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Fandom ♛ Liar's Court ♛ - A Game Of Thrones RP

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♛



The Night Of



“Do not disappoint me.”

She sat, demure albeit a bit timid. And he eyed her, like a mountain wolf might eye its prey. “I promise I won’t.” Was her reply. It was never a woman’s place to defy her husband, let ‘lone her King. The air was sticky and warm. She could feel the sweat fester under her arms. Her wedding dress was not helping. It was silvery blue, like her dear mother’s eyes. “Are you certain?”
He asked. She shifted in her sitting. Her fingers fixed a straggly strand of fair hair back into its proper place. Her heart bet itself against her chest. Its thumping only becoming louder and louder.
“I am.”
She said.
Her voice hoarse. She had had a few cups of fruit wine at the feast, but her last sip was but an hour ago. Or so it seemed like it. She needed water now. Or an herbal tea. Something so to soothe her for what was to soon come. “Why do I not believe you?”
She swallowed dryly, “I won’t disappoint you.”
His hand struck her.
Thump.
Thump.
“Do you not see? I am a laughing stock! My realm revels in my misfortunate.” His fingers, long and slender, found themselves wrapped ‘round her neck. She choked on her breath, and raised her fist slightly. She wanted to fight him off.
To go wild at him, thrashing and hitting and -

He let go.

She fell backwards onto the bed, gasping. Her arms spread out, latching onto the dark satin duvet as if it meant some sort of safety for her. “Please, you-” There was an attempt to speak from her - though she could not finish a sentence. She heard his unbuckling.

She was gasping still.

Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.

He approached the bed.

“Forgive me.”

He apologised, before he climbed onto the sheets and pulled at her leg. Dragging her closer to him. She tried to free herself of him and his ever tightening grip but she could not do it. She begged for him not to do it. She pleaded. His fingers - the ones that did choke her - now strangled her dress’s knots and bows.

The fittings soon frustrated him,

So he decided to rip at them instead. Clawing at her gown. Her lovely wedding gown.
The one her mother approved so much of.
The one her father gave her away in, only hours ago.

She began sobbing.

As did he.





♛ ♛ ♛





“So close.” A voice. “So close, my child.”

Her words were sweet. Sweeter than that of a songbird’s sonnet. The ones she’d hear, perched from a high, outside the walls of The Eyrie.
They had to be sweet to get the girl through this woe and through this pain. This agony. The veiled woman had told her to breathe in and then breathe out and, no matter what, to not cease doing this. “In…”

She repeated.

“... out.”
The song continued. Its singer, the lady with a thin white shawl covering her lips and her chin, was Lyra. Her face - the parts that were visible - resembled newly made leather. Newly born. The woman was focused. Acute. More so than anyone else in the room.
More so than Ashara Arryn, especially, who did little but bite down upon her bottom lip. Cringing through the torment of it all. Her hands tore at the sheets bedded beneath her. The fabric dark red. Or was that the blood? Was she bleeding? She shut her eyes.
She did not wish to know.
And continued to follow Lyra’s instruction.
“I - I’m trying…”
She let out.
Her own lyrics to this song. Though not as calm as Lyra’s. Ashara’s were desperate, ragged and frayed. Still -

She tried.
She had made her husband a promise, after all. That she would not disappoint him.

“I can’t!” A cry escaped her. “I can’t - I can’t - I can’t!” Ashara hurled her head back, screaming. The discomfort killing her. Her skin was hot. Boiling, even. Her blonde curls wrung and wet, strands stuck glued to the sides of her own face. One of her handmaidens - which one, in her daze, she did not know - put a cold rag to Ashara’s forehead. Cooling the simmering.
It helped but for one moment.

Before The Queen loosed another scream.

“Breathe, my child. Breathe.”

Lyra repeated as she stood over her.

Her pale brown eyes staring into Ashara’s mixed blue.

“She’s not your child, my lady.” A voice from across the room. A voice belonging to another one of Ashara’s handmaidens, Elissa Algood.
“She’s your Queen.”
Ashara grunted, “Be quiet, Elissa.”
“I am ju-”
More pain hit her. “Be quiet!”
Lyra did not respond to the handmaiden. She only stood there, humming.

Singing.

Telling Ashara Arryn to breathe in and to breathe out.

