⌗ VERITHAUNT. dependent & private blog for 103ac, as written by val ( twenty3, no pronouns, jst ). non-affliated blogs dni.
A 𝒮𝒯𝒰𝒟𝒴 IN: kindness is wasted upon evil: feed the dog and it will still bite, "i'm a strange new kind of in-between thing, aren't i? i'm not at home with the dead nor with the living." the eternal hunger, that aches and yearns and claws for more. this is a dog eats dog world; the rotten earth bears rotten fruit, the wronged will always come back for more. i dreamed of you, on a midsummer day. you smiled at me; something pure and lovely that i'd never seen before. so i knew: ivory-born and honeyed, that this would never be mine .
𝒜YBÜKE RIVERS * of harrenhall . she / her , #twenty4. ( eylül kandemir )
𝒮ELRYSE FOSSOWAY * lady of cider hall . she / her , #twenty5 . ( naomi scott )
steffon had spun such tales to aybüke that even they were unsure of what was true and what was folly. this, though, was deadly serious, and their shock soon dissipated to relief at looking upon his friend. sickness had descended over the nobles, had stolen his eldest sister and many of those he deemed closest. “aybüke. are you welll ? ” it was relief that the afflicted were beginning to emerge, a light in endless darkness … but steffon refused to believe it was down to the hightowers that an antidote had finally started to work. the sickness did not scare him. steffon hurried up the corridor, closing the space between them, lessening the chance of any of the oldtown rats overhearing. “those hightowers are not to be trusted. if any come near me i will show them the true wrath of the falcon. i will not hold back.” they were misty eyed, red - cheeked ; steffon’s breath was thin and thready and, up close, they were trembling. “i need to protect my sister from them. i do not want her looking upon the faces of the family that tore her apart. we came into this world at the same time. i am meant to protect her.”
QUESTION is considered, nods self-satisfied at the prospect of good news. " well enough, now. unless you wish to worry about my sleeping habits, then that's another situation entirely. " the newly bridged gap in distance makes her brows knit ━━ their situations are reversed now, worries about them flying through head. she knows too little, has not bothered to learn enough, about it all. the hightowers and the arryns, the twins, her friends. it's a slow acclimation to the term, though she finds herself quite liking it. friends. friend. now, there's so much to lose, so much she doesn't quite want to leave. this limbo, standstill of the kingsmoot is gladly welcome: anything to delay the inevitable return to harrenhal, with it's ruined walls and suffocating silence. everything's so fast, a whirlwind of opportunity unstopping, slipping away from her fingers. " and you are, i'm sure. she is alright, yes? i truly worry for you both. " no true solid opinion on hightowers, never seen them in the corridors of her family seat before, can only be molded by the words of others. chewing own inner cheek, head tilted down to observe, to worry. " they have not done anything, have they? "
though finally defeated, the pestilence has left its mark upon the red keep. even now, with her mother and her sister recovered, her relief seems fleeting, breakable — as if any touch could shatter it, no matter how kind, or how gentle. she cannot quite get rid of the sensation that another disaster lurks around the corner, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. that is why she drinks: to soften the edges of her apprehension, to forget she is even worried in the first place. to pretend she has not been forced to attend a feast in honor of a man she never exchanged a word with. perhaps, the wine is how she notices selryse, or perhaps she would have noticed regardless, in any room or space that held her presence. she had once become a habit, and then a scar, born from a wound of her own choosing, but a wound nonetheless. this first sighting is raw, lightning striking skin after years of refusing to entertain the memories she’d promised to bury. lingering glances, whispering touches, kisses that had felt dangerous, if only because she had wanted more, more, more. then, the severing of a bond. that part is far less pleasant to remember. instead of dwelling, she finds her legs moving before her mind can put a stop to it, the common sense she does not possess rapidly discarded. by the time she reaches the other, her mouth has shaped a tight line. ❝ before you say anything, i would like to state that i am approaching you in good faith. whatever happens next shall reflect entirely upon your character. ❞ inwardly, she curses herself for speaking without contemplation, but her expression betrays none of it, a reluctant smile warming her lips and widening, until she feels twenty years again, young and foolish and unprepared to be hurt. beneath it all lays persistent fondness, the one she cannot get rid of. ❝ you look exactly the same, ❞ viserra blurts out. she studies her, letting out a laugh. ❝ no, that was a lie. you look even more terrifying than you used to. have you spent the last two years perfecting the art of the glare, sel? ❞
