lamb to the slaughter

even the iron still fears the rot hiding from something I cannot stop

[valarrghulis]

a dependent roleplay blog for @103ac. as penned by lavs ( 26, she / her , est).

lady AMEREI of HOUSE MALLISTER née TULLY; the light of riverrun; intro; threads; musings.

ser ADDAM WATERS of the CRAG; the rogue bastard; intro; threads; musings.

ser ELYAS of HOUSE HIGHTOWER; the smith of oldtown; intro; threads; musings.

[bethemouth]

as i walk through the valley of the shadow of death; i take a look at my life and realize there's nothing left.

open starter for everyone! location: the quaratine quarters, cerion is already dead & the antidote was finally administered. tw: sickness, vomit, death mention.

the heat seizes you first. it’s everywhere at once, smothering you under the blankets and burning inside your chest. then the real pain sets in. it's not a sharp prick, no. it's a deep, foul ache burrowed into your flesh and bone, making every limb feel too heavy to lift. a voice echoes from somewhere above, muffled like you're drowning. you can't catch the words. a hand presses against your hot forehead while another yanks your chin up. they force a bitter draft between your teeth. the taste is rank, making your stomach heave. you try to reject it, but fingers lock your jaw in place. swallow. you can't tell whether you obey the voice or if your body has simply lost the will to fight. light and dark trade places. white cloth. the ceiling. a face appears above you, then it’s gone, replaced by another that disappears just as fast. shadows crowd the room, carrying bowls, cloths, and candles. you think someone is praying near the bed. then you think someone is crying. both sounds terrify you. the fever comes in waves. or perhaps it is not a fever at all. you know fevers. you'd seen it take your lady mother. and for a while, brewing elixirs became your fixation, you pestered your maesters, demanded they'd tell you; willow bark, yarrow, peppermint-- perhaps add some macerated elderflower and ginger to the mix. maiden's finger, that blue root from the vale, could quickly heal blood coughs and a bad stomach.

but no, this isn't the sickness that struck the stormlands a few seasons back. you know the difference. this is something much worse, something foul and intentional. the suspicion takes root in your mind and won't let go, even while your thoughts unravel. you try to speak, to say it out loud, but your tongue feels thick and your lips are useless. nothing comes out but a ruined sound. it's infuriating, smothering you from the inside. you're still completely conscious; your thoughts are frantic, hammering against your skull, but there's no outlet left. you are a prisoner in your own body, and you can already feel the walls starting to give way. everything blurs into a haze where time doesn't exist. you find yourself biting down on a thick rag, tasting the metallic sting of blood before you even realize it’s in your mouth. someone has you by the shoulders. a voice keeps hammering away at your name. amaya. amaya. amaya. trying to tether you to the living. it fails. you sink, you surface, you sink again. then, out of the noise, a word breaks through. poison. it echoes in the room: "…certainly poison…" "...not a fever…" "...gods help us…" poison. of course. it dawns on you all at once. the kingsmoot. the claimants. someone wanted the throne so badly they struck out blindly at every neck in sight. you want to laugh at their desperation, but a violent cough tears through your chest and nearly kills you. then the dark swallows you whole.

the room looks different when you drift back to consciousness. for the first time, you notice the endless row of beds. some figures are moving; others are asleep. your vision blurs the second you turn your neck. through the haze, you spot the unmistakable gold of cerion lannister's hair. then jorah bolton, vaiora redwyne, and hira targaryen. but it’s the next face that makes you lock eyes. the grand maester. oh, no. no, no, no. a weak laugh rattles somewhere inside your chest. "f-fucking…" your throat burns. the rest dissolves into a cough. "…hell." if the grand maester is taking up a sickbed, the court is completely fucked. you close your eyes, the horror finally sinking its claws into you. you succumb to the thought: what happens if i die? the poison is nothing compared to the realization of who will take your place. lyanna and steffon. the two most incompetent creatures you know, presiding over the vale. the thought is so revolting it physically rejects itself from your body; your jaw is forced open by a sudden, hot rush of bile that spills out over the linen. you lie back, tasting the sour ruin of your own choices. you spent years refusing to adopt a proper successor with your wife, draped in the arrogant belief that you had time to spare. you don't. the truth is bitterer than the vomit, harsher, too, than the coil in your stomach and the heat crawling in again. you are growing tired of this.

does the stranger actually claim the faithless, you wonder? where do you go when you die? no way to tell. out of the dark, someone craddles your head and pries gently at your jaw, making way for a liquid to slide into your mouth. your throat moves. more comes, bitter and dark, completely different from the previous medicine. an antidote, perhaps. you do not know and you are too tired to ask. hours or days dissolve, but then comes the light; not the scarlet fire of the fever, but actual sunlight that makes you wince. you open your eyes, and suddenly the ceiling doesn't move. your throat is pure sand and broken glass, and every muscle is sore, but the pulse in your neck is finally steady. you blink through the glare and see a silhouette lingering by your bed, watching. you look at them for a long time before your hoarse voice breaks the silence. "fuck you're looking at? ...ew."

[valarrghulis]

                                    at  some  point,  elyas  lost  count  of  how  many  people  he  nursed  along  the  other  maesters.  opening  their  mouths,  holding  their  convulsing  limbs  while  others  did  for  him,  applying  cold  damp  cloth  to  their  clammy  forehead.  he  could  not  deny  that  there  was  a  morbid  curiosity  lurking  underneath  righteous  reasons.  elyas  wished  to  see  the  antidote  he  helped  produce  working  or  failing,  in  the  exact  way  it  was  helping  the  people  after  a  fortnight  of  suffering.  and  to  document  his  findings.  the  maesters  would  keep  their  own  scribes  for  the  citadel,  but  elyas'  personal  journals  were  for  his  eyes  only;  and  maybe  for  the  future  hightowers  with  the  same  esoteric  interests  so  many  of  them  had  secretly  harbored.  his  father  was  unwavering  in  his  own  beliefs,  trying  to  convince  him  to  open  his  mind  to  other  findings  was  always  a  battle  elyas  had  to  prepare  himself  as  if  it  were  a  real  war;  with  quills  and  old  prophecies  and  great-aunt  malora's  ramblings.  lord  perceon  only  listened  to  elyas'  when  it  suited  his  plans,  only  when  elyas  helped  bring  the  solution  to  his  ambitions:  the  antidote  he  held  over  the  other  lords  of  westeros.  when  he  was  not  helping  the  other  maesters,  he  was  sitting  in  a  corner,  with  his  journal.  he  scribbled  over  the  thick  parchment,  hurried  letters  forming  thoughts  few  people  could  describe.  perhaps  if  he  showed  this  piece  of  paper  to  alienor,  she  would  be  able  to  understand  due  to  familiarity  to  his  handwritten  mess,  even  if  she  would  not  be  able  to  follow  the  technicalities  completely.  long  gone  was  the  carefully  taught  calligraphy  still  at  the  hightower  under  the  family  maester.  the  thin,  crooked  and  practical  was  more  suited  to  the  speed  of  his  thoughts  and  keen  eyes.

                                    pages  and  pages  were  written  and  he  should  have  been  satisfied,  but  he  found  himself  watching  amaya  more  carefully  than  the  other  patients,  as  she  was  the  only  one  he  had  previously  known.  for  old  times'  sake,  he  would  tell  her.  for  the  intellectual  friendship  they  shared.  it  would  not  wash  away  the  hurt  of  orland's  death  and  lyanna's  distaste  rudeness,  nor  their  delay  in  bringing  the  cure  that  was  liberating  her  from  this  feverish  nightmare.  he  administered  a  third  dose  of  the  antidote  and  watched  as  lady  arryn  finally  started  to  stir.  the  expletives  drew  a  smile  on  the  hightower  heir's  face,  wiping  away  the  slight  exhaustion  he  now  could  feel  in  his  bones,  in  his  burning  eyes  from  the  candlelight.  for  a  second,  he  was  almost  transported  to  their  youthful  years  in  the  citadel,  amaya's  sharp  tongue  and  boiling  temper  as  entertaining  in  the  past  as  in  her  sickbed.  ❛❛ — I  am  just  helping  to  save  your  life,  lady  arryn.  we  do  not  have  enough  maesters  to  nurse  all  who  fell  ill,  so  I  volunteered  to  help.  that  was  your  third  dose  of  the  antidote.  it  should  be  enough.  —  ❞  he  answered  her,  pointing  out  to  the  three  empty  bottles  beside  her  nursing  bed.  ❛❛ — for  old  times'  sake.  —  ❞  he  added,  smiling  despite  cold  eyes.  it  cut  deeper  because  it  was  a  lie.  he  would  have  let  her  die  if  the  lord  hand  had  not  acquiesced  with  his  father's  orders.  they  would  still  be  in  oldtown,  atop  their  tower  while  her  body  was  laid  deep  in  the  ground  in  her  mountain.  and  perceon  would  have  rejoiced,  but  elyas  would  have  found  no  comfort  in  amaya's  death.