The cold rag, now having warmed, was taken away. The handmaiden who weld it wet it once more, before placing it back. “There, there.” Her voice cooed. It must have been her cousin Jeyne, though Ashara was not sure. She felt as if she was old and dying and losing her mind -
Like her grandfather had in his sickness.
In his death.


Another pang.


It was excruciating. She felt as if a common crook had wandered in off of the streets and put his sword in her. Opening her up. One end, to the other end. Though in her mind, a crook had done so. A crook and a King. Though she would never dare say that aloud.
Not to Elissa.
Not to Lyarra.
Not to Mariya if she were here.
Not to Tyana.
Not to Ser Renfred nor to Jeyne.
Not even to Lyra Hill, who she had placed much trust in over the last four months. Ashara was glad that she had, as this was the woman helping her through the dying. That’s what Ashara thought was happening to her -

She was dying.
Her guts were what were about to be pushed out of her.
Not a ‘wee babe.


Another pang.


She screamed.
“Where is Grandmaester Barrian?” Elissa echoed. Ashara was wondering that herself. What she would not give but for a taste - the merest sip - of the poppy’s milk. The Grandmaester had left to go get it some time ago. It felt like hours had passed since she last seen him.
Lyra stopped humming, “It may be better if he does not come back. He gave too much of the milk to Aerea Tyrell before…”
“Before?” Elissa asked.
Before the monster came out of her. Ashara had heard the stories. Every courtier who paid even the littlest of attention had. The story of the night Queen Aerea, her husband’s first wife, squeezed a son from her. A son with rotting skin and ravenblack eyes.
A son who cried a terrifying cry for a few long moments, before quieting.
Dying.
The creature’s death meant Aerea’s as well. Not that she died from the birth. No, she died from that of the King’s Justice.
Passed ever so swiftly.

“He can give it to her after the deed is done. We need the boy to be healthy.” Lyra said.

The boy.

The realm was holding its breath as to whether the baby born was male. And if the realm was holding its breath, her husband must have been choking. For the last two months, the court had been calling ‘it’ a ‘him’. Ashara did not know whether it was out of faith - faith for a true heir - or out of cruel jest.
That’s all anyone wanted, no?
Her King especially.
A son.
A Prince.
An heir to his throne that wasn’t his brother, or his unfit daughter.


And another.


Ashara felt it.

The pain.
And the pressure.

The pressure to birth a future King, so that her husband and his court and his Kingdoms may rejoice. The brief courtship she had with him, her husband, was a sweetness. A kindness. Something that seemed almost out of one of Mariya’s fable-tale books.
Ashara remembered how she would swoon for him.
For her King.
Oh,
How foolish she once was.
The sweetness and the kindness stopped hours after they wed. And Ashara realised her true purpose that night. That horrifying night. It wasn’t to be a Queen to the people. It wasn’t to be a lover to her husband. It was to save a dynasty.
And if she didn’t succeed in doing so, she’d die for it.

​

​
Like Queen Lynora.​

​
​
Like Queen Aerea Tyrell.​



The pain persisted.

She screamed, louder than before.

“She’s close.”

She heard Lyra state.

She heard the door open. Was it The Grandmaester? Was it her husband? Of course it wasn’t. She knew of his personal policy.

Lucerys The First did not pay any wife a visit until after they’d given birth.

For then he’d judge what it was they pushed out.

“How is she?”
The voice was muffled. Ashara’s eyelids fluttered, like wings. She could see Lyra in-front of her open legs - her hands reddened with blood.
Ashara’s belly twinged. Like a knife twisting. That crook was back. I… I can’t…” She whispered. Her whole body felt as if it was burning. Throbbing. Her very being was being stretched. She tried to breathe in. She tried to breathe out. But Lyra’s song was becoming harder and harder to follow…

She let loose another cry. Another scream, this one sounding more defeated than the others.

“Quick, girls-”
“Wha-”
Ashara tried to breathe, but now the inhales were getting caught in her throat. Prisoners. Unable to escape. She tried to gasp, like she did that night - ten months prior. She tried to spit the little breaths out of her. “It...ing...ick…” Someone said. Likely Lyra. Ashara could not make out what it was.
Her eyelids continued batting.
In the corner of her inglets of sight, however, she saw Renfred.
He was the one to come.
“Wh--”
“N--”
“You’ll be o-” Jeyne sounded to her. She felt Jeyne’s hand around hers. Renfred soon approached and took the other hand in his. They both held Ashara. In her final moments.

