again ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ & ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ again

[‎ ‎ ‎ ...‎ ‎ ‎ ]‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ fall‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ in ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ love ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ again ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ & ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ again   .

[toothd]

𓆸 fall    in    love    again    &   again   ,    fall    in    love    again    &   again . in a place that can make you change ────     everything    is    romantic   .

𝑖.           lord     jacks     bolton     :      introduction & pinterest 𝑖𝑖.          lady      mela      redwyne      :      introduction & pinterest 𝑖𝑖𝑖.         lord      willas      hightower     :      introduction & pinterest 𝑖𝑣.         lady     desmera     fossoway      :      introduction & pinterest

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ #TOOTHD    ,        a         dependent     blog     written      by      paige         —     @     ikeaslut     on          discord      —     for      103ac.     dni      if      you      are     not     affiliated      with      the      group.

[faatedones]

though  lady  mela  does  not  make  her  feel  bad,  and  for  that  she  is  grateful,  elissa  still  regrets  speaking  without  thinking  it  through  first.  she  bows  her  head  respectfully,  as  if  to  thank  the  woman  for  not  taking  her  words  as  a  slight.  “that  is  most  appreciated,  my  lady,”  elissa  responds  in  turn.  “my  brother  and  i  may  not  always  see  eye  to  eye,  but  i  do  hope  that  he  will  be  found  soon,  along  with  the  others.  i  cannot  imagine  how  terrifying  it  must've  been,  being  swept  out  into  the  bay  like  that.  there  has  been  too  much  tragedy  as  of  late,  we  deserve  some  good  news.”

[toothd]

mela thinks at how she might feel if her own sibling had tumbled into nothingness. no sign of the hand's body yet, no one to speak on whether he had been seen after he fell into the blackwater — it was as if he had disappeared from existence. as if he were dead already. a strange thought, even without any tenderness held for the lord westerling. " none deserve a death such as that, " she shakes her head, adamant in the statement. " kinder or crueller, perhaps — but not something so . . . unresolved. " so lacking finality. " in time, i hope that your house is given answers. "

[firedreamt]

mordhred experiences the tremble of her utterance in kind. the vacancy of the skies draws their attention, for the promise comes where there will be none such a vacancy. things which have rule over the celestial heavens will come down to rain the seven hells upon the seven kingdoms. these things are only a matter of when, how long it will take for the sands of the hourglass to run clean through. "we must have our terrible thoughts and say them when able. otherwise they fester into a poison greater than any greyjoy could dare possess." a grunt. if they had a daughter, were blessed with a sister to grover, in truth they imagine her to be like mela. a combination of ennui and nostalgia, and truth of knowing how she would have grown.

"only one is gone. the rest have scattered. to establish rule underneath a feral beast is to ask for trouble. though i'd argue ..." they splay their hand to the windowsill and lean upon it, gazing out upon the disturbances of the keep. there is no semblance of peace now, a tension boiling like hot water beneath the surface of the very cliffside. " ... i'd argue we are surrounded by monstrous men who are of greater peril. and that, lady mela, is terrible to say. i do hope it is not any of their intentions that prevail, but." circling back around to how she thinks, observing the glassiness of her stare. "my hope does dwindle with each passing day." and to think: they were meant to be a beacon of hope for house tully. of encouragement and a modicum of safe passage to the next era.

[toothd]

mela was honest, but so too did she hold her tongue often. some thoughts, though precious few, were not for speaking aloud. if mordhred knew the extent of her thoughts' terribleness, perhaps they would not suggest as much. she remains still, bathed in their combined silence as it settles between them with the same ability for suffocation as a woollen blanket. " every poison has its antidote, " she muses, thinking of the blood red liquid ushered into the red keep's sickrooms by maesters most certainly benefiting from the hightower coffers. " the idea of a just king is a false one, " she insists, " whoever it is that wins the day and sits the throne will have ideas for ruling that will benefit some and hurt others grievously. " king aegor had presided over a peaceful realm, but that did not make him a good man. it did not make him a good ruler, even. it merely made him lucky. " the dragons, at least, only hurt because they are frightened. because they are threatened. " she wonders again at what had prompted their escape. it seemed no one was any closer to answers. " i should be going, " she insists, hand resting absentmindedly over the buckle of her belt, checking that it was properly fastened. beyond the windowpane that they lean against, the sun raises higher in the sky. there remained much to do before the streets crowded with smallfolk going about their daily work. " be well, won't you? the days are long. longer still, in these rooms. "