BENEATH the thin veneer that is ( was ) her vivacity, something worse makes it's entrance. it digs itself up from six feet under, no regard for her last dregs of felicity, even less for the brief flash of an easy smile before dropping. sometimes, she forgets herself: disremembers the past that has been dissected in her head over and over, the new roles shoved onto the both of them, because the want for before is overwhelming, suffocating. viserra is an exception. before her, selryse and getting what she wanted were always one of the same. trivial pursuits, comforts and confidants, they'd all yield to her eventually. in the aftermath of it all, she could not simply deny all those harsh words that gave her gooseflesh when she reminisced ( rather, when her mind drifted inevitably towards the topic despite the displeasure it brought. it was the bitter aftertaste of her own medicine: she always consorted around things that bit back. ) and go search out for her, yell, bargain, bribe; but it would bear no fruit. she was clear enough, that day: she did not want to see her again, even if she sent a thousand letters to be burnt, attend a hundred parties by herself, what change could it bring? " do you really think so little of me, viserra? " double-edged sword rather than question, rhetorical in all the wrong ways, she doesn't need an answer. she knows it, far too intimately because it haunts and creeps up into the subconscious far too easily. but people can change, even in the measly course of two years. so she smiles something passably bemused, with intentions of such remarkable manners devolving. " i think terrifying is good. scares away the right crowd of people. " but not you, comes the afterthought. " and maybe i have. only the best for you, after all. "
FOUND IN … the archery range on the first day of the tourney, before the competition has begun.
the laughter in the air is a strange dissonance around the lady greyjoy, like a buzzard fluttering around the shell of their ear. no, she had not loved wylla. saera had not like the woman in the slightest. they still did not. it was a shameful mark upon their house. poison. a coward's way. still, it feels wrong that she should be dead and that the rest celebrate. it feels as if there should be a rebellion on her part — but, there are two choices: assimilate, or remain an outsider. they felt that they needed to be a distance between them and the other greyjoy lady who had only died yesterday. but, when they had brought their bow to the master of laws, he and the lord hand had denied them a spot on the archery list.
the target that saera had commandeered in their simmering anger reads a bullseye met three times over, each arrow split into each other like a bloom. they ready their arrow once more, string taut against the expert pull of her arm. "keep your distance," they warn, tone flat, in no mood to entertain mockery. "it is ready to fly."
they have made a spectacle of death, a revelry of blood. she's heard all the whispers, those unfamiliar and familiar claiming they knew the perpetrator all along: it was only a matter of time before the council wised up. so many names thrown around, all of them wrong... she'd only yawned and stretched out limbs, pulled furs close to body and dozed off during a particularly boring monologue about such an imperative need to tell her aunt, lady lannister, oh ry ━━ wouldn't you be so kind to make some introductions? of course, only when she gets back... but then she'd stopped listening, head grown heavy and shoulders slumped. but now she's wide-eyed and insomnolent, observing, idly curious. there is both a certainty and unknowing of what such pursuits could bear: anger, sadness, or utter disinterest. she thinks it's worth something to test the waters, then sit in awkward silence when she takes out a quiver of her own, situated farthest from them. (it was easy for her to pretend nothing was wrong, hum a surely annoying tune and complete her own tasks with precision, but she feared for the greyjoy's, perhaps lack of such skills.) " of course, of course. " hands raised in mock surrender, quick footfalls to somewhere she surely wouldn't get hit by a stray arrow. of course, there was still the problem of if it was on purpose, and she was the target. they wouldn't miss, she herself wasn't blind. " how are you, my liege? i can only hope target practice is a good way to cope with grief, i really do not know. "
desmera is hardly unused to selryse's company, but she heaves a sigh at the sound of her voice cutting through the morning silence nonetheless. in truth, she would have expected a ruder awakening from her niece — more in line with knuckles rapping on her chamber doors like they often did in cider hall. with the entirey of their house encased in one set of apartments, the proximity was more severe than ever. she had not been avoiding selryse, but still, desmera is surprised to be found. she stares, the dark of her eyes wide as she sits unmoving. after a moment, she blinks, her gaze finally moving from the other girl's visage. her arms cross over her torso, her chin pointed back in the direction it had come from. " they say that the keep rises with the king, you know, " she offers, voice matter - of - fact. " and seeing as there is no king, for he is quite dead — she sleeps eternally. " the cold does not bother her. cool early autumn mornings often gave way to warm afternoons when the sun rose to its highest point in the sky. the knowledge that the heat is on its way warms desmera from within. " come and join me, you crabapple. "