It had to be.

“P--”

“Pu-”

Ashara looked at Lyra. Oddly subdued.

“Push, my Queen!”

“Push!”

Ashara blinked. Her grip on Renfred and Jeyne tightening, severely. Gritting her teeth, she did as told. She pushed. She would not let it take her.
She would not let Lucerys kill her with the baby he put inside her. Just as much as she wouldn’t let his executioner take her head.

“Push, my Queen! Push!” Lyra screamed. Her voice, all of a sudden, a roar.

“You can do it, my lady!” Jeyne joined in.

“Push, my lady! Push! Push! Push!” Elissa.

She heard the voices of the other women in the room. All saying similar things. Chanting. Septas and servants and all that.
No longer a song with a single singer. But now one with a choir.

“Come on, Ash…”

Renfred squeezed her hand.

She squeezed her entirety.

Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.

A shrill cry filled the one. A wailing scream. One that, this time, did not belong to Ashara. One that belonged to ‘it’. To her child.
To her baby.


“A boy.”


Lyra rejoiced,
“Thank The Seven! A perfect boy!”

The next half an hour was a blur. A mist. They took the baby, Lyra and the girls, and did what you do with a newborn baby. Cutting it from her and washing it gently of the blood and the pink, before Lyra bundled him in a beige blanket. The veiled midwife then handed him to her.
Ashara held him for the first time -
And the world froze.
As if this long Autumn had suddenly turned to Winter.
Ashara looked at him. Watched him. His skin was soft and pale. The little of his hair - a dark silver. His eyes - bright blue. Like hers. Like her mother’s.

“His eyes...”
She said.

“He’s beautiful.” Jeyne said, cheerfully.

“Our little Prince!”
Elissa sang.

“He’s… perfect.”
Lyra joined.

Renfred did not stir. He simply sat by Ashara’s side looking at the boy - his face vacant of the smile everyone else in the room wore.

Ashara smiled the brightest.

She had been so worried. Worried that he’d end up looking like that thing that came out of Tyrell. Worried that he’d be cursed with an ailment like his uncle Jaehaerys. Worried that he’d be born with his father’s worst traits and worried that he’d be born with the worst traits of her own -

Born with her own grandmother’s barbarous.

She even worried that he’d be born a girl, as much as she wanted one. Her husband had told her he had no need for more girls.

“Do not disappoint me, Ashara.”

“I promise, I won’t.”



♛ ♛ ♛



Ashara was in and out of sleep for the rest of the night. People came, and people went. Grandmaester Barrion came with his elixir. Milk of the poppy and an added something to soothe her even more so. The birth had taken it out of her. She overheard, in and out of sleep, about how much she had bled.

That she was lucky to be alive.

She woke.

Her back aching profusely as she did. “Hello?” She called out. Her call met with immediate response. Lyra appeared from behind a doorway, cradling the boy - wrapped in a new blanket now. One that looked thicker and warmer. “Hush, my child.”
Lyra spoke softly, “You still need much rest.” Ashara smiled a thin smile at her and the baby.
The Prince.
The heir to The Seven Kingdoms.
“How… how is he? Well? H… has his f-father come?” She was struggling to find the words. She felt as if her bed was floating in the night sky.

Lyra was solemn.

“Lucerys was informed an hour or two ago but has yet to make his appearance.” She rocked the baby back and forth in her arms. He gurgled at her. “The Prince is as proper as ever. A good little lad who… who I know will change the world.”
Ashara smile widened at Lyra’s words.

“He will.”

Lyra’s eyes lit up and she hushed Ashara once more. “You get your rest, child. You deserve an eternal slumbering after that ordeal. I will take his highness and give him a proper wash. He has been a bit restless in his cot.”
Ashara nodded,
“Thank you, Lyra…”
Lyra smiled, “Of course, my chi- your grace.”

And like that.
Lyra had left. The babe gone with her.

Sleep took her once more.



♛ ♛ ♛



“Ashara.”

She woke.