                                    elyas  opened  his  journal  once  again,  holding  the  soft  leathery  book  on  top  of  his  lap  and  hunching  his  back  to  watch  closely  what  he  was  writing,  a  terrible  habit  of  a  scholar  with  a  disregard  for  comfort.  ❛❛ —  what  are  you  feeling,  lady  amaya?  symptoms-wise.  and  try  to  be  detailed.  you  gave  us  quite  a  fright  when  you  would  not  allow  maester  ulric  administer  the  antidote  in  the  beginning.  —  ❞  he  continued,  without  missing  a  beat.  it  was  not  a  comforting  interaction,  not  truly.  elyas  did  not  enjoy  confrontation  or  courtly  games  of  hiding  one's  intentions.  if  it  were  up  to  him,  house  hightower  would  be  playing  no  game  of  thrones.  his  hand  stopped  writing  after  giving  space  for  amaya  to  say  her  piece.  there  was  something  that  could  not  be  left  unsaid,  a  deep  wound  still  unexplained.  ❛❛ — how  fares  the  lady  lyanna  these  days?  we  still  bear  a  responsibility  to  care  for  our  goodsister  and  her  well-being.  especially  since  she  was  longing  so  much  for  the  eyrie's  frigid  air,  she  could  not  wait  to  leave  after  my  brother  died.  this  reminds  me  of  him,  you  know.  —  ❞  elyas  kept  his  tone  pleasant  and  courtly,  but  was  slowly  simmering  inside.  his  suspicions  of  what  happened  that  fateful  night  were  inside  that  same  journal  he  carried  in  his  lap  while  conversing  with  lyanna's  oldest  sister,  amidst  bitter  tears  for  a  younger  brother  gone  too  soon.

[arcan3ly]

「  ⚔  」   STATUS  ﹕  semi - closed. 「  ⚔  」  LOCATION  ﹕  pestilence, the beginning. 「  ⚔  」  WITH  ﹕ @firedreamt, @valarrghulis, @balonstrong, @verithaunt, @hretiks, @woundedstatue, @eclipt1cs.

it   started   with   ice   throughout   her   body.   then,   a   burning   fever   unlike   any   fire   she   had   ever   felt.   a   pounding   in   her   skull   like   rats   were   gnawing   their   way   out,   a   fatigue   that   wore   alysanne   targaryen   down   to   the   bone.   and   yet,   she   fought   it.   the   young   dragon   had   always   been   a   fighter,   and   who   would   she   call   upon   in   her   time   of   need   ?   the   lannisters,   after   intimidating   poor   rosamund   upon   the   steps   of   the   red   keep ?    the   boltons,   after   giving   jacks   a   taste   of   his   own   medicine   ?   medicine.   gods,   she   needed   medicine.   the   sickness   was   driving   her   to   insanity,   and   she   stumbled   through   the   winding   corridors   that   should   have   been   familiar   but,   instead,   opened   up   into   an   endless   and   labyrinthine   chamber.   she   was   one   of   the   first   afflicted,   the   first   to   feel   that   thick   and   strange   feeling   in   her   throat   ;   it   did   not   matter   to   which   house   the   body   belonged   that   she   crashed   into,   only   that   they   would   hold   her   up   before   she   fell.   “i   feel   …   i   feel   …   ”   there   were   no   words   for   it.   was   this   what   it   was   like   to   die   ?   sweat   glittered   upon   her   forehead,   and   her   eyes   were   milky   lavender.   “help   me.”

[valarrghulis]

                                  the  harvest  feast  had  not  satisfied  amerei’s  hunger  for  excitement,  nor  drained  her  like  it  had  done  to  most  people.  the  red  keep’s  hallways  were  emptier  than  she  expected,  as  she  strolled  casually  the  following  morning  before  the  heat  of  the  city  could  turn  fresh  air  into  miasma.  it  took  her  completely  by  surprise  when  a  heavy  body  came  across  her,  feverish  and  desperate.  her  eyes  went  wild  and  an  involuntary  gasp,  deep  from  her  throat.  she  grazed  the  familiar  features  of  princess  alysanne  and  could  not  believe  that  a  princess  of  the  realm  had  crashed  into  her  and  now  only  amerei’s  weak  and  trembling  arms  were  holding  them  both  upright.  amerei  tried  her  best,  even  though  she  was  smaller  than  the  princess,  and  not  used  to  hauling  people  nor  things  around.  ❛❛ — yes,  yes.  of  course,  princess.  —  ❞  she  whispered,  breath  ragged.  aila  would  have  been  so  much  better  at  this.  her  sister  would  have  loved  to  play  knight  in  shining  armor  to  a  beautiful  princess,  but  alas,  she  stumbled  over  amerei  instead.  the  princess  was  the  first  one  she  saw  in  that  state.  ❛❛ — what  do  you  feel,  princess  alysanne?  please  speak  to  me.  —  ❞  she  asked,  mostly  to  keep  her  speaking,  amerei  suddenly  growing  worried  over  the  clammy  appearance  of  the  princess  and  how  pale  alysanne  was;  her  tan  skin  losing  all  warmth.  she  was  burning  too,  and  amerei  feared  she  would  burn  the  tully  along  her.  could  that  be  possible?  that  for  some  reason  a  targaryen,  even  one  adopted  in  the  family,  would  simply  combust  and  bring  destruction  upon  them?  no,  not  princess’  delfina’s  daughters,  amerei  was  certain.  it  was  probably  only  a  small  affliction.

[valarrghulis]

STATUS: SEMI-OPEN (02/05)

LOCATION: the gardens of the red keep, after the antidote were administered.

                                  the  red  keep’s  gardens  offered  what  the  city  had  little,  fresh  air;  the  smell  of  blooming  roses  and  hydrangeas;  some  beauty  amidst  stone  and  newly  created  city.  it  was  impressive  that  the  city  was  able  to  grow  so  fast,  from  the  shed  the  conqueror  built  when  he  first  landed  with  his  dragons.  maybe  elyas  could  use  their  time  to  venture  in  the  city  and  speak  with  its  builders  and  stonemasons,  such  mastery  should  be  brought  to  beautify  oldtown  instead.  with  all  these  nobles  staying  under  the  same  roof,  with  emotions  high  after  a  mass  poisoning,  the  red  keep  could  be  slightly  suffocating.  or  mayhaps  he  was  on  edge  for  other  reasons,  for  the  guilt  and  the  restlessness  that  came  with  their  delayed  visit.  when  the  first  ravens  arrived,  still  on  the  very  day  lady  lannister  was  recorded  screaming  for  her  father,  maester  olyvar  wrote  directly  to  elyas’  lord  father  and  grandmaester  mace  confirmed  before  the  dawn  of  the  day.  but  they  waited  and  bid  their  time.  the  longer  the  waited  the  more  desperate  the  lord  hand  would  become,  his  sister  ceryse  assured  them  and  she  was  found  correct.

                                  after  reaching  the  great  oak  tree  that  passed  as  the  heathen  godswood  in  the  keep,  elyas  sat  down  on  a  bench  and  his  stroll  was  interrupted  by  another  person  wishing  to  speak  about  the  poisoning  and  the  recovery  of  the  ill.  it  had  not  been  the  first  one,  nor  the  second.  others  had  received  their  coming  with  less  grace.  ❛❛ —  house  hightower  accepts  your  thanks,  my  liege. —  ❞  he  nodded  solemnly,  a  cordial  and  agreeable  smile  on  his  face.  house  hightower  had  established  enmities  but  they  arrived  at  king’s  landing  to  cultivate  allies.  he  feared  his  father’s  early  actions  already  would  require  some  smoothing  over.

[faatedones]

the  lady  of  the  crag  is  lucky  to  have  thus  remain  unscathed  by  the  sudden  illness  that  strikes  the  keep.  soon,  they  would  learn  that  this  was  no  regular  illness  –  but  poison  at  work.  she  is  in  complete  shock,  though  it  quickly  kicks  her  mind  into  gear.  she  tries  her  hardest  to  investigate,  to  get  to  the  root  of  the  issue.  who  caused  this?  who  wished  for  the  deaths  of  these  people?

when  she  receives  word  that  her  nephew  has  come  to  finally  show  face,  she  sighs.  it  does  not  surprise  her  that  he  comes  now.  he  arrives  like  some  bad  omen.

elissa  makes  her  way  into  the  courtyard  to  receive  him.  not  only  this,  but  gods,  does  she  need  some  fresh  air.  the  keep,  filled  with  so  many  still  ill,  has  become  stuffy  and  suffocating.  lifting  her  skirts,  she  descends  the  stairs  just  as  the  gates  are  opening  for  his  arrival.  elissa  scowls  at  the  sight  of  him.

she  is  quick  to  wipe  the  expression  from  her  features,  though.