[firercts]

their  smile  comes  slow  and  sweet,  a  nod  following.  “  yes,  my  thanks.  the  maesters  have  done  well  in  their  aid,  of  course,  but  i  have  noticed  you  as  well.  the  extra  care  that  you  pay.  ”  she  had  no  desires  to  crowd  the  other,  the  next  few  steps  taken  small  to  maintain  the  distance  between  them.  “  my  apologies,  i  suppose  that  i  have  taken  leave  of  my  manners  in  all  that  has  happened.  my  name  is  amahle  arryn.  i  mean  to  thank  you  for  taking  care  of  my  cousin,  donnell.  i  am  not  sure  what  possessed  him  to  look  in  the  face  of  a  dragon  and  not  only  fight,  but  win.  ”  a  pause  as  it  is  a  concept  that  is  still  so  far  fetched  to  them  that  had  not  numerous  onlookers  seen  it,  the  proof  of  it  in  their  cousin  and  others  laid  in  their  sicks  beds  with  the  burns  and  scratches  that  were  proof  enough —   amahle  would  assume  that  everyone  had  suffered  some  sort  of  mass  hysteria  or  eaten  from  the  some  plate  that  had  caused  vivid  night  terrors.  “  of  course,  with  a  face  as  beautiful  as  yours  to  greet  him,  i  rather  think  he  will  heal  quite  nicely  even  if  he  did  not  have  your  salves.  ”

[toothd]

the citadel, mela thought, was an institution far too lauded. she did not oppose education — not in the slightest — but she thought their methods sometimes too rigid, the mysteries of the realm still known to so few of those who bore the maesters' chains. of course she would help, then, knowing that her methods were so different to theirs. what worked for one body may not work for another. this was better for all. " it is my duty to help those in need, " she explains, " a self - prescribed duty, but a duty nonetheless. " recognition registers as they introduce themselves, a small dip of her chin in greeting. " yes —  ser donnell is a spectacular breed of fool, " she breathes, " he is merely lucky the realm so covets blind bravery. " she speaks to the keep's floor, images of the dragon attack passing before her mind's eye. donnell would be sung of, at least, if he was not admired for his feat. mela's cheeks burn at the compliment, floating to her ears as it does while her gaze is averted to the stone of the floor. " you flatter me, my lady. "

[faatedones]

the lord of castamere had, of course, realized that courting the lady of cider hall would be no small feat. she was not easily impressed by baubles or trinkets or whatever gold or silver he could offer her. truthfully, though? that is something he likes about her. he finds her far more interesting than most of the ladies at court or otherwise, and he'd certainly had his fair share of courting over the years… if one could call it that.

he chuckles.

“that is true,” he nods, making his way closer to inspect the scene the children have created. “i am sure he is. he is a strong man, after all. i simply hoped to ease your burdens by checking in on you.” another chuckle leaves him. “has your mother returned? last we spoke, you said she would give me an earful about this betrothal. i've yet to hear it.”

[toothd]

she finds herself incensed by his very presence. it is no fault of his own, of course. the ruling lord reyne has done nothing but wish to advance the influence of his house. still, desmera reviles what she cannot understand —  and she understands so little of politics. she stands stiffly, fingers fisted in the black silk of her skirts. she must keep her hands busy, lest they act of their own accord. desmera endures his compliments for her brother with pursed lips. " she has written — " she begins, " and is due to return the day of the council meeting. you shall see her there, will you not? hopefully she will wait to speak with you, lest she embarrass you before your aged and so very boring peers. "

[steelworn]

