mother have mercy,

it is my day now. it is my castle, and my kingdom.

[verticordiae]

a private portrayal of QUEEN CERSEI LANNISTER, of george r. r. martin's a song of ice and fire series by silver. strictly book and headcanon based. under co.

canon-typical themes including incest, (sexual) violence, abuse and trauma will be present and explored through this blog, though not endorsed or romanticised. please exercise your own discretion. minors and personals, dni.

carrd. pinterest. spotify.

[verticordiae]

@heireign: i know how to keep my life and my crown. and i will.

CERSEI  WAS  NOT  THE  SORT  OF  WOMAN  who  often  found  herself  at  a  loss  for  words  ;  no,  more  often  than  not,  she  spoke  perhaps  more  liberally  than  was  strictly,  strictly  wise.  but  something  about  rhaenyra  targaryen’s  words,  perhaps  the  force  behind  them,  stalled  her  tongue.  she  was  not  insensible  to  the  other  woman’s  plight.  cersei  herself  had  been  barred  and  overlooked  on  account  of  her  sex  too  many  times  for  that  to  be  the  case  entirely.  but  she  was  a  lannister,  and  like  rhaenyra,  she  was  a  woman,  which  meant  that  she  followed  the  tide  her  house  sailed  upon.

a  sharp  jab  of  envy  cut  at  her  with  the  realisation  that  rhaenyra,  queen  rhaenyra,  as  she  claimed  to  be,  was  not  exactly  in  her  same  boat.  that  it  was  possible  to  seize  power,  even  for  a  moment.  that  bitterness  loosens  her  tongue  once  more,  and  she  finds  herself  speaking  the  words  before  she  can  turn  them  over  and  inspect  them  for  their  prudence.  “ i  wonder  which  of  the  two  of  us  you  wish  to  convince  with  those  words,  your  grace. ”

because  really,  it  has  very  little  to  do  with  whether  or  not  cersei  (  or  any  other  individual,  for  that  matter  )  thought  rhaenyra  deserved  it.  ‘ deserving ’  …  it  was  a  difficult  subject  for  cersei,  but  she  felt  —  perhaps  for  the  first  time  —  that  it  didn’t  really  matter.  good  or  bad,  right  or  wrong  —  these  things  were  mere  concepts.  there  was  only  power,  and  force  of  will.  that  was  all.  was  rhaenyra  right?  did  she  know?

cersei  stares  at  the  other  woman,  nothing  but  an  almost  contemplative  curiosity  in  those  clear  green  eyes.  she  knew  that  she  was  not  in  the  position  of  power  here,  but  could  not  regard  herself  as  endangered  in  this  situation  despite  the  reality  of  her  circumstances.

[verticordiae]

HOW DO YOU NEED TO BE TOUCHED?

CAUTIOUSLY — your teeth are bared, as they have been, your jaw aching for so long as growls slip free. you always have to defend yourself. you lash out in fear. you need someone who does not shrink back... a hand falling slowly to your shoulder, however briefly, in a reminder that you do not have to lunge. there is no danger here, now.

tagged by @wulfmaed — tagging @uneactrice, @myrc3lla, @helaene, @hyacnthis

[verticordiae]

feeling very braindead, i'll do replies and starters tomorrow TRUST

[wulfmaed-archived]

@verticordiae sent: tuck, sender tucks receiver's hair behind their ear.

she   is   not   so   used   to   tenderness   now.        once   upon   a   time,    her   mother   had   been   fond   of   these   moments        –        of   standing   behind   sansa,   sending   away   her   lady's   maids   and   brushing   through   long,    auburn   locks   until   they   shone   and   softened   beneath   her   touch.    but   kings   landing   has   taken   every   ounce   of   known   kindness   from   her,    there   had   been   no   gentility   offered   to   her   since   the   hours   before   her   father's   execution.    no   sweetness,    only   the   fluctuating   tide   of   cersei's   consideration.    one   day   sansa   might   have   been   but   the   sweet   little   dove   of   a   girl   meant   to   marry   her   son,    and   the   next   she   was   little   more   than   the   annoyance   she   allowed   joffrey   to   torment   as   he   saw   fit        –       no   concern   for   the   fact   that   he   allowed   his   guard   to   strike   at   her. 