“luckily,  i  am.  many  others  were  not  so  fortunate.”  her  tone  is  solemn,  and  serious.  unlike  his.  “and  how  have  you  fared,  nephew?  i  trust  your…  travels  were  pleasant.”

[valarrghulis]

                                     addam  stared  at  her  over  his  shoulder,  unimpressed.  his  father  letters  said  nothing  of  his  aunt  receiving  him.  her  solemn  serious  tone  aggravated  him  more  than  anything,  and  in  response,  his  acknowledgement  of  her  came  dripping  in  sarcasm.  ❛❛ —  sweet  aunt.  I  was  not  expecting  you.  did  father  sent  you?  —  ❞  was  that  lord  alester’s  idea  of  legitimacy,  did  he  feel  addam  would  be  happy  that  he  sent  his  westerling  sister  to  receive  him  in  the  keep?  when  addam  thought  of  family,  he  rarely  included  her;  his  father’s  younger  sister,  younger  than  addam  even,  no  matter  how  status  as  the  de-facto  lady  of  the  crag  while  his  father  ruminated  higher  ambitions.  for  now.  he  was  his  father’s  oldest  son.  his  aunt  always  needed  to  be  reminded  of  that.                                       she  never  missed  an  opportunity  to  remind  him  of  his  perceived  crimes.  ❛❛ —  many  others.  ruining  father’s  carefully  arranged  kingsmoot,  that’s  unfortunate.  taliesin  told  me  shiera  fell  ill,  but  she  should  be  fine  now. —  ❞  he  added,  giving  the  his  horse’s  reins  to  the  closest  stableboy,  carefree  attitude  that  was  far  from  what  he  was  actually  feeling.  unfortunate  for  the  disturbance  in  lord  alester’s  plan,  but  not  for  the  victims.  when  taliesin  listed  the  important  ones,  shiera  was  the  only  one  who  could  spark  any  concern  in  addam’s  heart.  his  aunt’s  bleeding  heart  and  empty  politeness  barely  registered.  ❛❛ —  pleasant.  now  that  is  a  way  to  put  it.  essos  can  be  quite  pleasant  on  the  right  circumstances.  —  ❞  he  answered,  pulling  his  hands  behind  his  back,  a  large  tall  man  playing  in  innocent  word  evasion,  as  if  his  travels  from  essos  had  been  mere  pleasure  trips  rich  noblemen  could  engage  at.  he  knew  the  truth.  aunt  elissa  knew  the  truth.  addam  suspected  she  knew  way  more  than  him.  ❛❛ —  but  now  I  am  back  to  westeros.  on  father’s  orders,  nonetheless.  he  will  need  any  help  he  can  get.  not  all  of  us  can  burrow  ourselves  in  the  crag.  but  you  would  not  do  that,  would,  aunt?  you  are  here  to  support  father?  —  ❞  he  wondered,  he  intentions  were  always  so  veiled,  so  clouded  in  the  righteousness  she  dressed  herself  with  as  easily  as  if  it  was  silk.  addam  would  prefer  to  know  exactly  where  his  aunt  elissa  was  standing  before  he  followed  his  father’s  ambitious  claims.

[steelworn]

falyn  had  done  nothing  but  worry  over  the  course  of  the  weeks  passing.  the  idea  that  her  grandfather  did  not  wish  to  write  back  to  those  pleading  for  his  help  made  something  bitter  rise  within  her.  it  was  hard  to  do  considering  falyn  had  tried  not  to  keep  enemies  as  they  did  her  house  no  good,  but  push  them  further  away  from  what  they  had  desired.  but  she  could  not  ignore  the  cruelty  her  grandfather  had  displayed  when  he  claimed  to  be  a  man  pious  and  faithful.  if  he  were,  he  would  have  helped  with  no  questions  asked.  he  would  not  have  dangled  an  ultimatum  in  front  of  the  council:  master  of  laws  and  an  antidote  or  they  turned  their  party  around  back  to  oldtown.  it  made  her  sick  to  even  think  about,  so  much  so  that  needing  a  breath  of  fresh  air  away  from  it  all  felt  better  than  letting  the  stifled  halls  of  the  red  keep  hold  her  any  longer. it  is  on  the  way  to  the  grand  sept  —  a  place  that  would  calm  her  —  when  her  sins  would  make  themselves  known  again.  a  voice  makes  her  head  snap  to  her  left,  one  she  had  not  heard  in  many  moons  and  one  she  had  done  most  of  the  last  two  years  trying  to  forget.  sins  will  always  come  back  to  you,  she  hears  her  mother's  voice  inside  of  her  head,  you  cannot  run  from  them  for  they  find  you  until  you  have  repented.  she  had  yet  to  do  so,  afraid  the  sin  she  created  would  disappear  and  falyn  knew  that  would  break  her  more  than  him  leaving  ever  had.  "i  seem  well?"  it  takes  everything  in  falyn  not  to  laugh,  to  sneer,  something  hollow  settling  inside  of  her  chest. instead,  like  the  put  together  young  lady  she  is  —  the  heir  to  highgarden,  to  the  mander  —  she  forces  a  smile  upon  her  cheeks.  "you  could  do  with  a  little  more  respect  for  the  sick,  ser,"  her  tone  is  sweet,  ever  syrupy  as  it  always  had  been  set  in  front  of  an  icy  chill.  why  was  he  even  back  within  westeros?  should  he  not  still  be  living  out  his  exile?  or  was  that  only  what  falyn  had  hoped  for  after  the  letter  she  sent  was  left  unanswered.  the  stems  of  rotten  golden  roses  begin  to  curl  into  her  heart.  "those  are  people,  not  pawns  in  a  silly  game."  but  weren't  they?  hadn't  that  been  why  they  were  all  gathered  here  in  the  first  place?  "though  i  figured  exile  would  teach  you  nothing.  what  has  brought  you  clomping  back  into  king's  landing  then?" 

[valarrghulis]

                                    it  was  his  own  fault  for  not  anticipating  that  she  would  be  here.  mere  castellans  before  the  conquest,  the  tyrells  now  fashioned  themselves  of  the  noblest  of  bloods  in  the  kingdom.  and  with  them  came  falyn,  their  flower.  he  should  have  been  more  careful  and  utilised  this  clever  brain  of  his  to  avoid  her  in  the  place  familiar  to  him,  not  to  her;  circumstances  had  indeed  changed.  when  his  blue-green  eyes  set  on  the  small  figure  of  falyn,  the  hardness  in  her  features  surprised  him  more  than  her  boldness  for  answering  him  in  public.  forced  smiles  did  not  suit  her.  he  let  the  silence  prolong  for  a  couple  of  heartbeats,  until  he  was  sure  she  had  nothing  else  to  say  before  he  could  even  open  his  mouth.  ❛❛ — my  father’s  mercy,  lady  falyn.  that  is  what  brought  me  back  to  westeros,  I  am  always  his  faithful  servant.  —  ❞  he  answered  evading  the  real  answer.  putting  his  hands  behind  his  back,  a  deferent  and  polite  position  one  would  be  required  to  assume  before  a  lady  of  falyn's  station.  when  addam  was  doing  it,  she  would  know  it  tasted  more  like  mockery.  of  the  abyss  between  them  and  the  caves  he  himself  carved  in  that  distance  between  two  bodies  when  he  left  highgarden  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  avoided  her  letters  across  the  sea.  was  avoidance  a  worse  sin  than  deflowering  a  virtuous  maiden?  he  wondered  as  his  eyes  grazed  every  freckle  in  her  sun-kissed  face.  mercy  was  certainly  a  twisted  way  of  describing  it.  ❛❛ — exile  if  my  father  wanted  to  teach  me  good  manners  he  would  have  brought  me  to  his  household  a  little  sooner.  —  ❞  his  lips  stretched  in  a  sardonic  smile.