"who  says  i  would  not?"  a  brow  raises,  the  ease  in  which  he  speaks  to  her  coming  back  to  him.  they  were  not  friends  exactly,  but  something  strange  and  perhaps  terrible  to  whoever  looked  upon  them.  two  predators  locking  eyes,  dancing  around  each  other  without  much  word  and  when  they  did  speak,  it  was  in  a  language  one  could  only  wish  to  be  able  to  follow.  it  was  not  often  he  got  to  speak  in  his  mother's  tongue,  but  desmera  made  it  easy  even  if  their  languages  were  not  one  and  the  same.  "at  least  i  know  you  will  lick  them  clean."  rather  than  his  bones  being  lit  on  fire  like  the  true  valyrian  he  was.  though,  perhaps  he  thinks  himself  more  now.  pupils  dilating  at  the  dragons  that  swim  in  his  vision,  the  ones  that  listen  when  he  speaks.  he  is  starting  to  believe  he  could  get  used  to  such  a  notion,  wonders  if  he  were  to  come  upon  a  bond,  if  desmera  would  take  to  the  skies  with  him  or  if  she  would  prefer  to  keep  her  feet  upon  the  ground  where  they  so  often  dug.  "it  does  not,  you  are  right."   he  would  have  rather  died  a  bloody  death  or  one  more  than  this.  one  where  he  found  himself  in  the  midst  of  a  battle,  a  sword  taking  him  out  like  the  true  knight  that  he  was.  steel  crunching  into  his  skin  instead  of  fire  licking  him.  "you  hear?"  daemian  attempts  a  laugh,  "i  did  not  know  it  would  be  a  topic  of  conversation  you  found  yourself  in,  discussing  me.  do  you  like  me  that  much?"  daemian  does  not  push  further  about  her  wellbeing,  understanding  the  small  nod  she  gives  him.  never  one  for  too  many  words  they  were,  more  watching  and  observing.  a  smile,  something  small,  but  gentle  curls  his  lips  upward.  he  would  hope  his  foolishness  would  not  harm  her.

[toothd]

he makes her laugh, the sharp of her canines revealed in the dim candlelight. she had made them so at cider hall, aged only ten and three, eating at their white points with shards of rock smuggled indoors in a billowing black sleeve until they were sharp to the touch. she had cried in her mother's lap each time she'd drank anything cold for the duration of the next sun. even still, desmera thought the pain worth it. " i shall leave you as pretty and dreadfully pale as i found you, " she reassures, the ghost of her laughter still present in her eyes. there was not much humourous about the state of daemian's body, seared and cracking as it was. desmera finds it quite easy to speak as if that were not the case. she has always been good at pretending. " do not die, then. it's likely your gods wouldn't even have you, in this pathetic state. a sword through the belly is marginally less shaming. that is what i imagine for you. " she picks at the embroidery on the skirts of her gown, threads escaping their prisons one by one. a single, black bead falls to the floor, bouncing into darkness. she follows the sound of it with her eyes as she speaks. " you remind me much of a home i've never had the pleasure of knowing. " she confesses. of course desmera liked him. she could not help but like him when he was the only person who deigned speak to her in something resembling her mother tongue — her first language, one that she had spoken before even the common tongue despite her upbringing in the reach. " and i would not endure your current ham - like odour if i did not like you plenty, you crabapple. "

[graveruins]

     ❝     i   wasn't   expecting   any   company.     ❞       he   can't   help   but   wonder   if   the   sight   before   him   is   a   dream.   (   or   a   nightmare   ,       at   the   very   least.   )   still   caught   on   the   edges   of   a   stolen   sleep   ,       had   his   mind   conjured   up   a   mirage   that   was   intended   to   haunt   ?   a   vision   that   was   meant   to   tease   ?     ❝     should   i   be   thankful   that   all   you   did   was   hit   me   ?     ❞       but   the   voice   that   broke   through   the   quiet   of   the   room   was   all   too   real.   the   shifting   of   the   sheets   around   him   further   proof   of   a   stray   that   had   slunk   in.   past   the   guards   ,       his   own   defences.   there   was   little   comfort   to   the   realization   of   it   ,       but   an   easy   enough   acceptance   born   from   the   years   of   suffering   her   attentions.   a   slow   ,       yet   constant   wittling   of   him   ,       until   all   he   could   do   was   fight   off   the   urge   to   throw   an   arm   around   her.   to   tuck   her   closer   and   steal   of   him   that   same   warmth   and   touch   he'd   experienced   once   ⸻   that   he   refused   to   admit   to   wanting   for   ever   again.     ❝     oh.     ❞       a   quiet   death   of   unquiet   thoughts.   it   was   a   good   thing   he   had   not   attempted   to   hold   her   ,       to   pull   her   closer.   for   whatever   had   transpired   between   them   ,     all   three   of   them   ,       was   simply   a   night   of   too   much   wine   and   mistakes   that   were   never   meant   to   see   the   light   of   day.   what   a   strange   idea   ,       to   feel   the   loss   for   something   he   had   spent   such   a   long   time   running   from. that was hardly his to lose.     ❝     did you come for well wishes then   ?     ❞