He was sitting at the side of her bed, timidly. He eyed her. Her heart began beating faster and faster as soon as she laid hers upon him. His slender fingers tapped against the sheets, rhythmically. He was a handsome man, Lucerys. A handsome King. No one had ever denied that. Even in her loathing for him, she didn’t.
She couldn’t.
A part of him was still ‘him’.
The King from the stories who’d have swept her off her feet and give her the world.

“Your grace.”

She said, in her stupor. The poppy’s milk was still strong in her blood.
She felt soft.
Numb.

“Have you s-seen him?”
She asked.

He slowly shook his head, “Not yet. I will now. I wanted to…” He stopped. Clearly trying to plan out his words. He never had a way with them.
“To what?”
His eyes peered into hers. Violet into blue. “... Well done.”

Well done.

That was it.
That was all it was leading up to. His words. Their marriage. Their horrible, horrible marriage. It had all led up to this.
She felt it again.
The wildness.
The rage. She wanted to strike him. To claw at his face like he had clawed at her wedding dress. To wrap her hands ‘round his throat and squeeze the life from him, like had done to her. She was still living, but she had no life here. Nothing.
And now that she’d given him a son...

Was ‘well done’ the only gratitude she would ever get? Would her head be decorating some mantle within the next week.

Lucerys looked at her, still.

“I promised.”
She croaked. Her eyelids heavy.

His purple eyes glowed. His face a frown.

Before blackness fell.



♛ ♛ ♛



She woke in wetness.

Her head buried into a linen pillow. Instantly, she could tell that it had worn off - the poppy. “What?” She fumbled, her body twisted within the blankets. As if she was her baby boy. She sat up, eyes adjusting to the dim candlelight. She spied the cot.
Empty. “Lyra?”
She called. She felt the wetness even more. She rubbed her eyes, making her eyes wet as well.
“What?”
She looked at her hands. Red. Like how Lyra’s were during the birth. Was she bleeding again? Was she -

She spotted him.

At the end of the bed.

Still eyeing her.

“L-Lucerys…”

Her breath caught when she it in him. The steel. Shoved into his back, and emerging from his chest - its point poking into the sheets and into the mattress. Keeping him upright. She saw it all now. The blood. All the blood. As if the room had drowned in red water.

Like she had been drowned in it.

Her heart.
Thump.
Thump.
Stuck in her throat, alongside her breaths. Her tongue twitched. A tingle. She felt as if she was about to vomit. She moved like lightning, fumbling out of the bed. Her body paining immensely as she did. She fell out, face first, smacking into the tile. “LUCERYS!”

She screamed.
A curdled scream.

“SOMEONE!”

She crawled away from the bed. Realising that it was all over her. All of the blood. All of his blood. “HELP ME! SOMEONE! PLEASE, HELP ME!”

She heard running.
Pairs of feet thumping, like her heart, one by one by one.

“SOMEONE… PLEASE…” She grabbed onto a pillar and helped lift herself up. Her womanhood hurting as she tried to stand straight. She took one glance back at her husband. Her King. His corpse almost… mangled. The sword through his torso.
She threw up in her mouth, before forcing herself to swallow it back down.

“HELP ME!”

She could not look away.

“HELP! SOMEONE!”

It was nightmarish.

The doors burst open. Castle guards and Kingsguard alike. Several of them. They all stood in the now open doorway that led out to the corridor. They were in shock.
Staring.
Staring at their King.
Before one of them, Ser Triston, looked at her. His mouth wide open. His eyes filled with… Ashara could not tell what.
Fear?
The others looked at her. One of the castle guards stepped out of the room, sickened.
Sadness?
The ones looking at her drew their swords. Eyeing her down. Like a mountain wolf might eye its prey.

No.
It was neither fear nor sadness.

It was anger.

Anger for the woman who murdered their King.





​




Liar’s Court







​
 
Tyana Waters
Handmaiden
​
While the realm mourned their slain monarch, Tyana had fallen into her role as babysitter of the deceased's eldest child. It was not an easy job even in happy times, and naturally the gravity of the situation had made matters almost intolerable. Still, she was nothing if not resilient, and had been able to cope through the worst of it all.

Ever a passionate lover of the theatre, Princess Rhaenyra's performance had been one to rival any actor who deemed themselves professional. It wasn't that Tyana doubted the young woman's grief -- had she lost her own father, she was certain she would be just as beside herself -- more that she felt that said grief had been exaggerated for the means of garnering recognition. She hadn't known Rhaenyra for more than a couple of years, but she'd been told plenty of stories: it was common knowledge that Rhaenyra Targaryen lusted after attention the way a slut yearns for cock.