                                    for  all  the  trouble  he  caused  his  father,  and  addam  was  oh  so  aware  of  his  roguish  nature,  lord  alester  would  not  let  him  linger  in  essos  after  the  death  of  king  aegor.  he  was  lord  regent  of  the  kingdom  now,  if  he  was  willing  to  set  up  a  kingsmoot  to  stir  all  lords  from  the  seven  regions,  ending  his  son's  exile  was  nothing  for  him.  the  letters  were  heavy  inside  his  doublet,  the  letters  that  spoke  of  trouble  in  the  family  and  in  his  political  prospects,  what  family,  addam  wondered.  was  affection  that  kept  him  holding  his  bastards  close?  was  loneliness?  who  else  he  had  on  his  side  if  not  his  vagrant  children?  there  was  no  more  hiding  behind  a  boyhood  friendship.  addam  could  spend  hours  wondering  the  question  and  never  come  to  a  satisfying  answer.  all  the  devotion  the  loathing  the  envy  the  neglect  the  desperation  that  involved  his  relationship  with  his  father  would  cloud  any  sound  judgment  he  could  make.  he  had  the  habit  of  second-guessing  his  father's  actions  and  twisting  until  it  was  the  blade  he  pointed  towards  his  sire;  but  still  lord  alester  would  bring  addam  back.  was  that  love?

                                    or  love  was  what  he  carved  amidst  lies  in  those  stolen  moments  in  highgarden  falyn  so  beautifully  provoked  in  his  memory  just  by  standing  there  in  front  of  him  with  doe  eyes  trying  so  hard,  he  could  see,  he  could  always  see  her,  to  play  the  proper  lady.  but  that  was  sentiment  neither  of  them  would  have  time  for  at  the  moment,  not  at  the  circumstances.  the  red  keep  had  eyes  and  even  the  rats  could  report  to  someone  for  the  right  price.  this  was  no  place  for  a  bastard  to  be  romancing  a  lady  of  high  birth  under  orange  trees,  even  if  falyn  was  interested  again.  slowly  and  languid  as  a  cat  —  letting  her  decide  if  she  would  turn  around  and  leave  him,  they  had  played  this  game  before  —  he  approached  her,  stopping  mere  steps  before  her,  letting  his  palms  fall  beside  his  body  now.  ❛❛ —  I  thought  you  would  be  happy  to  see  me.  or  at  least  less  hostile.  you  knew  I  would  not  be  able  to  stay.  —  ❞  it  was  his  turn  to  play  innocent,  even  devoid  of  pretty  brown  eyes.  he  wondered  if  she  would  start  throwing  accusations  at  his  feet,  for  a  time  they  both  enjoyed  and  that  had  to  end  one  way  or  another.  and  what  I  did  after  should  be  of  no  business  of  her.  if  he  stayed,  she  would  be  ruined.  he  would  have  been  ruined.  he  would  certainly  grown  to  her  in  the  end;  like  he  hates  his  mother,  his  father,  his  siblings  some  of  the  time.  someone  had  to  leave  first,  there  was  no  other  path.  he  would  accuse  her  of  sentimentalism  before  it  could  be  thrown  back  at  him.  ❛❛ —  there  are  no  reasons  for  tears,  falyn.  did  your  grandfather  not  come  to  save  the  day  straight  from  oldtown?  or  is  he  the  one  treating  them  as  mere  pawns?  —  ❞

[firedreamt]

he  was  alerted  of  the  hooves  as  they  cantered  to  the  yard.  an  unhurried  stride  carries  him  to  greet  his  brother,  the  plum  of  his  walking  cloak  swinging  with  the  gait  as  he  removes  the  cloth  from  his  face,  scrunching  nose  and  giving  a  long,  precarious  sniff  of  the  —  er,  well,  it's  not  pristine  air  here  in  king's  landing,  but  it  certainly  is  air.  a  chill  racks  down  his  spine  at  the  vacancies.  the  feast  long  since  the  ghost  and  now,  a  lord  and  maester's  silhouettes  becoming  more  puppets  for  the  nonexistent  gods  to  play  with.  almost  disappointing  that  addam  missed  it,  here  to  pick  up  the  dregs  of  the  results.  “  well,  i  would  certainly  fucking  hope  i'm  feeling  well.  if  i  wasn't,  then  it's  proof  we  curse  the  house!  ”  his  smile  spreads  as  do  his  arms.  he  approaches  addam  and  clutches  to  his  arms,  shaking  him  in  their  odd  but  truly  fraternal  embrace.  despite  the  rest  of  them  —  damn  the  rest  of  them  to  the  hells  really!  —  he  gladdens  at  the  sight  of  him,  weathered  from  the  ride  and  otherwise  unscathed. “  the  krakens.  don't  make  me  crave  fried  squid  at  a  time  like  this,  addam,  the  cooks  are  banned  from  the  kitchens  until  further  notice.  ”  raises  a  gloved  hand  towards  the  guards,  who  peer  at  them  with  errant  curiosity  and  that  same  intimidation  which  addam  felt  himself  giving.  oh,  the  gawking  never  gets  old.  and  it  isn't  even  that  taliesin  thrives  underneath  attention  or  seeks  it  out;  no,  they  are  far  too  used  to  fading  into  the  background  and  skulking  about.  coming  out  whenever  they  so  wish,  and  this  was  no  different.  no  doubt  the  others  wonder  who  so  dares  to  walk  around  so  boldly  in  the  keep,  who  doesn't  keep  their  voices  down  and  who  dares  to  disturb  the  status  quo,  yadi-yadi-yada.  “  no,  they  started  dropping  like  flies  before  even  a  dog  could  bark.  unfortunately  …  you  were  told,  weren't  you?  …  about  shiera.  ”  and  this,  one  of  the  only  times  taliesin  was  ever  seen  to  be  remotely  serious.  slows  in  his  accompanied  steps,  his  grip  tightening  on  his  brother.  “  they've  started  blaming  anybody  for  this.  but  why  would  we  be  targeted?  ”  taliesin  believes  shiera  to  have  been  collateral  damage  as  a  wine  consumer.  he  must  believe  it,  lest  he  go  mad  with  rage.  “  they'd  hire  us  on  as  jesters  and  bards  for  show.  ”  perhaps  the  show  involves  making  them  dance  post-mortem.  ugh,  he  despises  thinking  so  morbidly.

[valarrghulis]

                                    he  was  more  than  glad  to  recognize  the  voice  of  his  younger  brother,  the  youngest  of  the  hand's  bastard,  and  mayhaps  one  of  the  only  ones  that  would  be  glad  in  return  to  see  him.  taliesin  carried  himself  with  the  innate  confidence  and  grace  of  the  unbroken,  a  trait  addam  could  only  admire;  he  was  always  all  too  aware  of  the  furious  nature  brewing  inside  himself  to  be  so  carefree.  for  a  second,  addam  suspected  his  father  had  sent  taliesin  here  to  retrieve  him,  but  it  became  quickly  clear  that  he  was  acting  the  free  agent  once  more.  ❛❛ —  I  see  your  good  humour  never  left  you.  never  a  dull  moment  with  you.  —  ❞  addam  smiled  and  welcomed  his  brother's  touch,  also  wrapping  his  hands  around  the  other's  forearms  and  returning  the  slight  shake,  deciding  then  to  further  hug  his  brother,  wrapping  his  arms  around  the  shoulders  of  the  slightly  shorter  man.  it  was  easier  when  taliesin  was  significantly  shorter  than  himself,  when  they  were  children.  now,  there  were  less  inches  between  them.  they  have  not  seen  each  other  in  while,  he  would  forgive  his  sentimentality.  the  past  few  months  of  addam's  lives  consisted  mostly  of  jumping  from  one  place  to  another,  escaping  the  consequences  of  his  actions  and  the  suspicions  of  powerful  lords  with  a  grudge  and  the  law's  power  behind  them.  from  king's  landing  to  highgarden  to  the  crag  to  essos.  last  time  he  saw  taliesin  he  had  been  hurriedly  packing  his  belongings  to  catch  the  next  ship  to  essos  before  the  king  changed  his  minds  to  be  lenient  to  him  once  again.  ❛❛ — they  already  say  we  are  a  curse  to  the  house  and  to  our  father  as  if  westerlings  had  been  anything  but  bootlickers  and  lion's  consorts  in  the  past  century.  —  ❞  he  jested,  instinctively.  still  a  long  way  from  the  cobbler's  square,  and  the  thought  was  as  bitter  as  sour  leaves  in  his  mouth.