[toothd]

" you are purposefully obtuse, " she accuses, turning on her side such that she can examine his side profile. a small pleasure, one that she would no longer have leave to indulge in once she was shackled to myles, his house's name her fetters. desmera reyne. it left a sour, unpleasant taste on the tongue. " and i kissed you, before i hit you. " this information is offered as if it will act a balm to the pink of his kiss - slapped cheek. she knows ren to be smart. she knows that he knows she would not hurt him, not truly, unless he gave her good reason to. " i would not beg of you well wishes, ren. i know you do not have flowered, pretty words stored up within the thick of your skull for me. " he did not enjoy her — not as she enjoyed him. " besides, i refuse to be wed to a man that is not of my choosing. my father is a fat lout. " she pauses only for an intake of breath, " and thicker than mud if thinks i shall simply waltz into castamere and play lady consort prettily. " no, that would not do. she pulls the bedlinens tightly around her, simulating an embrace she knows not to expect from him. still, her keen eyes peer at him through the darkness uninhibited.

[arcan3ly]

a   gentle   sigh.   it   held   no   weight,   no   disappointment,   no   anguish.   only   understanding.   edmure   had   never   once   doubted   that   his   father   was   scheming   behind   closed   doors,   was   making   arrangements   to   offer   desmera’s   hand   before   long.   she   was   a   beautiful   thing,   kind   and   plucky   and   self-assured   ;   pride   hardly   touched   the   warmth   that   filled   his   chest   at   the   thought   of   his   sister.   he   simply   wished   that   it   was   him   that   made   such   decisions.   “you   will   forever   be   a   fossoway.   cider   runs   through   your   veins,”   light   hit   his   eyes,   crinkling   in   the   corners,   “are   you   happy ?   is   he   kind   to   you ? ”   remembering   the   seedlings   of   his   own   marriage,   it   had   not   been   love   immediately.   edmure   and   allyria   had   watched   as   affections   germinated,   sprouted,   and   finally   bloomed   —   if   miles   and   desmera   could   find   even   a   fraction   of   that   connection,   her   older   brother   would   be   relieved.   “our   father   likes   to   move   in   the   shadows.   i   have   learned   this   of   him.   if   you   are   needing   me   to   speak   with   him   …   ”   lorence   was   not   an   easy   man   to   approach,   even   less   to   counter.   once   edmure   had   been   fearful   of   him.   now,   he   did   not   hesitate   to   speak   his   mind.   “i   suppose,   soon,   it   will   be   time   to   consider   a   partnership   for   trystane.”

[toothd]

it is a puerile reaction, but desmera finds herself disappointed that her brother is not outraged. a single wrinkle appears between the dark of her brows, no larger or more offensive than a grain of rice. she had always imagined him her knight in shining armour, if their father could not act as one. to sit, placid - faced, as she revealed to him the great horror she faced — it feels much like a betrayal. " i will not be a fossoway in name, " she insists, leaning forward slightly in her ire. " no one sings of blood, ed. they sing of names. they recall names. " edmure's next question hardly begs answering, then. " of course i am not happy. i do not wish to be wed. not now, or any time in the near future. " she stands, her apprehension and ire and childish offence culminating in energy that needs expending. " i shall make father regret this. " a solemn promise made with certainty, her jaw clenched tightly, muscle rippling beneath skin. a roll of her eyes, an exhasperated toss of her hands. " well, i should hope that you will not barter trystane's hand over the bloody breakfast table as father did mine! " she wishes to scurry from his sight, to flee, to scramble from the room as if it were on fire. no matter how she trusted edmure, no matter how she knew he cared for her, he could not understand her plight.