hums low as grass bend into themself to allow the weight of her sitting, folding long legs underneath airy fabrics and wool robes bunched up, twisted to rest upon shins. her smile is wide enough to crease up to eyes, to reach the ends of the earth and back, to show pearly canines fully. she's slouching, for the lack of a suitable thing to lean against showing ━━ elbows digging into thighs. " oh, i don't know how i'm going to beat that logic, des. " there's not the tone of mockery when she says such words: with somebody she grew up with alongside apple and lemon orchards, how could she possibly lie? ( there was an additional factor that the best she could pass off to desmera was a cleverly-spoken truth, a lie told by not saying the truth. ) too many years had passed for her not to know every trick in selryse's book by now, every knowing smile and twist of the tongue. but there's no lie here, no new trick to test out on suspecting victims. " perhaps then, we should say that whenever i roam the halls, it is either far too early or far too late. rolls just nicely off the tongue, doesn't it? "
#ANS. ░ alternate verse: THE NIGHTINGALE OF HARRENHAL, A DEAD FATHER INSTEAD OF A GAPING HOLE IN THE HISTORY BOOKS. ; A TOWER SUITABLY LOW, HANGING OFF A WINDOWLEDGE PREPARING AN ESCAPE IN TOW WITH THE LAST OFFCUTS OF NIGHT.
the words echo hollow through the walls, a new, an unwanted change from scarcely found silence. the in-between of those that prowl the night have begun gone aslumber, others that rise with the sun not yet awake. there is only a slow, agonizing wait for it to be broken: but she had expected it to be from birdsong, pleasant enough to bear moments of dissonance ━ but not her. wind blows against her face, heaves a heavy sigh as fingers curl against stone. aybüke is so close to the ground, a moment's freefall and she can run against the chilled breeze somewhere far. to be found hours later, curled up in a tree hollow, unbounded. but today was not the day for such lovely things to happen. " seriously, right now ? " this is the tone used for older sisters to reprimand those still too tenderfoot, used for a idle spectator watching the a disaster in the making, used during the misfortune of rain splattering onto head despite inside cursed halls. but then there is still a fondness in them, excavate long enough and found buried deep within. in the glint of starlight reflected into brown, a bent mouth and knees, nothing akin to it lies in lady of harrenhal. they are not sisters; once, she'd wished they could have become something close to it, admired the way it seemed she could attract anybody she wished. there was no longer a need to be wanted as time passed: in a sea of faces, they'd all turn to her. watch her with a hunger, WANT TO BE HER, WANT HER. so she turns, unwilling and regretting, letting long legs spill free from half-crouch, easily touching the floor. easily laughs, carefree and chiming. " you could have waited for a better time and place. perhaps, somewhere where i could easily flee from the torture of having to hear your voice, amerei. "
the red keep has become a sort of tomb: grief and worry hang from its walls, clinging, tainting whatever finds itself in their path. servants move quietly, whispered conversations end abruptly. each knock on her door is ominous, and she waits in constant anxiety, convinced that this will be time horrible news are finally delivered. her mother and her sister, taken by the sickness. such thoughts suffocate her — she has always despised feeling trapped, the sanctuary of her quarters a prison she cannot wait to escape from. thus, she wanders. she visits her family, time and time again, and when the maesters insist that there is nothing she can do for them, when they practically force her out of the sickrooms, she walks through the castle’s corridors, memorizing them, drifting past untouched nobles that she wishes were sick instead of hira or alysanne. even she would gladly trade places with the two of them if it would guarantee their safety. lost to her machinations as she is, viserra fails to notice the figure ahead until they have almost collided. it takes her a second to recognize the girl, and for one bewildering moment, she is certain the exhaustion, the sleepless nights, have caught up with her. ❝ ay? ❞ the name escapes her in a startled breath, hazel eyes widening then narrowing in confusion. before she realizes what she’s doing, she has crossed the remaining distance between them, a smile blossoming on her lips. ❝ what … what are you doing here? i did not see you at the harvest feast. ❞ their times together come to mind, full of quiet conversations and shared laughter. nights were they were not required to be anything but themselves. her fear melts away, vanquished by the sight of an old friend. ❝ have you been in king’s landing all this time? ❞