she   had   thought   the   woman   entering   her   chambers   to   have   been   little   more   than   a   maid,    shae,    perhaps,    or   another   gentle   -   handed   lady   from   the   soft   -   footed   steps   across   the   floor.    sansa   had   not   turned   to   look,    unconcerned   for   the   moment   in   the   way   she   had   sat   before   the   vanity   and   scrunched   her   face   into   the   sliver   of   mirror.    but   then   there   are   hands   tucking   hair   behind   her   ears,    and   the   lingering   scent   of   cersei's   perfume   lingering   through   sansa's   nose,    and   she   cannot   help   but   to   freeze.    breath   caught   in   her   chest   for   but   a   moment,    wide   -   eyed   gaze   as   she   casts   her   eyes   to   look   behind   her   within   the   glass   of   the   mirror,    and   finds   the   green   of   the   queen's   eyes   looking   back   at   her. 

“    your   grace.    ”        sansa   utters   softly,       shifting   forward   in   her   seat.        “    good        –        morning,       is   there   something   you   need   of   me?    ”        she   fears   the   answer   to   such   a   question,    and   yet   she   know   she   must   ask   it   all   the   same;    knows   compliance   and   sweetness   is   the   only   way   through   such   an   interaction.    knows   that   living   within   the   walls   of   the   red   keep   requires   a   level   of   subservience   she   has   caught   onto   quickly. 

[verticordiae]

THE  SERVANTS  KNOW  THEIR  PLACES,  that  much,  at  the  very  least,  could  be  said.  they  detour  away  from  sansa’s  chambers  when  they  see  their  queen  coming  down  the  corridor,  stopping  just  long  enough  to  do  their  bows  and  curtseys.  the  guards  are  forthcoming,  unsurprisingly  so,  and  the  sun  is  bright,  casting  a  comfortable  warmth  across  the  city.  good  signs  ..  perhaps  they  are  what  softens  cersei’s  touch  when  she  imparts  it  upon  the  stark  girl’s  hair,  gently  sliding  the  auburn  locks  behind  her  ear  where  they  had  fallen  forward.  perhaps  it  is  the  look  of  surprise  that  she  catches  in  the  mirror,  or  the  expression  of  obeisance  that  replaces  it  that  prolongs  her  good  mood.  the  queen’s  lips  twist  in  a  mild  bemusement  as  she  takes  the  other  seat  by  the  vanity,  typically  used  by  a  maid  when  styling  a  lady’s  hair  in  a  more  elaborate  fashion.  it’s  an  act  that  says,  i  may  be  sitting  in  a  servant’s  chair,  but  we  both  know  who  serves  whom.

“ only  the  pleasure  of  your  company,  little  dove, ”  she  says  in  dulcet  tones  —  with  just  enough  weight  to  pass  as  earnest,  but  with  a  lightness  that  tempers  any  seriousness.  it’s  feels  true  enough,  disturbingly.  cersei  was  always  on  edge  as  of  late  ;  typical,  perhaps,  with  things  the  way  they  were.  jaime  was  still  captive  at  riverrun,  and  her  fouler  brother  had  seemingly  taken  every  opportunity  possible  to  get  in  her  way.  her  evenings  with  the  children  were  much  changes  from  the  days  when  robert  was  alive.  joffrey’s  strong  will  grew  ever  -  stronger  —  necessary,  of  course,  for  being  a  king  ..  but  nevertheless,  it  was  different,  and  tommen  was  a  sweet  boy  whom  she  needed  to  comfort,  rather  than  the  other  way  around,  especially  with  his  sister  sent  so  far  away.  it  was  ..  trying,  and  her  nights  were  hardly  restful  either.  there  was  something  ..  soothing,  comforting,  about  being  in  a  place  where  she  had  no  shortage  of  the  upper  hand.

cersei  gently  takes  the  mirror  from  sansa’s  hand  and  places  it  on  the  table,  replacing  it  in  her  own  hand  with  the  comb.  “ would  you  like  it  if  i  dressed  your  hair  today,  sweet  sansa? ”  it’s  a  question,  yes,  but  one  that  clearly  had  only  one  acceptable  answer.  