[steelworn]

"do  you  believe  such  a  thing?"  she  asks  curiously,  head  tilting  to  the  side  in  observance  of  him.  an  interesting  creature  he  seemed  to  be.  a  hightower.  she  did  not  hate  them  as  much  as  other  people  within  king's  landing  seemed  to.  they  were  just  another  family  of  rich  noblemen  after  something  that  was  never  meant  to  exist  in  the  first  place,  if  they  were  more  evil  than  they  seemed,  who  was  she  to  truly  care?  "that  we  could  escape  in  time?  i  do  not  know  if  i  do,  look  what  they  did  mere  days  ago  as  we  watched  them  descend  from  where  they  were  meant  to  be  caged."  she  shrugs,  "the  smallfolk  is  who  i  worry  for,  defenseless  and  left  to  rot.  perhaps  if  they  decide  it  is  our  time,  i  shall  join  you  in  saving  the  children  first."  a  pact  that  probably  meant  nothing  besides  the  care  of  two  people,  one  who  had  more  means  than  she  did,  but  she  supposed  it  meant  something  all  the  same.  "do  you  have  your  plot  of  land  picked  out  then?"  betha  inquires  as  she  walks  ahead  of  him  toward  a  nearby  tavern,  wine  on  her  mind  and  a  chance  to  escape,  perhaps  with  a  better  companion.  "for  when  you  are  to  inevitably  fall  into  your  grave.  perhaps  you  can  help  me  choose  my  own,  ser,  maybe  over  that  drink."

[toothd]

" do you not? " he bounces her question back at her like a blow off of a shield, head tilting in mirror of her own. willas thinks that he speaks the truth. in the end, if they could not save anyone — at least they could try. the curfew could give them that, even if it turned out to be a hollow reassurance, when faced with dragonfire. " no one was ready, then. no one expected it. " next time, it would be different. if the dragons descended from the heavens once more, most would be ready. most would find validation in death, knowing that they had not been walking around with every muscle tensed in anticipation for naught. " you would be welcome, of course. " willas imagined, if any child were orphaned, that he might take them on as his squire. he would treat them differently to how he had been treated by ser colin. it was not that the ashford knight had been cruel — but he had not been warm. he had not been encouraging. he had not been fatherly in the way that willas had dreamed he might be. " i suppose i'll be buried in the crypt on battle isle. where all hightowers are laid to rest. " in truth, he did not much care where his massive body was set aside to rot. " or in a great big ditch off the side of the kingsroad, if not. perhaps the ruins of the dragonpit will be just about big enough of a hole. " with that, he sets off in the direction of the taverns just outside of the keep's walls, intending to make them his destination even if she does not follow.

[bethemouth]

people who care for you ----- he says, and you cannot help the grin, dimple deepening at the side of your cheek. does it disturb him, too, to think of any of you six feet under the ground? does he also get vivid nightmares, showing the way the bodies will rot and melt and wither with the passing of time? and does he wake up, sometimes, choking on air with fright? or had he, like you, grown used to the shape of such horrors? he does not want me dead, you think. then he must love me so. "sorry," you offer. does that stitch back the wound i unwittingly opened? how can i balm my offense, brother? you watch him still, protruded with ease nearly to the branches, blessed by the warrior, anointed with strength and might. how come the stranger never made you this tall and gallant? are they not also a god? and are you any less of a worthy vessel? you kick your feet in the air and they dangle softly, almost childlike. feels nice watching him from this angle; for starters, your neck doesn't hurt looking up. "then you're lucky," you twitch your mouth in a pensive pout. "do you ever want to trade places?" you offer in jest, though you are not sure if he will see it as such. but it is obvious, is it not? rough as the hardships of your siblings' paths proved, they could at least look back at the seventh runt of the litter and thank every god they were not you. who wants to embody the stranger, anyway? then he dismisses you: i am not hiding, but i do wish to be alone. the light from your eyes dims and you understand maybe the jest offeded him sorely. you climb down the tree then, knees bending quickly before straightening up when you land. i arrived here first, you could argue. he could be the one to leave. instead your head nods and your feet start moving. who wants to stand near the stranger, anyway? "will i see you at supper?"