For the first few days, she had been inconsolable. Her anguished cries had echoed through the halls as she beat pillows with clenched fists until feathers flew. Tyana had waited patiently throughout this, offering the odd word of comfort and even drawing the princess into her arms late one night to hold her shaking body.

Then had come the anger. Tyana had listened compassionately as Rhaenyra cursed Ashara to every deity, and condemned her, and expressed her own murderous intentions of vengeance.

And then, the vanity, so insensitive and self centered that it had made Tyana sick to her stomach and made her blood boil. Upon returning from her own father's funeral, Rhaenyra had sat before her mirror, stroking her hair, and asked Tyana to address her as a Queen.

She sat at that same mirror now as Tyana fastened jewel after jewel around her slender neck. Fascinated by her own reflection, she preened and fussed and babbled away, completely unaware that her most trusted confidant was now driven to the point where she wanted nothing more than to slam her head against the mirror again and again until the glass shattered.

But Tyana was a woman of duty.
So she smiled, styled, and simpered.

"Do you think they'll kill her for it?"

Rhaenyra's honey-laced voice brought Tyana back to reality. Her reflection smiled at the princess as she finished with the necklaces and moved on to braiding a section of her impossibly long hair.

"Perhaps they will, my Queen. In the end, justice will always be served."
 
Lord Ethan Arryn
Lord of the Moon Gate
​
Silence engulfed the cave like study many miles away in in the Moon Gate.
​
Ethan supposed he should've been surprised, if the confused gaze his Lieutenant fixed upon him was anything to go by. Really, most people be in catatonic shocked that the king was dead, but than again, Ethan wasn't most people. In hindsight, the bastard had had it coming for a while now, what with them wedding and subsequently killing the daughters of numerous houses.

Well, his Captain certainly didn't share his thoughts, evident enough by their look of utter confusion. They were as lost as a child in a Brothel it seemed, and they acted as one.

Draining the Goblet of Wine in his hand, Lord Ethan Arryn stood from his seat. "Ready ten good men and as many horses. I want enough supplies to get us to King's Landings, no less" Ethan orderd, striding towards the door. He wasn't convinced his niece had killed the king, not at all. It wasn't just because the lass had been through labor hours before the untimely death of the monarch, but because Ethan never saw Ashara as a murderer. They were a romantic fool that married the king, not a romantic fool that killed the king.

"And send a rider to the Eyrie to inform my dear brother" Ethan instructed, exiting the room. He heard a "Yes, my grace" echo off the stone walls to him. He didn't believe informing his brother would do much of anything really, given how they were the one to throw Ashara to the hounds in the first place, but it was expected of him to at least inform Eustace.

As the Lord headed for the stables, Ethan was left to wonder which of the various houses Lucerys offended had done in Westeros' beloved monarch.
 
Lord Ormund Baratheon - Lord Paramount of the Stormlands
The Coming Storm​

Summer was a distant memory now, and Autumn even now was beginning to fade. The skies were bleak and overcast, the dark looming clouds seemingly fit to burst. The wind whipped about the group, cloaks were pulled tight, and the fallen autumn leaves swirled around them, joining the dust kicked up by their horses. Thankfully the journey from Storm’s End along the King’s Road had been dry, a small blessing given the near constant threat of rain that had doggedly followed them. The Kingswood had been quiet, surprisingly so, but the bandits that called it their home were either lax in their scouting, or most likely preferred far easier targets than the convoy that wound their way down the King’s Road. A total of 20 knights and men at arms, all mounted, made up the group. The baggage train had departed by sea and would be waiting at King’s Landing when they arrived, no sense in limiting their speed and adding more hours to their journey, Ormund wanted this over as soon as possible. He sat rigidly in his saddle, his black riding cloak draped over his shoulders, the only splash of colour being the crowned yellow stag emblazoned on his chest, his black hair and beard only accentuating his pale skin and eyes as Shipbreaker Bay. He had not spoken since leaving the King’s Wood, and that was over an hour ago. With every step his destrier took, the feeling of regret grew in his chest. He should not have answered the summons to this pit of vipers. For 5 years the Baratheons had remained in self imposed exile, given the actions taken against their house, it was the least they could do, but any greater a retaliation and the King would have had his chance to come down on the rest of the family, and so Ormund had continued what his father had begun. Yet now Lucerys was dead, murdered just like Ormund’s beloved uncle, though it appeared that he had a far easier death than the one afforded to Rogar Baratheon, but it was too late to do anything about that now.