" yes ? " the word spills out instinctively, lips pulling into an involuntary smile before promptly extinguishing. only one person ever called her that, but one of many that she was trying ( and failing to ) evade. the halls of the keep seemed to fold into itself; cloth forcing two ends of the fabric to touch. she: the princess, her grace, dãrys, alysanne or maekara or viserra looks different in the warm glow of a flame. but she's only ever seen one side of her, with the cold air and moonlit skin, quiet laughter and nondescript secrets. oak-brown hued eyes look somewhere behind dãrys, at the never-ending stone or at the shadows creeping up, then retreating at the whim of the flickering of torches, unstill, unable to be still. it's a creation of her own, a rashly and barely thought-out plan to push her away, speak few words and even fewer about that night in harrenhal, let it be buried until an inevitable return digs it back up again. thoughts run wild, as the hare through the shrubbery and fox freed from metal teeth. maybe she should make it so that dãrys hates her, cannot look at her without thinking horrible, mean and blue and red-tinged things, have to push her away ( and then maybe, the guilt will only be like the washing of the tide. overwhelming and suffocating for just a little while, then it'll all go away, just before taking her back under again. then she'll drown, ) without aybüke having to do all the work. this is selfish — she should probably embrace her, laugh and say something about how long it's been and recant all the little calamities littered into recent months & days and hours. but she's spent so much time thinking about all the worst case scenarios, so it'd be a waste not to put them into motion, wouldn't it? it's not convincing anybody, filmsy excuse against another waiting to topple over. " oh, me neither. such a shame, isn't it? " had spotted her and promptly gave her a wide berth, hoping to camouflage into the walls anything her head seemed to turn the slightest degree in her own direction. it was, at the very least, nice to know that it had worked. " me and my family arrived shortly before the harvest feast, your grace. "
#ANS. SOMEWHERE WHERE TONGUES ARE ALLOWED TO BE LAX & PILLOWS ARE TO BE THROWN.
she's in her natural habitat, clinging a pillow against chest and not quite sitting upright. here, duty escapes her: or she escapes it, the fine details weren't too important. there is nothing going on with her surroundings, finery could get boring without stupid people making stupid decisions around all of it. so he's become the temporary axis of her world, and if she'd bother to stand, would be circling him as birds of prey do rodents. " i hope you mean that as a good thing, ren. " head tilted to look at the ceiling, metal lining of the chaise warm from it's sunlight baths. ( it's not uncomfortable in the slightest as a headrest, but blessed with the ability to lie and overexaggerate, she's still going to complain about it later. ) " i mean, after all these years, my virtues have only prospered more and more. but it's a good thing you've not suddenly become an amnesiac, i'd hate having to bother with introductions again. "
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤfated for . . . open to all . located in . . . the red keep's godswood, early morning on the sixth day of cerion's body being in the sept of baelor .
in a nest created by the thick roots of the red keep's heart tree, desmera is curled into a vague semi - circle. knees pulled up, arms tucked in, she commandeers a pile of leaves as the pillow upon which to lay her head, the dim twilight sun only just beginning to warm the chilled tips of her nose, the tips of her fingers. to stand and stretch her limbs, the line of her spine long and curved, would mean to have to pick the remnants of the godswood from her hair, to descend from the heart tree's domed tangle of roots and prepare to join her father in the sept of baelor once again. she could not imagine staring at cerion's body for the third morning in a row, stones in places of eyes, her stomach empty and rumbling because she had yet to break her fast. the nobles close enough to hear her belly's lament may think she had formed a penchant for the taste of human flesh! that could not stand. so she remains, one eye cracking open at the sound of another's approach, a low hum in her chest. this was her spot, after all. " it is early to be disturbing others, is it not? the keep is still aslumber. "
she makes her way towards her aunt in short strides that barely let heels dig into dirt long enough to make an imprint, stepping a few extra times on where splatter of red and orange leaves lay just for the fun of it. arisen a good forty minutes ago, gotten suitably ready as she deemed herself ( ink-black strands still stuck to skin in odd directions on cheekbones, hadn't bothered to wear any rings of left hand, but it didn't matter, ) and decided to knock on her door, mainly to bother but also to converse. those two things were one of the same when it came to selryse, only with varying degrees of expletives thrown around. deigned to surrender, leave for momentary pursuits until the sun came all the way up. only a matter of happenstance that she found her in the godswood, always treaded near the edges of the grove & never this deep. " perhaps it is. but i am awake, so only most of the keep is aslumber. " delights in her own words, oscillating smile finding their place squarely on face. " what are you doing out here, anyways? if you insist on staying out here, i will at least have go fetch you some furs so you will not die before it is truly sunrise. "