                                    before  addam  could  add  a  snarky  comment  regarding  the  ironborn,  he  found  himself  slightly  startled  by  taliesin's  question.  he  frowned,  blue-green  eyes  almost  disappearing  under  his  heavy  brow.  did  anything  happen  to  shiera?  was  she  lying  dead  in  the  corner  of  the  hand's  tower  because  they  would  not  treat  her  the  same  as  the  other  noblewomen?  his  father  had  not  informed  him  of  anything.  ❛❛ —  actually...  no.  has  shiera  fallen  ill?  what  are  the  reports  on  her  condition?  father's  letters  only  mentioned  the  mass  poisoning  and  that  something  happened  in  the  family.  I  am  here  waiting  for  him.  but  tell  me  everything,  brother.  —  ❞  curse  his  father's  foolishness.  addam  had  informed  him  days  ago  where  he  would  be  staying  while  the  caravans  arrived  and  the  harvest  feast  concluded,  he  should  have  sent  for  him  immediately  when  the  poisoned  started  falling  ill.  and  now  to  be  vague  in  letters  in  fear  of  spies  reading  his  letters,  foolishness;  it  would  only  be  the  words  of  a  concerned  father  to  his  eldest  son.  ❛❛ —  they  hate  the  hand  and  the  hand's  sins  paraded  in  the  keep,  taliesin.  never  underestimate  how  willing  they  are  to  get  rid  of  us.  if  I  am  to  be  honest,  I  am  more  worried  about  them  finding  a  way  to  blame  us.  —  ❞  addam  sighed,  he  did  not  share  his  brother's  lack  of  imagination;  he  had  felt  in  his  skin  since  he  was  a  child  that  most  of  them  could  conjecture  multiple  reasons  for  targeting  the  waters.  they  were  bastards.  they  were  expendable.  but,  oh,  it  was  always  delightful  to  prove  them  right.  to  make  them  taste  his  own  form  of  wretchedness.  ❛❛ —  they  tried  with  me,  shipped  to  the  rock,  shipped  to  essos.  but  I  must  admit  it  is  mostly  my  fault.  they  are  right  in  wanting  me  dead.  unfortunately  I  am  not  very  eager  to  comply  with  their  wishes.  —  ❞  he  smirked,  a  wicked  glint  in  his  blue-green  eyes.

[liver-y]

shiera waters, a bedside conversation with addam waters @valarrghulis in the sickrooms of the red keep, after an early antidote was brewed.

One moment, a septa had a hand upon her nape, bidding her to take slow and gentle sips of a foul-tasting concoction, one more in a series of many. She had accepted the caustic sludge that was so astringent she could scarce believe it as a curative, and snapped her tongue against the roof of her mouth a few times. This was all she remembered; the next moment Shiera was awake again. Bleary light played through  crusted lids, not so bright as to immediately inflict a headache. She raised a hand to block out the light, and felt the groan of her shoulders in response.

Something moved. Shiera squinted and forced herself to open her eyes, and saw a figure beside her bed. A blink, another, and her vision resolved, clarity restored. She was dreaming yet. Another hallucination, a vision of something she would never otherwise imagine by her sickbed. A peculiar addition to her earlier procession: septas, her mother, the old nursemaid, her mother. An arrangement Addam had no space in. Or else—

"Addam?" she asked the vision, hoarse. Her tongue dried, immediately, again.

[valarrghulis]

                                    addam  lounged  on  the  chair  for  a  couple  of  hours  until  shiera  actually  woke  up,  long  legs  crossed  beside  her  bed  and  distant  stare  fixed  on  the  stone  walls;  all  to  avoid  looking  at  his  sister  recovering.  she  was  a  pitiful  thing  in  her  bed,  and  a  sentiment  so  alike  concern  bloomed  in  him  that  he  had  to  push  it  deep  down.  he  caressed  her  hand  instead,  a  soft  touch.  they  bickered  more  than  they  agreed  with  each  other,  and  addam  always  pushed  her  to  her  limits.  to  bite  back.  to  stand  up.  to  do  something  more  with  your  life.  you  cannot  be  both  lamb  and  knife,  so  why  would  she  want  to  keep  being  father’s  pretty  weapon  to  use  and  abuse.  but  she  was  his  sister,  in  the  end.  and  they  came  from  the  same  place.  when  he  noticed  her  stirr,  he  blinked  at  her.  ❛❛ —  always  with a  ploy  for  attention,  shiera. —  ❞  addam  said  softly,  lips  stretching  in  a  derisive  smirk,  but  he  did  not  mean  it  as  an  insult.  the  truth  cannot  be  an  insult.  in  one  way  or  another,  the  three  of  them  would  always  be  vying  for  their  father  attention  when  birth  and  shared  blood  did  not  guarantee  any.  he  could  have  teased  her  more,  like  when  they  were  children,  but  her  brown  eyes  were  so  clouded  by  confusion  and  her  skin  was  a  sickening  pallid  grey,  he  did  not  have  the  heart.  addam  was  probably  the  last  person  she  was  expecting  on  her  sickroom,  but  shiera  should  jave  expected  it.  who  else  besides  family  did  she  have  in  the  red  keep?  ❛❛ —  yes,  'tis  me.  in  your  sickbed,  do  not  mistake  for  any  hallucinations.  your  fever  was  so  high  you  mistook  it  as  fire  and  screamed  bloody  murder.  but  not  alone.  —  ❞  he  glanced  quickly  around  the  sick  room,  hightower  men  and  maesters  were  administering  more  doses  of  the  antidote,  they  informed  the  poisoned's  kin  that  it  would  require  more  than  one  try.  some  people  he  recognized,  some,  only  by  the  sigils  in  their  cloth  or  on  the  breast  of  their  servants.

                                    he  watched  her  with  keen  eyes  for  every  reaction,  every  symptom.  danger  had  not  been  conquered  yet,  addam  expected  that  trouble  would  continue  to  follow  them  until  the  kingsmoot  was  resolved.  what  if  the  hightowers  were  wrong?  one  already  died,  and  a  ruling  lord  with  a  powerful  claim  to  the  throne  —  their  lord  paramount,  of  the  westerlands.  sometimes,  addam  forgot  those  origins  were  supposed  to  matter.  his  time  at  casterly  rock  so  easily  forgotten,  so  easily  abhorred.  addam  moved  from  the  chair  next  to  her  to  sit  beside  her  on  the  bed,  careful  to  not  jolt  her  too  much,  but  he  wished  to  speak  secrets  in  the  lowest  voice.  they  were  not  alone  in  the  sickroom,  but  hardly  anyone  was  paying  attention  to  the  hand's  bastards  whom  they  called  the  hand's  children  only  in  polite  conversation.  ❛❛ —  they  are  saying  it  was  poison.  in  the  wine.  all  eyes  are  on  the  lannisters.  on  the  redwynes.  and  on  hightowers  that  decided  to  climb  down  their  towers  with  a  convenient  antidote  in  exchange  of  a  position  on  the  council.  —  ❞  he  was  not  sure  someone  had  informed  shiera  of  the  important  details  yet.  certainly  their  father  would  not  be  boring  his  only  daughters  with  the  ugly  details,  he  was  a  sentimental  fool.  ❛❛ —  you  just  cost  father  a  master  of  laws  position,  shiera.  —  ❞  he  said,  bluntly.  ❛❛ —  but  i  am  glad  you  are  alive.  —  ❞  and  this  time  the  smile  he  offered  his  sister  was  almost  warm.

[tearsofalyssa]

where: within the guest chambers assigned to house tully within the red keep

when: after the death of lord cerion lannister

with: any member of house tully

"Hold still." Not a request, but a command, as Sabitha presses her hand, fingers first, then palm, against her relative's forehead. A moment later, she trails it down to wrap around their cheek, cold rings, practically sparkling with gemstones of deep, dark Tully blues and reds, digging into their flesh. Appeased, for the moment, she draws her hand back, face almost blank if not for the typical stern furrow between her brows. Her arm now hangs limply against her midnight blue gown, the darkest she could find within her packed trunk; she had assumed they were journeying for a kingsmoot, not a funeral, after all.

"No fever." She informs them, as she has done daily since the first bout of illness was announced. "Though, continue trying your best to stay away from Lord Father, lest he fall ill." A silly thing to say; the spread of news a long time ago had already alerted them that it was poison rather than plague that afflicted their fellow noblemen. He can survive a few days by his lonesome, however; she is certain it would do him some good. "And the Lannisters....That Mara Lannister is quite suspicious; who knows which of her brethren would have jumped at the chance to," Her next words come as a whisper, though no one but the gods can hear the pair within the Tully guest chambers, "Slay kin." A pause. "And House Redwyne, naturally. I hear some of them were quite insistent on everyone partaking in the merriment." Her dark brown eyes roll, then her neutral expression is immediately replaced with a sneer, "And do not even think of getting close to the ironborn! Of course, they would rejoice during such terrifying times. They would have all of our heads mounted atop pikes on the morrow if they could have it their way."

Truly, the only ones worthy of trust were her own kin....Simple, though they all were.