[toothd]

he shrugs off their apology as if he had not been the one to prompt it, shoulders bobbing up and down once unceremoniously. it was nearly uncomfortable to see contrition on another's features when one was so unused to it — even as rowan's range of expression has always been limited. willas looks away, inspecting the bark of the tree to his left. he lifts a hand, running his thumb over the bark's strata. " it is done, " he insists, the words already said. they cannot take them back, and so he must forgive them. the gods would bid him do as much. their question is like a drop of cold water down the line of his back. his muscles contract, shoulderblades pulling together tightly. " all the time, " he answers, " the grass is ever green in the neighbouring pasture, ro. " each of them had their struggles. he had seen enough of ceryse's nerves to know it. even elyas, willas is sure, suffers some. " of course you will see me at supper. " the reassurance comes easily. their mother would glare daggers across every room until he'd apologized for his absence, if not. dropping his arm back to his side with a thud, willas exhales a long breath before he turns to take his leave from the godswood in search of another place in which he could deftly avoid their father.

end.

[liver-y]

Helvis stood, still as stone. Fitting, in the Godswood, a place of old growth and young vines all emanating from an ancient tree, where nothing could be still but an outsider. More fitting yet in this one, where an oak stood guard over soil that had never seen the Old Gods' rule. Helvis had liked to spend time in the Godswood at Harvest Hall, as a girl, not for any sense of prayer or heresy, but for the peace that came with age and the wilderness that no garden would see. Ber had climbed its branches before he had known they were those of Gods. The sight of the Old Gods persisted even here… but not their worship. And one so disconnected from the Seven as to raise her children to look to the dead Gods of the North—would never succeed here. "The sea god whose threshold Storm's End is built upon failed to reclaim it. And has failed, over and over, for many thousands of years, no matter how pitifully the wind howls." What would anybody with eyes turned to the distant North govern the faithful of the Stormlands?

Enough. "If it meant you do not act in haste, with no intention of amending your ways or doing as you ought by Syrenna… then yes. Speak it now. But if you seek only to defile… pray that my husband's wrath comes on you second, for it is the only way you will survive it. And that your Gods have any power left here to answer those prayers."

[toothd]

end.

[antagonistzz]

he  laughs  sharply,  cut  to  a  brief  halt  by  a  wince,  abdomen  unhappy  with  the  action.  "gods  —  not  lord  merryweather's  son!"  donnell  manages  to  grit  with  appropriate  indignation  on  the  redwyne's  behalf,  lifting  the  corner  of  his  lips  so  that  the  grimace  might  look  more  like  a  smile.  in  a  general  assessment,  the  yarrow  had  soothed  him  much,  though  he  much  preferred  the  balm  she  had  concocted  (though,  that  may  be  attributed  to  the  careful  way  she  applied  it  to  his  skin  —  or  rather,  lack  thereof  —  allowing  donnell  to  look  upon  the  length  of  her  thick  lashes).  the  swann  wished  not  to  waste  mela's  company  on  his  pain,  preferring  that  he  spend  it  in  high  spirits.  if  this  was  to  be  his  last  nameday,  at  least  he  would  spend  it  happily.  "what  crime  did  he  commit  against  you?"  donnell  presses,  finding  himself  recovered  from  the  ache  faster  than  it  would  have  yesterday.  "should  i  cut  a  wing  from  him  too?"  unlike  she,  he  is  all  smiles  and  jests.  company  is  not  so  far  and  in  between  with  a  family  as  large  as  his,  but  he  must  admit  that  he  enjoys  mela's  visits  the  most.  she  does  not  admonish  his  stupidity  as  near  much  as  his  bracken  cousins,  although,  donnell  agrees:  it  had  been  stupid  to  try  himself  against  a  dragon.

[toothd]

he laughs, and mela cannot help the smile that ekes its way onto her features. she wishes to laugh in kind, but she will not let herself. the sight of his mottled skin is sobering, the sick rooms no place for laughter. " donnell, " she chides, knowing by now that lecturing him about remaining still will not win her her way. she thinks on the heir merryweather as she toys with his fingers with her own, pressing them as if they were strings of a lute. " he stepped on a snail, once. on purpose. " a cruel act of murder, a swift taking of life. mela had wished to tackle him to the earth, to pummel him with closed fists. but she had been more tempered then. had feared the retaliation of the seven for her misgivings. she had remained silent, remained still. despite its childish nature, she still feels an ache in her chest when she recalls the memory. " i spat in his wine. later on at the feast. he had thought himself a man, drinking arbor gold at ten and one. " she sighs, disentangling her hand from donnell's so that she can push the mass of her dark hair from her face. she cannot remember ever telling this tale aloud. " but he was drinking my spit, the lout. "

