necklace then, the silver glint of her hidden pendant catching the candlelight for but a moment before she slipped it back beneath her silks, safe and unseen. turning fully to the northern woman, her tone carried not suspicion but a genuine curiosity, almost friendly despite the chaos clawing at the doors.

❝ tell me, ❞ serenya asked gently, ❝ why step in at all? i doubt the septa would have said anything of consequence. judgmental gazes are an old companion of mine—i hardly notice them anymore. ❞

[lvndrmusess]

Open to anyone at the Lannister's keep

Alyssa was standing by one of the windows, watching the chaos unfold outside. She had never seen anything like this before, so much chaos and violence, so many screams. She was used to the peace of the Vale, so her first experience away from home wasn't exactly going as she had thought. She could only hope that everyone made it to safety and with minor injuries. She stepped away from the window, making her way towards one of the common areas where other nobles had gathered, they were certainly the lucky ones. Alyssa had stayed in the library for the day, wanting to check as many books as she could before she had to leave back to the Vale. "How long do you think this will last?" She asked the person who she had sat down next to. "Do you think they'll be able to calm down the small folk and get it under control?" She asked again, it was quite obvious that she was afraid and worried.

[tangldthrds]

 heavy footfalls echoed against the marble as he wandered deeper into the keep, his mind refusing the stillness that others sought. the riotous din beyond lannisport’s walls had ebbed into a steady roar, like waves battering stone, and though his wife and daughter were under the same roof, his thoughts pressed ever outward — to sons, to grandchildren, to the stormlands themselves. he had known the war would leave wounds that festered, yet he had not expected to see how swiftly grief and fury would bleed into mob and madness. no longer rebel or loyalist, only smallfolk who saw all lords alike as carrion fattened on their misery. it was a vision he could not ignore. he would need to account for such inevitability in his own lands.

the library was cooler than the corridors, its high shelves a balm to a restless mind. there he found the youngest redfort, framed by firelight and the window’s uncertain glow. she stood stiff as a sparrow startled from the eaves, wide eyes searching the dark beyond. beric regarded her in silence a moment, dark gaze steady upon her face. then he lowered himself into the chair opposite, the weight of his years settling like a mantle.

❝ riots are like storms, child, ❞ he said at last, his tone even, almost grave. ❝ they break quick upon you, rage until there is nothing left to burn, then pass on as though they were never there. but the ruin remains, and men remember ruin longer than calm seas. ❞ his fingers drummed lightly against the armrest, a habit born of thought, not nerves. ❝ as for calming them— ❞ he let the words linger, gaze drifting to the shuttered window where the cries still bled faintly through. ❝ fear runs deeper than loyalty. once loosed, it does not return to its cage so easily. it will end, yes… but it will not be forgotten. ❞

he turned back to her, a flicker of gentleness breaking through the iron. ❝ take comfort where you can, lady redfort. you are safe within these walls. few in this city may claim the same tonight. ❞

[bybloods]

fated  for    anybody at the lannisport keep.

pinpoint    the  main hall.

ysabel paces.  she finds herself unable to remain seated, and so she pads quietly down the corridor, fingertips tracing over the wall's stone. she moves in spite of the desire to make herself small, to curl up in a corner of the keep and cover her ears until the riotous din that leaks through the barred doors of the keep subsides. she wishes to take comfort in the presence of others, but she simultaneously cannot bear to do so. hemmed into the keep as they are, her only escape is in completing small loops of the room —  trying not to irk any of her fellow captives as she does. " pardon me, " ysabel excuses herself as she moves past another. she offers them nothing in greeting beyond a downward dip of her chin, moving to skirt around them as she had the others that she'd passed by. the window beyond offers a view of the keep's courtyard, its high walls blocking the view of the city beyond. leaning against the windowsill, she leans up on her toes to see if she can see anything beyond. at the last second, she changes her mind, dropping once more onto the flats of her heels. it would do her no good to catch sight of the violence, but that did not stop the morbid curiosity that settled low in her stomach, even now.