#BASIC INFORMATION. full name: selryse fossoway . nicknames: sel , ry. titles: lady of cider hall . date of birth: march twenty-two. age: twenty5. birthplace: cider hall, the family seat. home: cider hall, the reach. gender: cis woman. pronouns: she and her. orientation: pansexual, panromantic. monikers: the slumbering maiden, cider hall’s poison apple. languages: common tongue ( fluent ), lyseni ( intermediate )
#PHYSICAL INFORMATION. faceclaim: naomi scott. ethnicity: first men, dornishmen ( salty dornishmen ??????? ) . hair: medium length, black, wavy . is almost always put into a loose half-up half-down look, loose hairs framing face because she cannot be bothered to push them back. eyes: dark brown. height: one hundred seventy-one ( five foot seven ) build: an average, lean build; defined collarbones and bone structure. muscle in arms from indulging in swordplay, though not very defined. scent: nothing very notable or distinct; floral and powdery. i would say she smells like her bed but how does one describe that dominant hand: right. allergies: latex but do they have latex in asoiaf scars: has a few minor ones on fingers from cuts from carelessly touching sharp things too often. things of note: obvious dark circles under eyes, though they’ve only recently reappeared after big daddy lorence announced that they were all going to the red keep. is not of extremely good health; prone to getting sick and having an extremely irregular sleeping schedule. horrific posture and is often barely sitting upright. likes to lean head against anything while talking. bites tongue without realizing. has unnaturally good hearing, likes to anticipate people walking up staircases or through hallways, already looking in their direction without them having to announce themself. clothing: light , loose clothing for running all over the place doing whatever she wants. layered and heavier dresses are worn during more formal events, with a variety of reds and purples and whites. lots of flower motifs , imported fabrics and whatever pleases her. favors having the bottom of her dresses turn into a more sheer fabric, form-fitting bodice lower waistline and sleeves and cutouts in the back or shoulders. has an assortment of rings that she wears. disorders: idiopathic hypersomnia.
the first few acts of the tale of your life are so reluctantly told; there is much regret spoken in the storyteller's tone, seeped with a love later found. it is both a sad and beautiful thing, when you entered the world. you must have not wished to leave a mother's hold, an embrace enough to last you a lifetime of loneliness. a gaping hole where a father should have been to bear witness to it; happiness of your presence. later it transforms into something real, both disgusting and heartwarming, a fairytale yet to be told. ( as you grow, you know: you'd prefer something with more teeth, but it is still a blessing in itself. love. stability. )
the expectations of future heir must beset your grandfather early on, the girl who escapes classes to sleep away the day, running away from handmaidens and refusing to speak to potential, valuable new connections. but you are studious when it pleases you, smart and charming with a knife-sharp tongue and idyllic hopes of a future without him. good things come from ambition, no matter the roots. quickly you become well-versed in socializing, dissecting secrets and aspects of friends. there is a certain allure of being somewhat unlikable, uncaring of the world and everything that comes with it. nobody knows you very well anyways, and do not pry anyways.
you spend your days this way: happy and following whatever catches your interest, into the groves of lemon and apples, flicking away at stray blossom petals that land on your shoulder. burrowing yourself into a cocoon of sheets or gnawing away at fruit as you read. it is peaceful, uninterrupted by any anguish. stay and come and go in those same halls, picking up a sword and sparring against guests to waste time, accompany younger siblings in their own whims and pursuits.
there is no true desire for the iron throne in your heart, never a seed planted long ago in heart. happy as you are here and now, only one or two fools desiring so much above their station. but it is entertaining in itself, and you do not wish to miss it. did not mind not attending at first, but if there was a chance: you were gripping it close too you. new faces, new names, surely one or two or three could be interesting enough to catch your eye.
headcanons.
long story short she has a stable and happy family life but just turned out kind of evil. a charmer with ambitions of her grandfather dying bc she hates his guts. killing with kindness is so lame what if you killed them by unearthing their deepest darkest secrets and then heavily implying to them in conversation that you know their aforementioned deepest darkest secrets? that's her whole thing. kind of lonely because she doesn't have any very deep connections to people besides family. you could know her for years and not know her nameday. just likes to annoy people.
has a pet cat named ailan who she often is found napping with. they share similar sleep schedules sometimes. she personally holds the belief that ailan has been raised to only like people who r like selryse (take that as you will ) and uses him as a way to predict omens about others. he's a menace to everybody but her.
wanted.