Now there was to be a trial, not that his uncle had had the chance of receiving such a thing, not a fair one by any means. The young queen and mother of the missing Prince, King now he assumed, locked in the dungeons and accusing of killing her husband. If she was guilty then Ormund couldn’t help but admire her, having the guts to do what many had not, including himself. As they rose over the last of incline, the sun finally broke through the clouds, wrestling free of their stormy confines, and their before them stood the capital, several rays catching the spires of the Sept of Baylor, and splitting them back out like points of a compass. He gently pulled the reigns, bringing his horse to a stop as he took in the view. It had been some time, and it certainly seemed smaller, dirtier than when he last saw it, like a squatting giant wasting away from some illness, but that was most likely due to looking at it through the eyes of a man, and not those of an impressionable boy.

“King’s Landing without a King, I suppose that just makes it The Landing, really does lose any sort of awe at that point, nothing more than a stinking cess pit,”

He didn’t turn his head, but his words were addressed to the tower of a man beside him. Despite the size difference between the two, the mountain beside him was his younger brother. To be honest Ormund was not quite sure where he got his height and size from, and as a youth had joked about their being Mammoth blood somewhere in the family. He wouldn’t have chosen anyone else to be beside him today however. The soldiers and retainers were for projection of power, Jon was there as his trusted right hand, and if he had to pick between them he would go with Jon any day.

“I suppose the death of the murdering bastard is a good enough reason to return. Though why they would choose me to sit on the Jury judging his accused murderer has left me pondering. Conventionally the jurors aren’t supposed to side with the murderer from the off… This was the right decision wasn’t it? Hours I spent pondering whether I should have just cast that blasted letter into the flames, would have saved us the journey,”

(Interaction: Yahhah Yahhah Jon Baratheon)
 
Syero Essaar- "The Crow"​
"You best not forget my silver piece, Essosi bastard!"
The shrieking squeals of the distressed stairs echoed through the small townhome. The woman froze at the middle landing, her rage halting her as she felt a stare upon her bareback.
"Why would I pay for such poor services? You know you can do better, as do I. It was a poor reflection of ourselves do you not agree?" Syero looked down upon the whore from atop of the stairs, his arms crossed gingerly as if this was only a minor inconvenience. A sheet was wrapped around his waist to not expose himself once more to the disgruntled women.
"I do not work for free! Do you think you can steal a night of service? Who in Seven Hells do you think you are! Try-"
At this point, Syero had gently made his way down the stairs to the girl, his calloused hand gently caressing her porcelain cheek.
"If you do not leave my home at this moment in time, I'm afraid I'll arrest you for trespassing." Syero's gentle Essosi purr tended to sway the most enflamed hearts. And this case was no different.
The whore gently leaned into the man's robust neck, pecking its mahogany surface before pulling away from the man. "I don't suppose I'd want that..." She muttered, before calming making her way down the remainder of the stairs. Moments later the creak of the door and its closing followed, signaling a safe departure.


As he readied himself for the day, Syero allowed his mind to wander. The previous week in Kings Landing had been met with much unrest and unruly behavior. The odd mixture of pleasure and anger towards the death of King Lucerys and the imprisonment of his wife Ashara meant there was a substantial increase in City Watch presence. The main quandary to the ordeal was simple: the City Watch's allegiance is to the King alone. But yet there was no king? An amusing conundrum to a foreigner like himself. Pulling the last golden band over his bicep-covered armor, Syero glanced briefly to the standard helmet in the corner of his room. He loathed its appearance and often it pained him to wear. Unless Lucerys would arise from his tomb, Syero would not adorn the abomination of metal.

Once pleased with himself, he made his way downstairs. His home was quaint, yet functional. The entirety of the downstairs encompassed both a small cooking area as well as a table for eating or hosting guests. Opening the two small windows to allow the autumn breeze in, the hustle and bustle from Kings Landing quickly slashed the silence. Commander Garon Darklyn was to meet him prior to the beginnings of an investigation of sorts. Something about dead whores if he recalled correctly. Nonetheless, it was a pleasant change of pace from the bombardment of policing the smallfolk.