[tangldthrds]

the flurry within him had not dimmed, only learned restraint. in youth he had swung steel for glory, cut men down for the wild thrill of it. now each strike was measured, necessity sharpened into art. when rough hands had torn his lady from his grip, beric had seen red — not the fever of a boy chasing renown, but the cold flash of a man who knew exactly where to cut. three swift slices, shallow but stinging, a boot to the chest to send the cur sprawling. he did not kill; he marked. the mob could bleed without him drowning in it. mercy, some would call it. wisdom, he knew it to be.

his dagger sheathed at last beneath his cloak, he pressed a kiss to his wife’s brow as the doors of the lannisters’ keep closed behind them. other noble ladies reached to steady her as beric urged her forward. a smile softened his command, but it was steel beneath velvet: ❝ go, be tended, i will find you. ❞  her protests were met with silence and a look that brooked no refusal. for there were others—children, grandchildren—whose faces burned like stars in his mind.

the keep’s corridors pressed around him, narrow arteries choked with panicked breath and hurried bodies. he moved through them like the tide through rock, his height and bearing parting the sea of fear. then — a jolt, a brush of shoulder, and his gaze snapped downward.

❝ ysabel. ❞

her name left his lips like a prayer answered. his hand found hers, steady and unyielding, drawing her close before she could drift further into her restless pacing. he saw her eyes lingering on the high window, curiosity she tried to deny gnawing at her still. he pulled her in, his arms folding around her, anchoring her storm-tossed spirit against the firm weight of his own.

❝ thank the mother, ❞ he breathed, pressing his chin briefly to her hair. his voice was low, urgent but tender, as he pulled back to search her face. ❝ are you hurt? were you harmed? ❞ his eyes scoured her, storm-dark and sharp, as though he might wrest truth from silence if words failed. one hand lingered at her arm, thumb brushing in reassurance, while the other traced the hall around them  ever watchful, ever wary, as if the storm had not passed, but only gathered strength beyond the walls.

[draconianmuses]

semi-open starter to: any muse stuck in the shipyard. location: the warehouse, during the chaos.

the warehouse pressed in like a coffin. no windows, no light. just the boom of fists on distant doors, the animal roar of the mob, the smell of smoke beginning to bite through the slats. every sound made her ribs clench tighter. blind. they were blind in here.

laurentia swallowed, steadying her breath though it rattled shallow in her chest. panic had no use, and she refused to show it even to herself. she moved for the stairs, boots dragging against old timber, shoulders stiff as if posture alone could armor her against what waited outside. the second floor gave her distance from the riot, but not safety. from here, she could hear them clearer: the distant clang of iron, the shouted threats, the crackling of something that might have been fire. her pulse quickened.

she had her dagger. that, at least, was solid. the blade flashed faintly in the dark as she drew it. she searched the loft until her hand closed on a hunk of iron, an old pulley weight slick with rust. it would serve. she wedged her blade against the mortar of an old brick, testing the give with her hand. then she pressed the iron against the dagger’s pommel, knuckles white on the hilt, and struck.

the first strike jarred her bones, sent a dull pain singing through her wrist. mortar cracked in fine lines like frost spreading on glass. she bit back a hiss and struck again. again. again. dust shook loose. each hit felt like her heart hammering out of her chest, desperate, ragged. she told herself her rhythm was controlled, methodical, but the edge of frenzy pressed at her temples. she worked a square, patient despite the urgency.

at last, the cement gave way. the brick sagged, crumbled, fell inward with a hollow thud. cold air rushed in, sharp with ash, torch smoke, sweat. laurentia leaned to the gap, keeping herself low, teeth clenched so hard her jaw ached. through the hole, she saw them. the churn of bodies, the rise of torches, the glint of steel. a chaos that could break upon the warehouse at any moment. she breathed slow, shallow, forcing her hands not to shake as she gripped the stone sill.

now, at least, they were not blind.

mira was safe, for now, on the first floor. laurentia told herself that twice, as if repetition could make it truer. still, she weighed the thought of moving her up here. higher ground, less risk of the doors giving way beneath a mob’s fists. but it would also mean stairs to climb in a hurry, should they need to flee. an escape could sour in the time it took to drag a single body upward. she kept her gaze through the gap, cataloguing torches, counting shadows. her mind turned, measuring risk and cost.

behind her, the men had started again. lords with soft hands and softer skulls. their voices rose in complaint, in argument, in that noble-born conviction that noise itself might change the world. yapping, useless as curs. their bickering scraped at her already raw nerves. it was the women who mattered here. always was. olenna and mira were no soldiers, but their presences were steadier than any of the posturing fools. laurentia ground her teeth, eyes still on the chaos outside. the warehouse held, but for how long?

the clamor below rose like gnats in her skull, each noble voice sharper, louder, more insufferable. laurentia slammed forward to the loft’s rail, breath burning in her chest. “will you imbeciles ever shut up?!” the scream ripped from her, ragged, guttural, echoing off the beams. “shut up! shut up! shut up! shut uuuup!” her fists crashed against the wood, voice breaking. “fuck! shut the fuck up! all of you! i can't think like that!” silence fell like a blade. the riot still raged outside, but inside, at least for a beat, only her panting filled the air.