IMMOVABLE FORCE VS UNSTOPPABLE OBJECT.
somebody who has the blessed gift of being able to shut up selryse for an extended period of time. either so unsettled or intimidated that she literally cannot formulate a response. they get the privilege of peace and quiet, and selryse gets her worldview shaken a healthy few times every time they meet.
(FLIRTING) I HAD A NIGHTMARE ABOUT YOU.
forgive me when i say the best way to express this dynamic is matching each other’s freaks. bad x worse … up 2 debate which is which. somebody, the only somebody who she ever dreamed of so vividly after meeting just once. sure, it was a nightmare. but it’s a sign, she’s sure! selfish, all-devouring and consuming love, destined for each other ( perhaps as a punishment ). they will find each other in every life, in the next and this one too. while this is a romantic connection, it could also be [insert relationship type] with benefits, one-sided, loved each other before it all changed/fading out of love/no longer in love, etc. etc. so many ideas for this, including negative + negative = positive and it’s so … sweet in the best possible way that these 2 could ever have. devotion , acts of service ( not in a very wholesome way ), verbal sparring and actual sparring as a love language. or maybe you can’t even tell that they’re something other, because they’re such assholes to each other that nobody is convinced they even actually like each other. see this.
FRIENDS.
- somebody who she sees as BORING!!! predictable, methodic, etc. the only reason why she can bear to be around them is simply because their reactions are too entertaining for her to miss.
- a stoic/nonchalant type who likes to systematically dismantle/try to goad a reaction out of. has dug into their secrets and past, listened to the flow of gossip in order to get a better grasp on this person. potentially, they could have been childhood friends but later on selryse forgot all about them, and the more she digs into their past the more she’s like… wait do i know this guy (gender neutral) ?? do i ?????
- bad influence/good influence. for the bad it’s kind of obvious, isn’t it? probably somebody who looks up to selryse, and asks her for advice to which in turn she gives out some batshit crazy stuff. it’s like asking your older sister for help texting somebody you like and she tells you something beyond the reach of common sense but it always ends up working out at the end! for good: don’t go around spreading word about her good deeds, okay? even funnier if the person she’s a good influence on isn’t particularly an angel themself.
- somebody who’s seen her vulnerable. they’ve known each other for a long time, and they’ve seen all her worst moments. they know far more than the average person about her, but she’d still blackmail them for all of their worth if they ever told anybody else. unless they’re a corbray and have no money. this is the most wholesome any of her friendships get. see this.
- somebody unwavering persistent in being friends with her, maybe even to the point of attempting to bribe her with money/material objects? but they’re definitely using this relationship for an ulterior motive, for social status (?), connection, etc. selryse knows she shouldn’t entertain this person but she can’t bring herself to care too much. eventually, one day, there will a time when they speak for the last time. selryse will watch them leave, and know they will never come back. it’s inevitable, but it’s still a little bit soul-crushing.
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.
if able to stand without able to stand without clinging onto another or wall, at very moment wishes more to tower over liege lady than a stable recovery, in only to somewhat establish an unconvincing dominance in constant discourse. sickness was source of embarrassment for aybüke, how she could not fight back from the pitying stares and words, no matter how real they were. there seems to be a kindness to amerei's own ministrations, though seemed to be painfully unflattering, an ill-fitting garment she was wearing. actual pink silk dress seemed to suit her perfectly, irritatingly. many things disappointed her daily: all of her close relatives, those with grating, loud voices and obnoxiously unaware of it, harsh wind, amerei's unfailing ability to be dressed immaculately despite a personality less than pleasant. half-scowl metamorphoses fully, lack of percipient onlookers revealing provocateur tendencies. " how virtuous of you to offer, my lady. i'm afraid in my current state, the only possible remedy could be a hundred gold dragons. " words are mean to be nothing more than mocking, though she wouldn't mind if it was actually considered.