[feral-ballad]

Yves Olade, Belovéd

[verticordiae]

IT HAD BEEN INTENDED as a reassurance, her words. they seem more like a confession now, even if her daughter did not seem to interpret them as such. more the better, in her opinion. even if every crack in her fractured countenance appeared like a gaping chasm to cersei herself, perhaps her weakness, her ugliness and that raw, rotting side to her which yearned for rest above all else could remain hidden from the rest of the world — even her own flesh and blood. it can be good, to be obscured. if she has learned anything from her ordeal, it is that. she is still a lannister, glory still has it's allure. she is pulled to wanting it, relentlessly, like the moth with charred wings who cannot forget the pain imparted by an open flame. if the walk taught her a second thing, it was that she was a person. cersei could still not quite bring herself to think ' a person like any other ' ; lannister pride knows no bounds, it is a metal that has held through hellfire and can be used to construct a mighty fine cage.

in the days before her daughter had returned, she had spent every hour she could spare soaking in the bath, sloughing away her skin as if one day steel would glimmer beneath the horsehair brush instead of raw, reddened skin. but try as she might, she had been forced to contend with her own humanness, how weak and soft and gruesome she truly was, the way her father's gaze had so often threatened to reveal. acknowledgement, however, was not acceptance.

doubt looms at the edges of her consciousness; cersei rarely slept and always poorly when she did, and the effort of keeping the hopelessness and dread at bay saps at the little energy she does have. she expends the rest of it on straightening, coming closer and taking myrcella's hands in her own, preventing her daughter from squirming. the dredges of her supply are used to keep her touch gentle — it's learned, from an ugly instance with tommen. cersei doesn't want to have instances like those, not with her children, the ones who are left.

what does she want to say? so many things that it all seems to blend together. it's a terror, to admit her love. the word itself feels like poison, corrosive on her tongue where it lingers. is it a negligence? to allow her daughter to think that love could be anything but a liability? or is it an abuse, to imply that her children are burdens to her? they're not, they could never be. they tether her to this plane of existence, they give her cause to maintain her dignity, to fight and then fight some more. it's exhausting, nevertheless. even admitting that inside her head is hard.

" i wish to protect you, myrcella. " good, this is easy to say because it is true. her next words are true as well, but they feel like peeling back her skin and revealing all her open wounds. " i do not want to spend any of our remaining time apart. " she didn't mean for it to come out that way. she prays the implications go unnoticed, cersei's good at that now, praying. practice makes perfect, and the septas who had watched her under the high sparrow's command made practice mandatory.

one hand comes to brush myrcella's hair away from her face, gentle and careful not to disturb the powder carefully laid over her skin. " somebody has already hurt you, sweetling. and someone has already taken your brother away from us and— " and jaime has abandoned me and i am surrounded by enemies and need someone to rel — cersei kills the thought before it can even become fully formed. it's too close to surrender, too close to despair. " and i will not have anything like that happening again. you will never be exposed to the dangers of the world, myrcella. never again. not as long as i live. "

[myrc3lla]

Myrcella   stood   still,   letting   her   mother’s   words   sink   in,   though   they   felt   heavy,   as   if   they   were   boulders   pressing   onto   her   chest.   Cersei’s   hands   were   warm,   firm   around   her   own,   but   Myrcella   noticed   the   slight   tremor,   a   waver   in   the   queen's   strength.   It   made   her   mother   feel   more   real,   more   vulnerable,   which   was   unsettling.   Long   gone   was   the   vision   of   a   woman   who   seem   to   endure   everything.

Cersei’s   eyes   bore   into   her,   fierce   as   ever,   yet   tinged   with   something   Myrcella   couldn’t   quite   place.   Myrcella   wanted   to   look   away,   to   release   the   hold,   but   she   held   on.   Perhaps,   in   some   part   of   herself,   she   longed   to   reassure   her   mother,   even   if   she   knew   that   Cersei   Lannister   was   a   fortress   built   to   protect   herself,   not   to   be   comforted.

“Mother,”   Myrcella   said,   her   voice   soft,   careful,   as   though   speaking   too   loudly   might   shatter   this   rare   glimpse   of   Cersei’s   humanity.   “I   know   you   wish   to   keep   me   safe.”   She   swallowed,   remembering   the   years   she’d   spent   in   Dorne,   the   sense   of   being   apart   from   her   family   yet   growing   into   someone   stronger,   someone   capable   of   facing   what   life   threw   her   way.   “But…   I   have   seen   the   world   outside   these   walls.   I   know   it   isn’t   kind,   but   it   isn’t   only   danger   either.   Those   inside   here   can   hurt   me   and   put   me   in   danger   just   as   anyone   outside.”   And   she   thinks   she   is   safer   in   Dorne,   at   least.