[tangldthrds]

 the warehouse pressed in like a coffin, all pitch and shadow, the air thick with pitch and smoke. outside, the mob howled like a storm tide, fists on doors, steel clanging, torches snapping in the dark. inside, the nobles gnawed each other’s nerves, their complaints rising and crashing until it was a wonder the walls themselves did not split. maris had been swept into this warren like the rest, her shoulder bruised from the crush of the crowd, her head still ringing from the roar. she’d found herself a perch atop a crate, one leg hitched, the other dangling, a bottle pried from some half-rotten crate hanging loose in her hand.

a scream split the air—high, ragged, desperate—echoing off the rafters as one of the women upstairs broke into frenzy.   shut up! shut up! shut up! shut uuuup! the words tore raw and furious until silence carved the air clean. maris rolled her eyes, tipped her head back against the wall, and drew a long swallow from the bottle, the taste sharp, burning, not half enough to drown the noise.

her lips pulled into a crooked smirk, voice laced with ironborn bite as it carried through the stillness. ❝ save the crooning for the mob, won’t you? ❞ she called, sardonic amusement in every note. ❝ else you’ll have skirts fainting and priests calling you possessed. or worse—give the bastards outside ideas. tear the doors down, storm us in our rat-hole, drag us out to burn with their banners. ❞

[beautifulsnares]

semi - open starter for everyone in the shipyard

it feels like so much time has passed but from what aemma can tell, night has only just fallen. as she sat on a crate having already been attended by someone, the dragon was lost in her thoughts. thoughts that consumed her in wondering if this was the Targaryen's fault for having won a rebellion, was this hers' for only just realizing that she indeed had dreamt this when she was a young child? was her brothers and cousins safe somewhere? her dreams were once again proving to be a thorn to her side and wonders what catastrophic thing she has already seen. before she can dwell deeper, she sensed another's presence but did not dare to look at them, "do you think we'll be able to go outside soon? it seems as if the sounds from outside have yet to die down."

[tangldthrds]

 she leaned with her back to the wall, shadows swallowing her shape, her ears tuned sharp to the ebbing ruckus. the cries came fewer now, but quieter never meant safer—only that blood had been spilled somewhere else.

a sigh slipped from her lips, half weariness, half scorn. ❝ only a matter of time, ❞ she muttered, a blade dancing idly between her fingers with a grace that spoke of long practice. its edge caught the dim light, glinting like a promise. ❝ good thing too. i’m tired of hiding.❞ the words carried the grit of one who had never cared for crowns or dragons, and bitterness ran beneath them like an undertow. she had never sung for the targaryens’ victories, never mourned their losses. the rebellion’s ruin sat like salt on an open wound, but she was no heartless wretch—just one who’d learned long ago that kings and lords bled the smallfolk all the same.

her dark eyes flicked toward the girl on the crate, the silver weight of her hair leaving no question of her blood. a sardonic smirk tugged at maris’s mouth as she tilted her head, voice pitched low but edged with ironborn bite. ❝ strange place for dragonspawn, ❞ she drawled. ❝ how’d you end up here? i’d have thought a princess of the realm had higher fortitude than this—better than rotted boards stinking of salt and soot.❞

[glittxeringgold]

Where: The Shipyard

Who: Anybody trapped there

Raela had found herself in the Motherhouse when the riots started. She knew she should have made it clearer in her notes to her contacts when and where she wanted the chaos to start. Unless these were not the people she was in contact with, there were plenty of small-folk unhappy with the opulence of the masquerade with the joining of royalist and rebel alike.

She was rather uncomfortable in the Motherhouse being an unbeliever in gods as well as somebody who may have had a hand in this chaos. Raela needed to get to her ship. To get out of here before anyone got suspicious. She also needed to find Ashara, make sure her sister was still alive.

Taking her chances, Raela silently sneaked out of the Motherhouse and ran to the sea. There was smoke everywhere and people were screaming! A small folk grabbed her arm "I've got you now you noble scum!" he yelled in her face before slamming her to the ground. Thinking quickly, she kicked the man in the lungs and took off again. Raela chided herself for not bringing her disguise, she could have quietly sailed away without anybody noticing.