[rottedhearts]

they  wave  away  her  words,  drawing  closer.  of  course  she  would  be  elsewhere  ---  all  who  cared  for  the  consequences  of  a  dragon's  attack  would  be.  "time  is  perhaps  the  one  thing  i  have  in  abundance,"  they  answer  with  a  nod.  with  jingyi  nearly  fully  recovered,  and  gwyneth  tending  as  well,  they  had  more  time  than  most  other  nobles.

dexian  reaches  for  another  batch  of  phials  and  placing  them  in  a  basket  before  gesturing  to  mela  to  lead  the  way.  "which  area  are  you  heading  to  today?"

[toothd]

mela admires the liege corbray. she has heard much of their house's relationship with their smallfolk, and did her best to emulate it in the arbor. it was difficult — the island was large, its population vast. she was only one lady, and a second born one at that. still, the ideal of heart's home impressed upon her the need to try. she did the same now, in king's landing, so far from home. she offers a smile, sliding filled phials across the tabletop for them to fill their basket with. " i have heard much of you, liege corbray. i have always admired your family's rule from afar. " she sighs, wishing to pass by her admission of admiration quickly. " flea bottom, " comes her answer. the courtesans from the street of silk had flocked there after the brothels had burned, many of them bearing injury.

[rottedhearts]

myria's  eyes  widen  a  fraction  as  she  realizes  the  call  is  directed  to  her.  the  children  and  their  laughter  barrel  toward  her,  and  myria's  own  hands  turn  to  claws.

"bandits  fare  a  terrible  fate  if  caught,"  she  says,  trying  to  infuse  a  jovial  tone  to  her  words  as  not  to  scare.  the  children  scramble  once  more,  sharp  turns  and  tumbles  as  they  launch  to  her  left,  and  she  follows  one  step,  two  step,  and  another  until  the  liege  reaches  them  all.

"and  what  shall  be  their  punishment?"

[toothd]

" punishment? now there's a thought — " desmera speaks, undeniably thrilled at the other woman's willingness to conspire. the flush of her cheeks reveals as much as she taps her chin in feigned thought, looking between the two of her brother's children mischievously. " why, we must fill their pockets with rocks and toss them into the sea! or perhaps they would prefer to be drawn and quartered . . . or fed to hungry lions such as myself! " she leaps then, sending the children scattering once more. she laughs, straightening, reluctant though she is to end her participation in their play. " thank you, my lady. that was a job well done. the council might consider you for the kingsguard, were they clever at all. "

[steelworn]

"is  it  not  silly  we  have  a  curfew?"  betha  muses,  though  the  question  is  not  necessarily  directed  at  the  man  that  had  happened  upon  her.  she  wonders  what  else  they  will  do  to  keep  the  people  safe,  she  wonders  if  they  will  finally  strike  down  the  dragons  when  they  have  them  in  range  or  if  they  will  continue  to  let  the  beasts  roam  as  if  they  are  not  invaders  of  westeros  along  with  the  valyrian-blooded  individuals  that  came  and  conquered  without  a  care  in  the  world.  she  wishes  to  laugh  at  the  idea,  how  weak  they  were  to  let  beasts  fight  their  battles  for  them.  conquerers?  no,  they  were  not.  take  their  dragons  away  and  they  were  mere  mortals  just  like  the  rest  of  the  known  world.  "if  the  dragons  wished  to  kill  us,  they  would  have  done  so  by  now.  come  back  and  rained  fire  down  upon  the  whole  city."  her  feet  are  dangling,  kicking  as  she  speaks,  her  eyes  not  leaving  the  other  at  all,  almost  boring  into  him.  "though  i  can  be  convinced  for  a  tavern  visit."  betha  jumps  from  her  spot,  landing  perfectly  upon  the  stone  streets  of  king's  landing  and  sizing  up  the  man  that  had  spoken  to  her.  he  was  tall,  though  lacked  the  definition  of  a  warrior.  she  pats  his  chest  covered  with  armor,  "come,  let  us  drink  ourselves  into  a  coma.  i  am  sure  the  sickbeds  could  use  a  few  more  patients."