“I’ve   learned   to   be   brave,   to   be   strong.   I   can’t   be   hidden   away   forever.”   No   longer   a   child   but   a   young   woman.   A   woman   who   had   grown   mostly   without   either   of   her   parents,   but   those   in   Dorne.   Even   now,   she   wears   the   fabrics   of   the   dornish   that   had   helped   her.   She   wasn’t   trying   to   argue   or   defy,   just   to   make   Cersei   understand,   to   give   her   mother   the   relief   she   clearly   so   desperately   sought.   “But…   I   won’t   go   anywhere,   not   unless   I   have   to.”   A   small,   sad   smile   curved   Myrcella’s   lips.

She   loved   her   mother—she   did—but   she   wished   love   could   feel   less   heavy,   less   suffocating.   Sometimes,   she   wondered   if   there   were   things   Cersei   had   given   up   on   saying   long   before   Myrcella   could   understand   them.   “Nothing   will   happen   to   us,”   Myrcella   whispered,   as   much   a   promise   as   it   was   a   hope.   "What   of   Trystane   and   my   betrothal?"

[verticordiae]

HER  GAZE  FLOATS,  drifting  away  from  myrcella’s  eyes,  past  her  scar  and  towards  the  window.  the  nights  are  long,  and  they  feel  longer  when  sleep  evades  her  again  and  again.  she  had  been  confined  to  the  bedchamber  in  the  evenings,  a  sister  of  the  faith  sent  to  be  her  bedmaid;  a  sentry,  really.  so  cersei  spends  the  nights  staring  up  into  the  dark  room,  trying  to  decipher  the  shapes  floating,  shifting  on  the  ceiling,  obscured  by  darkness  as  black  as  pitch.  sometimes  she  thinks  she  can  see  things  in  them,  pictures  that  have  her  torn  between  paranoia  that  they  mean  something  and  desire  that  they  do.  there  must  be  something,  some  reward  to  the  waiting,  the  suffering.  she  fancies  it’s  improving  her  sense  of  sight,  peering  into  the  blackness  and  hoping  to  develop  a  lion’s  night  vision.

cersei  stares  out  the  window,  past  the  city  and  over  to  blackwater  bay  and  thinks  she  can  see  her  brother across the sea.  (  the  traitorous  one,  her  mind  supplies  unhelpfully.  they  have  both  betrayed  her.  her  hands  spasm,  another  side-effect  of  the  lack  of  sleep,  and  she  squeezes  myrcella’s  hands  briefly  before  dropping  them.  )  it  is  all  tyrion’s  fault,  that  myrcella  was  sent  away  in  the  first  place.  whatever  her  princess  thinks  of  dorne  now,  it  should  never  have  been  done.

she  can  sense  her  daughter’s  hope  simmering  beneath  her  words.  cersei  wonders  if  she  sounded  like  that  at  her  age,  all  those  years  ago.  perhaps  she  can  only  detect  the  love,  tentative  and  swaddled  and  hidden  away  behind  propriety  thought  it  might  be,  in  myrcella’s  speech  because  she’s  heard  the  same  tone  in  her  own  voice  once  upon  a  time.  it’s  something  that  should  be,  needs  to  be  snuffed  out.  myrcella  may  have  familiarity,  even  affection  between  herself  and  the  martells,  but  they  are  snakes  nevertheless.  the  queen  tries  to  spend  her  days  with  her  eyes  wide  open,  the  whites  all  showing,  blinking  only  when  tears  threaten  to  form;  she  never  wants  to  be  blindsided,  never  again.