[valarrghulis]

                                    she  frowned  at  all  the  administrations  by  the  oldest  tully,  closing  her  eyes  and  letting  herself  be  fussed  over  by  her  aunt,  stern  and  cold  as  she  has  always  been.  amerei  felt  her  pulse  still  violent  against  her  chest  with  the  news  of  lord  lannister's  death.  it  could  have  been  grandfather  so  easily,  it  all  depended  on  the  flippant  will  of  the  gods.  ❛❛ — since  when  you  are  a  maester,  aunt  sabitha?  and  who  is  watching  you  for  a  fever?  —  ❞  amerei  asked  when  sabitha  seemed  appeased  with  her  thorough  testing.  even  if  she  had  been  one,  she  would  not  find  anything  wrong  with  amerei.  she  felt  perfectly  fine,  no  sign  of  the  disease  that  was  keeping  noblefolk  in  the  sickroom.  amerei  brought  her  own  hands  to  sabitha's  forehead,  despite  any  indignation  her  aunt  would  certainly  proclaim  to  feel.  she  tapped  once  and  twice,  not  feeling  any  clamminess  or  heat,  so  she  smiled  and  dropped  the  farse.  the  house  of  tully  survived  to  enjoy  another  day.  ❛❛ — but  I  wish  to  speak  with  him.  certainly  i  should  not  be  denied  an  audience  with  mine  own  grandfather.  —  ❞  she  whined,  like  a  child  denied  to  go  outside  when  it  was  pouring  rain.  she  even  dared  to  pout  a  bit;  it  usually  worked  with  grandfather  balan.  sometimes  amerei  felt  sabitha  thought  her  a  burden  and  turned  herself  into  a  hindrance  to  amerei's  care  for  her  grandfather.  it  was  a  feeling  that  crawled  under  the  skin  with  the  same  fear  of  being  caught  red-handed  in  the  wrong;  impossible  to  deny  and  impossible  to  push  away  from  her  mind.

                                    amerei  leaned  completely  on  the  cushions  of  the  clothed  bench  they  were  sitting  on,  trying  to  get  some  comfort  from  pillows  and  silk.  ❛❛ — do  not  speak  of  lady  mara  that  way.  she  is  an  old  friend.  it  is  not  in  her  nature  to  being  a  kinslayer.  —  ❞  mara  was  beautiful  and  delightful  and  formidable,  she  was  not  a  murderer  or  a  poisoner.  when  amerei  pictured  the  culprit  in  her  mind  it  was  an  ugly  figure,  with  a  hunch  and  a  black  soul  apparent  in  their  face.  only  someone  like  that  would  dare  to  poison  the  wine.  she  did  not  bother  to  argue  with  sabitha  in  favor  of  the  redwynes.  amerei  was  not  close  to  them,  and  had  heard  whispers  of  them  being  very  proud  of  the  baskets  of  wine  they  brought  to  the  feast,  the  same  way  grandfather  brought  shipments  of  riverfish  to  remind  them  of  tully's  claim.

                                    another  shiver  went  down  her  spine,  bringing  goosebumps  to  her  whole  skin.  it  was  frightening  how  close  to  death  they  all  came  to  be.  only  a  matter  of  luck  that  no  tully  was  laying  down  in  the  keep's  sickroom  that  fortnight.  they  had  tragedies  of  their  own,  she  remembered  lady  nayana  with  a  pang  in  her  heart,  a  dear  person  to  her  who  was  married  to  their  knuckle.  a  hole  in  the  family  their  somber  eyes  still  haunt.  ❛❛ — I  should  sent  for  my  son.  he's  staying  with  the  mallister's  castellan.  —  ❞  she  said,  notwithstanding  staying  seated,  barefoot  and  in  silky  robes.  amerei  found  herself  distracted  by  the  thoughts  of  the  ironborn.  ❛❛ — surely  the  ironborn  will  be  found  guilty.  an  attack  on  all  the  great  houses  of  westeros  during  a  kingsmoot!  it  is  how  things  are  done  in  the  islands,  with  murder  and  deceitfulness.  brother  against  brother.  —  ❞  amerei  whispered,  getting  slightly  agitated.  she  had  never  paid  much  attention  to  jason's  opinions  on  political  matters,  even  those  that  concerned  the  riverlands.  but  she  remembered  her  late  husband  commenting  on  the  events  that  transpired  in  the  last  kingsmoot  that  happened  in  the  iron  islands,  and  how  the  greyjoys  brothers  were  feuding  with  axes  and  someone  else's  son  died.  there  was  something  corrupted  in  their  saltwater  and  rock  terrain.

[valarrghulis]

 the  hand  of  the  late  king  welcomes  sir  elyas hightower,  the lord of oldtown, to  the  kingsmoot.  the  realm  knows  them  to  be  inquisitive and  reliable,  but  the  master  of  whisperers  has  unearthed  information  that  speaks  to  their  zealous  and  amoral  tendencies.  to  dream  of  them  would  be  to  dream  of holy flames lightning up the starry sept, crystal projecting rainbows, velvet, rough texture of fully-written parchment, weighted iron of responsibilities and other’s sins, heat from a forge, a guard’s watchtower, the cabin of a fishing ship, calluses on your bloody fingers after hard labor when one should be the noble heir.  they  themselves  dream  of  house  hightower  on  the  throne.  time  is  an  unwieldy  mistress,  and  only  she  may  tell  who  will  sit  the  iron  throne  when  the  dust  settles. 

I. STATS.

NAME: elyas hightower. NICKNAME: ely (for his wife and siblings only, please). AGE: seven and thirty DATE OF BIRTH: sixteenth day of the first moon . PLACE OF BIRTH: hightower, oldtown.    GENDER: cis male. PRONOUNS: he/him. SEXUAL ORIENTATION: bisexual. RELIGION: faith of the seven. TITLE: heir of oldtown.   LANGUAGES: common tongue, high valyrian, bastard valyrian, bravosi, the summer tongue mostly for trade. AFFILIATION: house hightower.

FACECLAIM: richard madden. HAIR COLOR: black, with a graying lock in his fringe, noticeable. HAIR STYLE: cut short, wavy and put together. EYE COLOR: light blue. HEIGHT: 6'0.  CLOTHING STYLE: for a member of house hightower, elyas dresses modestly and with no intention of declaring the wealth of his house through fashion. usually doublets in dark grey, black or green, with no embroidery except the hightower coat of arms, and no extravagant jewellery except for his signet ring, as is his duty as an heir, and a pendant with a simple hammer he keeps inside his clothes, the smith's emblem. khol eyes with eyeliner from tyrosh on special occasions, a fellow acolyte taught him how to wear in his youth.  DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS: the white streak in his hair. electric blue eyes. scarred hands.   SCAR(S): multiple scars on his hands from the forge, the training ground and labor tools. a cut on his thigh from a tourney. a whipping lash, two inches wide, around his ribs, punishment for when he dared to refuse a lesson.

MOTHER: lady rohanne hightower née hewett.  FATHER: lord perceon hightower. SIBLING(S): lady posey tyrell née hightower (deceased), lord orland hightower (deceased), lady  ceryse  hightower, ser  willas  hightower, lady seraphina  hightower, lady aelora hightower. SIGNIFICANT  OTHER(S): lady alienor hightower née fossoway. CHILDREN: tbd.

II. BIOGRAPHY.

perceon hightower was a man who believed in omens, and most importantly, he believed he alone would be able to interpret the signs the gods were sending their most devout house: the beacon of oldtown, defender of the citadel, protector of the faith. before he could even do more than babble at his nursemaid, his father devised a plan for his life, and for the life of every child the couple would produce in the upcoming years. their plans were almost subdued by faith, since it took almost seven years after their first child for rohanne's womb to quicken again. elyas was born the second son, but groomed as the heir. for posey — dear posey, their father's favorite lamb to slaughter — was promised to marriage, and therefore abdicated her rights as the firstborn, to their paramount lieges in highgarden.

his childhood was a complicated one, he was not an independent human being, he was liquid metal to be forged under perceon's hands. if elyas were to be raised in the form of the smith, first he would need to learn how to be devout to the laborer god. the child was soon put to study in the citadel, no matter how much he cried and complained. it was not rebellion, elyas had not an ounce of mutinous spirit in him, but only the childish rejection of the long hours he was put to study, more advanced than any other heir in history. twelve... thirteen... fourteen hours under the candlelight in the deepest of the citadel's vaults and topmost of its towers. no expense was spared for his education, he was to be maester-trained in all the arts the citadel studies, to forge links with his own sweat and blood but never to complete his vows.

part of his upbringing was also to shadow his father in his duties, but also other members of his household. elyas was to spend a fortnight with the captain of the guard and help him with duties like a squire and stand watch with him when necessary. and then the main forger from the armory in the throes of heat. and then the masons rebuilding the eastern wall of oldtown. whoever prayed to the smith, elyas was to observe and suffer together. certainly if other noblemen knew fully what happened in the house hightower they would find lord perceon's ideas more extreme than what would normally appear. who would treat his heir like that? only a zealous man, with faith in his omens, and low tolerance for disappointments.