Once she reached the Shipyard she burst inside the Warehouse, coughing lightly on the smoke. Raela froze at the shock faces of the noble sheltering in place. She tried to discretely make her way to a shadowed corner. "I wonder how long this will continue?" She asked mostly to herself, unaware of the noble on her right.

[tangldthrds]

   they had made their own throne from a stack of crates, one knee drawn up, the other leg swinging loose,  she was more at ease with a mast beneath her and waves licking at the keel, but drink was a fair enough substitute, and she had already cracked open a bottle scavenged from the harbor-master’s stock. better a burn in the throat than the stink of panic.

the door banged wide, smoke and noise tumbling in with the newcomer. wide eyes, ragged breath, a whiff of desperation that clung sharper than sweat. maris’s gaze slid to her from beneath dark lashes, a spider watching the tremor of its web. she listened as the stranger muttered, words meant for no ears but her own.

❝ well… ❞ maris’s voice cut the gloom, roughened velvet , ❝ —that depends on who proves the swifter. the knights’ guard, or the mob out there getting their fill of noble blood. ❞ her mouth curved into a smirk as she tipped the bottle to her lips, laughter low and edged, the sound of surf breaking against black stone.

she leaned forward, letting the shadows spill back from her face, eyes bright with sardonic amusement. ❝ me, i’ve no mind to wait for either. you’ll find the mice bolder than the lords here—and i’d sooner not die in their company. ❞ 

[tangldthrds]

   the air inside the motherhouse was thick with  fear. each strike of the mob against the heavy doors sent a ripple through the chamber, though the septas muttered prayers as if words alone might hold the wood. serenya dayne drifted through the candlelit halls with sand-colored eyes, searching for faces she did not find—her father, her mother, her younger siblings, scattered when the crowd broke.

her fingers clutched the small pendant at her throat, a token of mother rhoyne hidden beneath dornish silks. publicly, she knew the seven, their prayers and canticles well enough to pass. but here, with chaos gnashing at the gates, it was not the crone’s wisdom nor the mother’s mercy she whispered for—it was the river’s embrace, a prayer in the old dornish tongue, quiet and halting.

when she lifted her gaze, she found a novice watching her with thin-lipped disapproval. the weight of it lingered even as serenya turned away, voice low, words spoken more to herself than to any ear near enough to hear.

❝ one would think we should not waste our eyes on the faults of others.❞  a foolish notion, perhaps. life was never that simple, nor that merciful. she lingered near the tall window, back straight though her hands trembled, waiting—for word of family, for the crash of the doors, for anything.

 semi - open starter @ the motherhouse

[josilverhand-deactivated2026032]

the motherhouse — open

Chaos ensued in a matter of seconds, leaving him and his family scattered. worry started to consume him and concern, regarding the safety and wellbeing of his siblings. large crowds were pushed in to this place of faith, one he didn’t believe in. ice was safely holstered in with his hand ready at the hilt. following the crowd behind, the women of the faith nodded at his appearance to acknowledge him. getting some space away, cregan carefully made his way towards them to guard them from anyone who dared to touch them. “sisters, whatever you do, do not open that door. i will do what i can to keep them at bay. our priority is these people inside.” he turned towards the door, loud banging sending echoes across the hall. the doors moving violently. his eyes moved to the crowd, praying his family was here by god’s grace.

[tangldthrds]

  hands, folded tightly at her front, betrayed a tremor she could not still. sand-colored eyes—too honest to mask the fear she felt—flickered again to the door as it shook beneath the mob’s blows. each strike rattled through her chest like a drumbeat of doom.

the man’s words rang steady, commanding, but her breath caught at the certainty in them. do not open that door. her gaze lingered on the septas, their faces caught between obedience and unease, before she stepped forward, voice soft but clear, like the hush of a desert wind before a storm.

❝ should we not try and help them? ❞ she asked, her tone carrying both plea and protest. ❝ out there—there may be children, the wounded. surely it is the right thing, to guide them to safety as well, is it not? to bar the doors against them… ❞ she faltered, eyes glancing toward the nearest septa as though to seek divine affirmation, ❝…what faith is it we keep, if we let them fall outside the mother’s embrace? ❞ her words hung in the air, not defiance but a quiet call to conscience, even as she clutched her composure like a shield, ready to break at the next thunder of fists upon wood.