cersei  closes  her  eyes,  unable  to  look  at  myrcella.  no  matter  what  she  says  next.  feeling  powerless  is  less  foreign  a  sensation  than  she  would  like  to  admit,  but  this  lack  of  control  over  even  herself  is  disgusting  in  the  extreme.  she  knows  that  the  right  thing  to  do  would  be  to  break  off  the  betrothal,  to  punch  first,  instead  of  in  retaliation.  it’s  hard  to  imagine  having  the  energy  to  even  raise  her  arms.  at  least  she  would  not  have  to  consult  with  her  uncle  anymore,  may  he  burn  in  the  seven  hells.  she  could  give  the  order,  all  on  her  own. “  do  you  miss  him?  ”  it’s  unexpected,  even  to  cersei  herself.  her  eyes  snap  open,  and  it’s  too  much  like  looking  into  a  mirror.  to  be  young  and  in  love  and  separated,  distance  acting  as  a  buffer  which  keeps  reality  and  the  disappointment  it  breeds  at  bay.  “  what  do  you  want,  my  dearling?  ”  it’s  a  question  she  has  neither  heard  nor  asked  before.  cersei  doesn’t  really  know  why  it  comes  out;  it’s  not  like  it  matters.  it’s  almost  cruel,  to  ask  when  the  decision  would  not  be  swayed  by  the  answer.

[verticordiae]

I was born with this unlucky sneeze And what is worse I came into the world the wrong way round Pundits all agree I am the reason why My father fell into the village pond and drowned.

BAD SIGN GO, GOOD SIGN STAY .. LIFE OKAAAAAAY ... ACHOO!!!!

[beebssources]

Reblog  this  post  to  let  your  followers  know  you're  fine  with  being  tagged  in  random  starters.  Additionally,  reblog  this  post  if  you're  all  right  with  being  sent  old memes,  no  matter  how long ago you reblogged them.

[orpheuslament]

i love tragedy i love circular narratives i love ppl who cannot escape their fate & characters that have been dead since the beginning

[myrc3lla]

@verticordiae asked: ❛ there’s no place i’d rather be than by your side. ❜

Myrcella   studied   her   mother,   her   emerald   eyes,   echoes   of   those   who   birth   her,   soft   yet   searching.   Cersei’s   words   lingered   in   the   air,   thick   with   a   promise   that   Myrcella   had   long   yearned   to   believe.   Myrcella   had   grown   used   to   a   world   where   loyalty   was   as   shifting   as   the   sands   of   Dorne,   where   even   the   purest   affections   came   with   conditions.

   But   here,   in   this   rare   moment   of   Cersei’s   tenderness,   she   wanted   so   badly   to   feel   safe,   loved,   and   sure.   She   managed   a   smile,   her   fingers   twisting   together   in   her   lap.   “I’m   glad   to   have   you   here,   Mother,”   she   whispered,   her   voice   steady   yet   shadowed   with   that   unspoken   question:   How   long   will   it   last?

   The   sunlit   halls   of   Dorne   had   taught   her   that   love   could   be   as   fleeting   as   summer   blooms,   but   perhaps,   just   this   once,   her   mother’s   words   could   be   more.   "I   do   not   believe   you   brought   me   back   simply   out   of   love,   did   you   not?"   King's   Landing   pales   in   comparison   at   the   sight   of   Dorne   she   remembers   so   vividly.   Trystane   had   been   left   behind,   with   a   promise   to   still   be   her   bethroded,   but   she   is   not   so   sure   now.   Her   face   bore   the   scars   of   Dayne's   sword   but   she   hid   them   well   with   makeup   but   they   all   knew   she   had   a   scar   upon   her   features   now.   

No   less   lovely,   Trystane   had   said   but   that   had   not   stopped   her   mother   to   send   back   for   her.   Tommen   is   king   now   and   years   had   not   been   kind   to   either   of   them.   Myrcella   herself   in   the   middle   of   a   plot   to   make   her   queen,   and   the   topic   hang   above   them   like   sour   winds.

[verticordiae]

IT HAD BEEN INTENDED as a reassurance, her words. they seem more like a confession now, even if her daughter did not seem to interpret them as such. more the better, in her opinion. even if every crack in her fractured countenance appeared like a gaping chasm to cersei herself, perhaps her weakness, her ugliness and that raw, rotting side to her which yearned for rest above all else could remain hidden from the rest of the world — even her own flesh and blood. it can be good, to be obscured. if she has learned anything from her ordeal, it is that. she is still a lannister, glory still has it's allure. she is pulled to wanting it, relentlessly, like the moth with charred wings who cannot forget the pain imparted by an open flame. if the walk taught her a second thing, it was that she was a person. cersei could still not quite bring herself to think ' a person like any other ' ; lannister pride knows no bounds, it is a metal that has held through hellfire and can be used to construct a mighty fine cage.