disturbingly, she's comforted by the presence of a familiar face, no matter the urge to pretend to pass out to avoid further conversation. shoulders loosen, tongue too — she has never cared for pleasantries, everlasting of the many facets that she was molded to become. not a statue with life-like features, a kiss away from becoming living: but ambiguous in which what was to become of her. always a looming expectation, waiting for the right moment of doubt and unease to go in for the kill. " the cat has scared me so much that i will require immediate assistance, of course. you must help me, out of the sure goodness of your heart. " smile splits open, paired with glint in eyes that so rarely shows itself in recent sennights. perhaps it unsettles. ( she hopes it does. ) aybüke is not the type of person that amerei should be around; every encounter does she half-heartedly WISH IT WILL BE THEIR LAST, ignored by the gods and leaving a craving for another taste of venom on her own lips. not even a sincere hate, simply a continued theatre for her to indulge in. " but perhaps i should take you for that offer. some tea would be nice. " usual guilt for asking much of others doesn't set in, barely grazes her psyche. in a different time, perhaps she could admire her for such kindness ( even if spoken with condescending words, a knife held behind back or to condescend ) when she returns so little in turn. " thank you. " it's quiet, & there's still hope out that lady of riverrun does not hear it: now would be a good time to turn to the sept and start praying as fervently as she could that such a miracle could exist.
“ now, now. don't move too loudly or they'll catch you. ” for a person visiting the sick wards out of the kindness of their own heart, the little smirk ( aimed down at the floors, washed clean of sickness for now ) tells otherwise. a cloth pinned over their nose and mouth prevents breathing in any of the similar air here, a tremble in their hands disguised with the folding of another damp cloth, recently used to pat against their sibling's brow. pacing in a circle around the room, rolling shoulders in sockets, to come to where a window allows some light in and staring out at the distant shores. silence follows. enough for there to be a ticking overheard from rooms further on, the pestilence in the throats of most and so taliesin sighs. “ i believe it was my shoe, my lady. or someone's … feverish mutterings to themself, the dreams this makes you have are ghastly. ” another smile. this time, without mirth, even serious. he juggles the cloth against his palm as if weighing it. turns chin over shoulder to gaze at her through the dark of his peripheral. “ do you need help getting comfortable? my sister is stable, thank the … ” they gesture. flicking lithe fingers up towards the ceiling. “ … whoever you want to thank. ” tenor of voice muffled, observing her over the fold of the face cloth, prying and curious as to exactly what she hopes to get up to when weaker than a reed in wind.
can do nothing but simply glance at him, give him a once-over, then a twice-over. " they? is there something i should be worried about? " the idea of getting caught by whatever it seems to be is unappealing, immediately halts all action to simply stare in puzzlement. the formality comes as a learned habit: too many days has she been reprimanded for when slipping her mind, slippery enough to rival a rabbit escaping the clutches of the wolf, skittering away without a second thought. there is a quiet acceptance to his excuse, or reasoning for the unexplained; does not fully believe, but does not bother enough to try to find a reason to believe, to have faith in such words. there is a fascinating quality about him; the white cloth that is so insistently draped to cover his face ( perhaps she should have a maester fetch one for her too, the serviette seemingly being imperative to him staying in the sickrooms ) was something she'd wish to inquire about, in the next happenstance that their paths would intersect. “ ah, there's no need. thank you for offering, though. ” it's a constant reminder of the lack of a panacea in her reach, to immediately clear the fog that wrapped itself around the world. " why do you cover your face with that cloth? seems awfully tiring to keep on holding it up. "
「 ⚔ 」 STATUS ﹕ semi - closed.
「 ⚔ 」 LOCATION ﹕ pestilence, the hightowers are arriving.
「 ⚔ 」 WITH ﹕ @firedreamt, @toothd, @theygods, @verithaunt, @woundedstatue.