[toothd]

even if willas agrees with betha, he cannot be seen to do so. he keeps his mouth shut, offering a meagre shrug. it had been his father's doing — the curfew. how could they best keep the smallfolk safe if they could hardly spy the dragons cutting through the sky above the clouds in broad daylight? the night's darkness was a beast all its own. still, the curfew has caused him enough inconvenience by now that he thinks it slightly ridiculous, as well. " at least there would be time to evacuate, if we spied them from afar. " he offers, head cocked slightly, as if thinking of it weighed down the very brain within his skull. " some people, we could save. the children, perhaps. " he watches her jump form the wall, watches her still as she pats his chest as though he were some kind of loyal hound. " i would prefer to lie comatose in a grave over the sickbeds. "

[liver-y]

They all made for good stories: though not perhaps the sort of stories that just anybody would be able to stomach. From habit Grover sanded down his tales, tall or otherwise, when telling Aila: too much bloodshed made them squeamish. Nobody else at home had just yet heard of the more exciting of his adventures, simply out of ill (ha-ha) timing and everybody's refusal to take some entertainment as it was meant: to cheer up. "All earned, though not awarded me myself, of course," he agreed, leaning against a low branch and taking another bite out of his fruit. "They come to me from friends and colleagues, for achievements. Lord Big of Head for my hammer, Prince of Rags for the rags I made of the Bright Banners..." A busy tavern, drinks overflowing, Grover propped between the shoulders of two Sons, singing a terrible drunken song. "… and King Talks a Lot... well, you may guess that one. But who titles you Goddess Desmera the Inimitable, Omnipotent, and Beautiful?" Why choose one when you could be all three? He lowered a hand to show her the fruit he carried, brow raised in offer. "Will they come fight me if I name you the same? They may live to regret it." 

[toothd]

she had coveted the apple since he had sunk his teeth into it. it was a perverse desire, perhaps —  but desmera found herself far from caring. " you speak of yourself quite highly, grover, " she notes, as if she herself had not only just done the same. " i should like to hear the tales behind your claims. if only for verification, " she sighs feigned disinterest, eyes shining, " it is unbecoming of even a fool to lie. " with that, she plucks from his hand the apple, biting it in the same place he had. " — this apple is shit, " she insists, its tartness lacking, its texture grainy. she was accustomed to better fare, the sweet and sour offerings of the orchards around cider hall. " if they came to fight you, this apple may serve better as a projectile weapon than it does a piece of fruit. we shall be shield brothers. besides, i should think it worth the bloodshed — the opportunity to name me beautiful. "

[retrouviel]

seora had stopped only because the laughter was loud enough to interrupt her thoughts. it carried strangely through the courtyard, too bright for a city still smelling faintly of smoke, and for a long moment she simply watched from where the path met grass.

children had never been a language she spoke with any fluency. her nephews were the lone exception, earned through years of familiarity and sheer persistence on their part. every other child remained an unpredictable little creature liable to cry, scream, or ask impossibly inconvenient questions. these two seemed content to shriek with laughter instead, darting across the damp lawn with a lady -- fossoway, was it? -- in theatrical pursuit.

at the woman's pointed summons, seora glanced over one shoulder as though to confirm there truly wasn't some more suitable victim standing behind her. there wasn't. just as she was about to refuse, the pair barreled toward her and seora merely stepped sideways at the last possible moment, neatly obstructing the easiest path without making any move to actually catch either of them.

"there," she said flatly as the children veered away, still laughing. "blocked. i believe i've fulfilled my obligation."

[toothd]

" oh, " desmera begins, a look of pity blooming on her features where exhilaration had only just housed itself. " you are boring. " a belated realization, one that desmera wishes she had made prior to begging the lady's assistance. she allows tanselle and elyas to escape, running amok to the other side of the plush courtyard. running to their safety, encapsulated within their bubble of fun. " a terrible affliction, " she shakes her head, crossing her ankles over each other beneath her skirts. a hand presses over her heart, signalling earnestness that isn't truly there. " just terrible. my condolences, my lady. it is a fate worse than death. " this, desmera has debated at length –  especially in the wake of the terror of the dragon attack on the tourney grounds.