in the days before her daughter had returned, she had spent every hour she could spare soaking in the bath, sloughing away her skin as if one day steel would glimmer beneath the horsehair brush instead of raw, reddened skin. but try as she might, she had been forced to contend with her own humanness, how weak and soft and gruesome she truly was, the way her father's gaze had so often threatened to reveal. acknowledgement, however, was not acceptance.

doubt looms at the edges of her consciousness; cersei rarely slept and always poorly when she did, and the effort of keeping the hopelessness and dread at bay saps at the little energy she does have. she expends the rest of it on straightening, coming closer and taking myrcella's hands in her own, preventing her daughter from squirming. the dredges of her supply are used to keep her touch gentle — it's learned, from an ugly instance with tommen. cersei doesn't want to have instances like those, not with her children, the ones who are left.

what does she want to say? so many things that it all seems to blend together. it's a terror, to admit her love. the word itself feels like poison, corrosive on her tongue where it lingers. is it a negligence? to allow her daughter to think that love could be anything but a liability? or is it an abuse, to imply that her children are burdens to her? they're not, they could never be. they tether her to this plane of existence, they give her cause to maintain her dignity, to fight and then fight some more. it's exhausting, nevertheless. even admitting that inside her head is hard.

" i wish to protect you, myrcella. " good, this is easy to say because it is true. her next words are true as well, but they feel like peeling back her skin and revealing all her open wounds. " i do not want to spend any of our remaining time apart. " she didn't mean for it to come out that way. she prays the implications go unnoticed, cersei's good at that now, praying. practice makes perfect, and the septas who had watched her under the high sparrow's command made practice mandatory.

one hand comes to brush myrcella's hair away from her face, gentle and careful not to disturb the powder carefully laid over her skin. " somebody has already hurt you, sweetling. and someone has already taken your brother away from us and— " and jaime has abandoned me and i am surrounded by enemies and need someone to rel — cersei kills the thought before it can even become fully formed. it's too close to surrender, too close to despair. " and i will not have anything like that happening again. you will never be exposed to the dangers of the world, myrcella. never again. not as long as i live. "

[verticordiae]

@helaene: 'the gods must be angry. i sense a storm brewing.'

HER EYES SLIP SHUT for the briefest of moments, feeling the dampness of the air and giving herself just a sliver of respite in imagining it to be the spray of the sunset sea instead. it tastes different; blackwater bay is less salty than the waters around casterly rock, and it's not like condensation and seawater are the same thing. it is no matter. she is as close to the top as she's ever been. that is what matters, it is all that matters, and that is precisely what holds cersei's tongue for her as she steps away from the window and turns back into the room to face the queen.

the sky is nearly pitch black, cersei wants to say. not much 'sensing' is required to glean that indeed, it might soon rain. instead, she bites her words back. " yes, your grace, " she agrees instead with a practised ease, sliding back into the seat she had just vacated moments before to breathe in the fresh air. it wasn't fresh, it was oppressive and damp and grey. cersei couldn't wait for the storm to break; it was pressing down on the whole city, making the very air feel thick and cumbersome, and all it did was make her restless, like the lions in the menagerie inside the rock. other ladies seemed to be able to sit and chat politely for hours. it was, certainly, an attainable goal for her, though not a desirable one.

" are you quite worried, queen helaena? i cannot imagine that anything you do could upset the gods; their wrath is surely directed elsewhere. " it's wry, almost teasing, a little sweet, and in possession of an undercurrent of truth that she had not entirely meant to include.

[rem-ir]

“happy endings” this “sad endings” that– you can debate the relative merits of each till your mouth goes dry and it’s still not a meaningful binary. Is the ending coherent and emotionally appropriate for the story? Cool.

[rainhadaenerys]

#^this#does it match the tone of the story? does it do all characters justice?#does it reaffirm the themes of story instead of undermining it?#that’s how you know whether the ending is appropriate or not (tags via @eldritch-crone)

[verticordiae]

@uneactrice: 'you will make a fine ruler one day.'

IT'S NOT SOMETHING she's used to hearing, and as with all things unfamiliar, Cersei does not exactly take kindly to it, especially from the mouth of a beautiful woman. She is quite tired of beautiful women, as of late. When the maids dress her hair in the mornings, her gaze seems to pass through the mirror. But unfamiliar as such words may be, courtesy is still something she has firmly in hand ( she has to believe that, at least ). She's worn this smile ten thousand times before, she can wear it once more.