“let me at them ! ” despite steffon’s attempts to look tough, to shape himself into something bordering intimidating, they simply clucked and chirped like the small bird they were. pacing the now - empty halls of the keep, all others bedridden or tending to the sick or isolating from the threat, his thoughts had been set alight ; the hightowers may have been arriving with tinctures and balms to rid the spreading illness, but to steffon their arrival was poison in itself. “if they talk to me, if they look at me, i’ll — well, i’ll — ” it was then that they stopped, motionless, spying the shadowy figure emerging from one of many doorways. no longer was it simply them and their unruly thoughts. they wondered how long the other had been there, how much they had heard, whether they saw the threats as empty and thin or would turf steffon out into the streets for such an outburst. so instead of saying anything further he simply stood, hands at their sides, waiting for inevitable consequence.
hands find grip in mortar joints, lifting herself along with the wall close enough to be in earshot but far enough without intrusion. ill-advised decision to leave her room by the one maester that she'd bothered to ask, suggestions of maintaining a safe recovery and whatnot unheeded. squinting produces knowledge of just who was soliloquizing, curiously observing their appearance. “ yes, you'll...? “ common sense not to pry into these sort of matters, though did not care nearly enough to stop now. steffon had been a well of knowledge for her, always with such interesting stories about his own travels. didn't matter that such tales usually attracted raised eyebrows and excessive sighing from those who were unfortunate enough to hear them retold by aybüke, were entertaining enough to last her for years without boredom. “ whatever you say, i swear i won't tell another soul. ” voice is thinner than usual and pitches awkwardly at the wrong moments, unwanted product of sickness unshakeable despite innumerable cups of tea drank. useless suggestions, those maesters loved handing out. ” the thought of gossiping makes me nauseous, anyways. ”
"It was a cat, Aybüke, nothing more." The Red Keep is littered with felines, their whooshing tails and pert whiskers a continuous sight, but it was not a cat. Not this time. Not in truth. Balon was well aware of the insidious truth of that but, with a fond smile, he brushed the fine hair back from his rival niece's face, and smiled fondly down at her. "I'm watching over you, little one. There is nothing to fear." But she was still hot to the touch.
Theirs was, perhaps, a strange bond -- a strained bond -- but a bond notwithstanding. Had he not whispered these same words to her as Harrenhal sighed and moaned on windy nights when she was but a child, her little hand holding his tight? And had he not said the very same, voice tight in anger, too, when his sibling had sent brother and daughter out into the Riverlands together -- a spectacle of heir and heir to be gawked at, laughed at, even, behind their hands? Yet, for all the strain, he'd not see harm come to her. Rivers or Strong -- did not the same blood flow through her veins, an unbreakable covenant?
"Do not let these folk see you gasp," he added, with warmth. "We're of braver stock, aren't we? What was our upbringing if not a lesson in courage? You're no stranger to banging in the halls, hm? And what can truly become of any of us, away from home?"
It was a strange belief in him -- there were those, to be sure, who did not put any faith in the supposed hauntings of Harrenhal, but Balon could not be counted amongst their number, no. He believed a stranger truth: the house had claimed their souls, long ago. There would be no seven hells to greet them at the end of their days, nor any heaven, either -- only the crumbling walls of their ancient, accursed home. They would never leave it. But, because he believed this, he gave little credit to the notion that they might die elsewhere -- the house would not let them.
"Show them you are brave, Aybüke," he said, softly. "Show them you are Strong."
not fully convinced by his words, but doesn't want to pry further ⸺ would have to push and shove in order to know the truth, exhausting herself for only a few meager words. she'd find out ONE WAY OR ANOTHER, if not directly said than through an overeager mouth or whispers meant for one, then another, then for all to hear. she is glad that he has visited her, when she lays in the sickbed and is starved for entertainment, to divulge her interest in. balon is her uncle, if not in name than in blood ( just like all her kin were: perhaps in the annals they will write that aybüke rivers, the strange girl who lived in harrenhal, acted as one of their own would simply always be the bastard of strong. the name strong did not befit her, and that was the way of things, and she was rather sure that he did not want such to change. ) " yes, but i did not think that even the red keep was haunted. " winces then as pain ricochets through head, though shoulders are loose and grip of sheets slackened at the presence of somebody ubiquitous since childhood, a ever-present figure in life despite the ebb and flow of proper familial love. in those familiar black stone walls, this type of discordance could only scare away visitors with hackles raised. heads at the dining table would not raise at crashing in the distance, of winds that howled so harshly started to sound like screams. all born at harrenhal would perhaps die there, for the castle could not let one go so easily, should she not fear of the looming threat of death unless in the walls of home. aybüke could rest easy, knowing that the knight of two swords would protect her from all nearby felines during her convalescence. " yes, i will. " fiddles with hands behind her, twisting blankets into fabric spirals. " be strong. brave. of course. " nods, and breaks into a smile mixture between something grim and duchenne.