despite all he endured in his education, it was the time he spent in the citadel elyas happened to enjoy the most. if it was not for his father's influence and the trust he put in elyas, trust that was thorny and demanding like vines wrapped on one's throat, elyas would have followed the life of a maester; meeting his wife was the only balm to his life, without her, the weight of unlived freedom would have certainly be too much to endure. his sister ceryse, the wise one, was his company in the citadel, in their strenuous studies they found the bond of the oldest children left in their father's grasp - the weight of responsibility and bloodline ambition.

you are to be the smith, elyas, you are to fix what is broken, to steady what's and to keep the family strong when i am gone. it was his father's mantra. he was the constant, the steadfast older sibling. their protector and their delator. the one who hold their hand and hug them when they needed comfort, but who could not offer them absolution.

elyas was late to knighthood. he was more interested in the maester's life and physically too spent from his father's more unorthodox lessons. an ultimatum was needed for him to seek those useless spurs; and it was an holy affair, to devote your body and mind to the gods in knighthood. lord perceon was a diligent lord and nothing happened in his city without his knowledge or permission, but for that he made great use of his oldest son, his right hand. after his five and twenty birthday and his late knighthood, elyas was appointed captain of the city watch of oldtown and also of his father's personal guard - a meager and protocolary guard for no one would dare to attack a hightower in oldtown.

the glass candles are his deepest fascination. the citadel possesses three that are part of a maester's vow and since the first time he was presented one during a lesson in skepticism and essosi magic. elyas believes deeply that is the way the gods are communicating with them — did the fervor of his father pass down to him like a disease? was he as enlightned? — , the scrolls in the hightower's library spoke of magic and andal rituals, and the glass candles burned brighter no matter the maester's efforts to dispute it. convincing perceon to acquire one from essos was not an easy feature, and it may be the first time elyas had quarraled with perceon in years. but in the end, elyas got his wish done and one was shipped to hightower. now the glass candle travels with him to the kingsmoot, deep in his personal storage, to be studied diligently, while they press their claim to the throne of westeros.

[verithaunt]

#OPEN, THE SEVENTH DAY . AT THE RED KEEP'S SICKROOMS, WISHING TO LEAVE AND BEING A PUBLIC DISTURBANCE TO THE NEARBY POOR SOULS . ( 0 / 4 )

it's   a   familiar   sight,   when   there's   nothing   to   do   or   observe:   swinging   her   legs   off   a   usually   precarious   ledge   where   she   shouldn't   be,   bird-watching   or   soaking   in   the   sun.   there   is   no   view   of   the   sky   here,   only   endless   stone   that   if   stared   at   long   enough   could   be   thought   to   be   the   walls   of   harrenhal,   if   only   more   well-kept,   less   dusty,   and   with   far   less   cracks   in   the   walls.   she's   taken   it   upon   herself   to   continue   her   routine,   kicking   her   feet   against   the   wood   of   the   bedframe   in   an   almost-rhythmic   cacophony   of   thumping.   it   distracts   from   the   lingering   pain   in   her   head   to   a   certain   extent,   if   not   also   to   relieve   boredom.   a   far   louder   sound   echoes   from   down   the   hall,   crashing   of   wood   against   stone   raucous.   she   can   feel   the   tide   of   her   irritation   lapping   at   higher   shores,   face   twisted   into   an   almost-scowl   as   legs   contract   back   into   mattress.   her   hands   grip   onto   the   haphazardly   pushed   back   sheets   by   her   side,   interest   peaked   yet   armed   with   the   wish   to   have   nothing   to   do   with   it   (   the   eternal   standoff:   should   she   poke   the   bear,   watch   somebody   poke   the   bear,   or   go   back   to   sleep   ?   ),   &   can   only   lightly   sigh.   "   just   what   was   that?   "   anything   can   be   of   interest,   distract   her   enough   from   the   ache   in   her   body   is   a   welcome   thing.   "   do   you   know?   "

[valarrghulis]

                                    her  careful  steps  still  echoed  in  the  sickroom,  it  would  have  been  impossible  not  to,  not  when  it  was  as  silent  as  a  grave;  but  at  least  she  was  putting  in  the  effort  of  not  being  a  bother.  only  the  rhythmic  thumping  was  louder  than  her  footsteps.  amerei  only  glanced  at  her,  imagining  it  was  someone  on  the  throes  of  the  poisoning.  her  maid  said  the  servants  heard  screams  and  thrashing  and  that  most  of  them  tried  to  gouge  out  their  own  eyes.  her  whole  family  had  been  spared,  thanks  to  the  gods,  so  she  was  spared  the  horrid  visions.  if  she  was  honest  with  herself,  amerei  should  not  have  been  here.  her  aunt  sabitha  had  already  lectured  her  multiple  times  about  the  situation.  you  will  bring  sickness  inside.  to  grandfather.  to  your  parents.  she  said  before  they  were  informed  that  it  was  poisoned.  and  after,  when  they  were  cleared  from  any  illdoing,  it  was  always  at  the  cadence  of  do  not  get  close  to  them.  but  amerei  was  a  curious  being  with  a  strong  belief  that  the  worst  had  already  passed.

                                    she  thought  of  spying  the  sickroom.  she  heard  that  lady  helvis  baratheon  had  been  sicck.  and  lady  amaya  arryn  was  still  clinging  to  life  with  the  ferocity  of  a  falcon.  all  ladies  of  great  renown  that  she  had  interacted  with  recently,  before  the  feast,  and  she  respected  them  enough  to  come  visit  them  to  see  if  they  wished  for  company.  but  before  reaching  the  beds  where  noble  ladies  were  laid,  a  loud  sound  interrupted  that  constant  thumping  and  a  question  cutting  the  silence  made  her  jump.  amerei  put  her  hand  on  her  chest,  to  help  her  breathing.  the  woman's  questions  actually  startled  her  more  than  the  noise  in  the  hall.  she  had  not  been  expecting  anyone  to  speak  to  her,  especially  not  aybüke  rivers,  from  harrenhall.  amerei  glanced  at  the  halls,  seeing  only  the  tail  of  a  household  cat  disappearing  in  a  corner,  after  it  stumbled  on  armory.  ❛❛ —  it  was  only  a  cat,  aybüke.  they  use  them  to  hunt  the  rodents  of  the  keep,  it  cannot  harm  you.  do  not  tell  me  that  you  are  afraid  of  your  own  shadow  now?  —  ❞  she  smiled,  falling  easily  on  her  usual  ways  of  bickering  with  the  younger  woman,  hard  not  to  do  when  you  know  each  other  since  they  were  children  and  come  from  the  same  region.  the  younger  woman  seemed  so  fragile  even  with  her  wilful  ways,  it  softened  her  heart.  ❛❛ —  I  should  not  be  jesting.  you  endured  something  horrible.  I  really  did  pray  that  you  could  make  it  through  the  night.  is  there  anything  you  need  at  the  moment?  a  maester?  some  tea  with  honey  to  calm  your  nerves?  —  ❞  offered  amerei,  with  the  gentlest  tone  in  her  voice.  she  was  almost  proud  of  her  magnanimity  towards  a  rivers,  but  that's  what  liege  ladies  are  supposed  to  do  for  those  below  her.

[valarrghulis]

STATUS: SEMI-OPEN (03/04) LOCATION: the courtyard of the red keep; after the arrival of the hightowers with the antidote

                                    after  returning  to  westeros,  addam's  plan  was  to  delay  his  arrival  by  at  least  a  fortnight.  lay  low  before  the  kingsmoot  as  all  the  nobles  rejoiced  and  reunited,  and  then  slip  inside  to  join  the  hand's  retinue  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  most  of  them  would  not  be  aware  of  anything.  and  those  who  would,  his  aunt,  his  siblings,  the  lannisters  would  be  otherwise  preoccupied.  for  over  seven  days  he  stayed  at  a  tavern  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  not  his  mother's;  never  his  mother's.  he  had  never  stepped  a  foot  over  that  threshold  ever  since  his  father's  guards,  dressed  in  fine  cloaks  displaying  shells.  plenty  a  decade  had  passed  but  addam  still  recorded  noticing  how  he  had  never  seen  clean  shells  before,  for  their  cream  color  to  be  immortalized  as  an  westerling  crest.  therefore,  not  in  his  mother's  tavern,  but  a  more  respectable  one,  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  city.  alas,  circumstances  had  changed.  at  first  he  did  not  believe,  taking  the  story  to  be  a  mere  fisherman's  tale,  they  were  prone  to  delusions  and  mirages,  it  was  known.  but  then  his  father's  letter  arrived,  not  dictated  by  a  maester,  but  with  urgent  fervor,  and  he  could  not  delay  his  entrance  to  the  red  keep  no  more.