"Ah—!" Her voice light, without being airy or discomfortingly bright. The tone says, I didn't quite notice you there, but how glad I am to see you even if I've never seen you before! It says, welcome to my world, because it is mine, but I am opening the door to you. It's a lot easier to don when it's directed at the charming Miss St. Just than it is when wielded upon the always fish-like Lady Falyse. "Marguerite, is it not?"

The queen's lips take on a playful twist, as if the idea of ruling was a mere bemusement, an invigorating exercise of thought, rather than the relentless compulsion that ate up her days and nights. "What sweet words, Miss St. Just. Might I ask why you pay me such a lovely compliment?"

She leans forward slightly, dismantling her pin-straight posture to take a more relaxed stance, turning the force of her summer-green gaze upon the other woman. Her eyes glimmer with a playful curiosity, but the taste of danger that says 'beware your next words!' remains simmering underneath.

[nightprompts]

&. 𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥 / 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

(  various  dialogue  prompts  for  all  your  medieval  /  fantasy  /  d&d  inspired  threads  and  aus!  feel  free  to  change  how  you  seem  fit.  )

❛ i hope this raven finds you well… ❜

❛ you carry a sword, yet you are not a knight. ❜

❛ the gods must be angry. i sense a storm brewing. ❜ 

❛ there’s no place i’d rather be than by your side. ❜ 

❛ nobility is defined by what you do, not who you are. ❜

❛ i know how to keep my life and my crown. and i will. ❜ 

❛ well, i’m not a knight. not yet. ❜

❛ at least we’ll die with honor. ❜

❛ i’ve never seen a dragon before, what are they like? ❜

❛ this knife is laced with venom, any sudden movements and you’re dead. ❜ 

❛ of all the idiots in the realm, i’m trapped with you. ❜ 

❛ shed no tears for me. i will be back before you know it. ❜ 

❛ i’m sorry, but i’m to be married to someone else. ❜ 

❛ here’s a copper for your thoughts. and a silver not to tell them. ❜ 

❛ you humans are most amusing. ❜ 

❛ may i have this dance? ❜ 

❛ you were made to be ruled. ❜ 

❛ i will protect you. it is my duty, knight or not. ❜

❛ my kingdom is in danger. i’ve come to ask for your aid. ❜ 

❛ i’ve got a date with destiny, and it won’t end in a kiss. unfortunately. ❜ 

❛ keep your sword up and your back straight. ❜

❛ you’re asking me to commit treason. ❜

❛ you will make a fine ruler one day. ❜ 

❛ no curse of mine shall befall you from my dying breath. ❜

❛ you should see me in a crown. ❜ 

❛ bury me shallow, i will be back. ❜

❛ bard! play something a little more upbeat. ❜ 

❛ i warn you, i’ve been trained to kill since birth. ❜

❛ my magic is useless against them. i’ve never felt so powerless. ❜ 

❛ how can it be my destiny to protect someone who hates me? ❜ 

❛ i am at your mercy, your grace. ❜ 

❛ do not be afraid, little one. i will not hurt you. ❜ 

❛ any man who must say ‘i am the king’ is no true king. ❜

❛ knights must prevail with steel and sinew alone. ❜

❛ impudent of you to assume i will meet a mortal end. ❜

❛ spare me the ‘i’ve come to slay you’ speech and let’s get on with it. ❜ 

❛ it is my duty to protect the last of the dragons. ❜

❛ do i look like the kind of person who dies? ❜

❛ we are king and queen, chained together like prisoners in a dungeon. ❜ 

❛ for every great ruler, there is an equally great assassin poised to kill. ❜

❛ my bloodline was wiped out before my eyes. i’m the last heir. ❜ 

❛ you look better in your wanted posters. ❜ 

❛ you don’t need a king. a knight can make another knight. ❜

❛ violence for violence is the rule for beasts. ❜

❛ fear cuts deeper than swords. ❜

❛ pick a god and pray to it. ❜

❛ i’d rather die than marry you. ❜ 

❛ my duty is to my people. ❜ 

❛ glad to see you haven’t become food for the vultures. ❜ 

❛ i will paint the throne red with your blood. ❜ 

❛ what’s a life threatening quest without a bit of music? ❜ 

❛ some of us may not survive, but the ones that do will get the ultimate reward… paid. ❜