                                    as  he  arrived  ahorse  late  in  the  morning,  he  smirked  at  the  astonished  eyes  of  the  guards  and  servants  that  crossed  his  way.  they  recognized  him  and  that  made  them  even  warier  of  his  coming  at  such  conturbed  times.  addam  stayed  at  the  courtyard,  where  his  father  informed  him  they  were  to  meet.  the  emptiness  was  unfamiliar.  no  sounds  of  knights  training,  noblemen  and  women  promenading,  nor  servants  scurrying  around.  it  was  slightly  unsettling  to  see  the  red  keep  so  silent,  it  was  hiding  its  daggers  away.  ❛❛ —  never  a  dull  moment  in  king's  landing,  for  sure.  —  ❞  he  drawled  once  he  noticed  steps  sounding  on  the  cobblestones,  derision  in  the  undertones  of  his  voice.  his  father's  letter  now  crumbles  in  the  pockets  of  his  doublet,  he  turned  to  the  person  to  satisfy  his  morbid  curiosity.  ❛❛ —  from  the  tales  they  are  spreading  at  the  harbour,  one  would  think  the  entire  keep  was  found  dead  at  the  hour  of  the  wolf,  and  krakens  reigned  over  us.  you  seem  well,  my  liege.  —  ❞ he stated, unimpressed.

[bladeofdreadfort]

Aegon & Baelor Targaryen A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms | s1e4 'Seven'

[valarrghulis]

@ all the hightowerlings i am lazy

[inkpressedpetals]

[richardmaddendaily]

cosimo de’ medici in every episode | 1x03 pestilence

[selquet]

RICHARD MADDEN as Oliver Mellors in LADY CHATTERLEY’S LOVER (2015)

[valarrghulis]

the  hand  of  the  late  king  welcomes  ser addam  waters, of the crag,  to  the  kingsmoot.  the  realm  knows  them  to  be  resourceful and  bold,  but  the  master  of  whisperers  has  unearthed  information  that  speaks  to  their  deceitful  and  resentful  tendencies.  to  dream  of  them  would  be  to  dream  of  dirtied cobblestones, shadows under the moonlight, bloodied leather, broken promises, shivering at the sea, exile in disgrace, a child's resentment, angry cerulean eyes, corrosive envy directed at those who perceive themselves above him.  they  themselves  dream  of house westering  on  the  throne.  time  is  an  unwieldy  mistress,  and  only  she  may  tell  who  will  sit  the  iron  throne  when  the  dust  settles.  

I. STATS

NAME: addam waters. NICKNAMES: the rogue bastard. AGE: four and thirty. DATE OF BIRTH: seventeenth day of the eight moon. PLACE OF BIRTH: king’s landing.   GENDER: cis male. PRONOUNS: he/him. SEXUAL ORIENTATION: bisexual. RELIGION: faith of the seven (allegedly) TITLE: knight of the craig. bastard of the craig. LANGUAGES: common tongue. some bravosi and dothkraki. AFFILIATION: himself. house westerling, limited to his father’s ambitions.

II. BIOGRAPHY.

what reason led to lord alester of the craig to never take a proper consort he kept closed deep into his heart, but that meant all his progeny would be born out of the wedlock and cursed with the taint of bastardy. addam was just the oldest of them to be claimed by their noble father. he was born in the an alley amongst the runaway children, from a mother with no surname, no title and no prospects. no singer would serenade her name and soon her only child — her blood, her tears and her despair, whom she had to raise herself, for no milkmaid or servant would come to help her care for a nobleman’s child — would learn to do the same. rosey was a mere barmaid in one of the king’s landing’s tavern lord alester frequented along king aegor, pretending to be carefree youths again. there were no tales, no sweet promises the lord knew he would never be able to keep, nothing save a night and a baby on her belly nine moons later. it took four moons for addam to receive a name, for a man who won rosey’s kiss on a dare and he was raised barefoot at the same tavern, fed on scraps and goodwill of those around rosey’s life.

the owner of the tavern was a cruel man, known to enjoy exercising control over his servants’ lives and greedy. it came to his knowledge from one of rosey's friends loose lips that the father of her child could have been a great lord and he saw only opportunity. he convinced rosey that she should contact the father and present the baby for him, that he could make her rich like a lady. not only that but he pushed rosey to marry him, planning to have that money for himself. together they accosted the hand of the king the next time he ventured too close to the cobbler's square. lord alester did not require much convincing; he remembered rosey and acknowledged that the boy carried his features. the matter was resolved amidst drinks in the same tavern he was conceived. addam would become addam waters, a legitimized bastard, he would receive an allowance that would be surely grabbed by the owner of the tavern, and when he reached the age of ten, lord alester would send take care of his education.

but meanwhile, addam was raised underfoot at the tavern, a common and hard life no matter how much money his stepfather appropriated. he would glance at the red keep with covetous eyes, waiting for his time. one day, a butcher who frequented the inn told him that he needed to prove himself to his father if he wanted his attention. he could not grow to be a soft tavern boy, he whispered in the child's year. a lord’s son needed to be a knight, a fighter. It led the boy outside, where danger still lurked in the capital city. the streets of king's landing did not care if you claimed your father was the hand of the king, they recognized only guts and survival; addam was quick on his feet and tall for a boy, amongst other surnameless boys, he thieved and avoided consequences and brawled in the streets like he didn't have a ticket out as long as he survived to see his next nameday. all these afternoons gave him were bruises and a temper.

as promised, when he reached ten years of age, his father sent for him. he would live at the red keep and be schooled and trained like a scion of house westerling. lord alester had no need for children and a spouse, but he had need for pawns. addam finally had the life he aimed for, and it turned bitter in his mouth. the reality that he met was not one of opportunity and paternal love, but where he was worse than baseborn; he was a bastard. born in lust and in sin, with a taint so terrible even some of the servants would look down on him. elevated to the position of the hand’s child, but brought down by the illegitimacy; he would find out later in life that no knighthood would wash away that stain. his half-siblings arrived later, and he watched with resentful eyes as his father's precarious attention was split in two, then three. he had not yet learned that alester westerling's true attention was destined only to the king, and to the bottle. he was not a good older brother to them, poking and pulling on shiera’s hair when they should’ve been learning his letters and tripping the youngest. what little prank he could not inflict on the trueborn children at the yard, it was reserved for his younger siblings.

at four and ten, his father negotiated for him to foster at casterly rock, a great opportunity for a westerling bastard; the lannisters were their liege lord, and he could be alester's eyes in the westerlands and train to be a great warrior defending the coast from ironborn. it would soon to prove a catastrophe. addam was audacious and ambitious, he managed to pretend perfectly under his father's eye at king’s landing, but the truth was that addam did not had in him to be dutiful. he learned under casterly rock's master at arms and household knights alongside the lord's own children, a privilege most bastards could only aspire to. but he soon turned restless. and the ironborn ships started looking more interesting than knighthood and vows. he was soon seen atop ironborn ships, trading deals under the table and allegedly stealing resources, all because raiding was more fun than defending the rocky shores. alester brought him back to king's landing and smoothed things over with the king. he was put on the path to knighthood again, the only way to settle his restless ways. it would be to no avail.

in adulthood, he would become infamous, not only by his bastardy or the father that embarrassed the family name and the position he occupied, but also by his own merits, his own devious ways. addam would never settle, could never stay put. always the first to draw blood, to instigate a brawl, to add insult to an injury. some would say he was the worst influence on his father, the worst of the bastards; the rogue, and the gods knew lord alester did not need much help to make terrible decisions. he traveled all of westeros, on rumors and charm alone — creating enemies and rivalries.

thirteen months before the kingsmoot, after absconding from highgarden before someone could discover him in their lady’s bed. he was found once again at the iron islands supporting them instead of his westerland kin; illicit dealings when she should have been staying quiet in the crag with his aunt. before they could bring him to trial for a harsher sentencign considering his record, lord alester interceded with the king and addam was sent to essos in exile. five years it was his sentence, but it only lasted until the death of the king brought him back to westeros, arriving right at the beginning of the kingsmoot — he whispered the words to his father once, of the ironborn way to seize power. the realm had more worries than a bastard avoiding punishment that was kept under wraps anyways, and he had his father's blessing. if someone were at fault, it would be the lord regent's indulging tendencies.

and now he was back in westeros, and his father eyes were all on the realm's fragile governance and none on addam’s.

III. WANTED CONNECTIONS.

tbd. enemies <3 and lovers <3 and lovers-enemies <3