TheFool TheFool - mentioned
 
Sylva Martell
The Fair
​
They were drawing near now, and with every step the horses took, Sylva’s discomfort grew.

Her fingers brushed back the curtain and she wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“I’ve never liked King’s Landing,” she lamented. “If your father could see us now—“

He’d do nothing. Say nothing.

Edmyn had never been the ferocious man Sylva had envisioned giving her hand to. By the time she was thirteen, her hand was all she had left to give the man who married her — though she knew many highborn girls would pale at the very thought of such a thing — but it had been an honour in her eyes nonetheless. Without intending to, Edmyn had tried to extinguish the fire that burned so brightly within her, and she’d always resented him for it no matter how much he’d adored her.

When she’d been but sixteen, and he’d planted himself within her, she’d cursed his name. Throughout her pregnancy she’d loathed the life that grew inside her, the child that would mark her as a mother. A sign of aging.

But when she’d first laid eyes on Tommen, she’d loved him. A perfect child, the first of her own brood.

And she had grown accustomed to the idea of loving his father.

She mourned Edmyn when he passed. Though she’d seen him as the weak man who had somehow trapped her in his grasp, she mourned him. But the children she had born, his children, were a comfort. They would grow to accomplish greater things, greater than they already had.

As she looked at them, she was sure of it.

“Don’t look so miserable, child,” Sylva chastised Mariya. Once as sickly as her father, now a beauty in her own right. “This is an opportunity. Think of the people you’ll meet.”

The men.

Sylva raised her cup to her lips.

“This sort of upheaval may never happen again in our lifetime. The world is changing.”


Braddington Braddington TheFool TheFool

 
Lord Commander of the Kingsguard
Ser Quenton Hightower

White Sword Tower​


Despite the cool autumn air, the room felt hot and oppressive. To be honest the weather had nothing to do atmosphere in the room, it could have been below freezing outside with gale force winds, and it would still be uncomfortably hot in the common room of the White Sword Tower. Quenton stood hunched, his hands placed firmly against the window frame. It would be the easy way out, a few seconds of waiting before he met the courtyard below, an escape from the whispers and the looks. But the shame would still be there, the book that lurked just a few metres behind him would make sure of that. The White Book, that recorded the deeds of every member of the Kingsguard, including every Lord Commander since Corlys Velaryon. Whichever one of the white clad members that stood behind him was elected would record the events of the end of his stewardship of the Kingsguard, and it would not make for glorious reading. Lucerys dead, and his heir, so fresh from the womb that he had yet to be given a name, missing. To say this was a disaster was an understatement, it was his duty to protect the King and his family. And in the space of a few hours he had failed in both of those. They had failed.

He pushed himself away from the window, his white cloak fluttering in the breeze, and faced his brothers. The deep depths of his brown eyes flicked over each of the Kingsguard. The bags underneath them betrayed the near complete lack of sleep since the King’s murder. To be seen to be doing anything other than resting would be seized upon as a dereliction of duty, and the sharks were already circling, the water heavy with blood. He placed his hand on the pommel of his sword, momentarily grasping it, and feeling the cold metal, grounding himself momentarily. He had taken most of his frustration out over the previous days, a stalking powderkeg in the corridors of the Red Keep, lashing out at Servants, guardsman, in fact almost anyone who didn’t hold a lordship (Even then a few young lords came close to feeling his wrath). He cleared his throat. The meeting was needed, now that tensions had lessened somewhat. The Queen was safely imprisoned, and her son had not yet been found. The search had scaled down for now, if he hadn’t been found now… Well it wasn’t worth thinking. Either way it meant trouble. With the infant on the throne Rickard would have most likely assumed the regency, and then Quenton’s position would have been secure. But now it was all up in the air. To dismiss a Lord Commander was without precedent, but then again these days chaos and upheaval were the words of the day, anything could happen. He would have to track The Hand down, the sooner the better. But for now there were more immediate issues, mundane matters that seemed useless in times such as this.

“So the Jurors begin arriving today. Starks, Baratheons, Tullys, Lannisters and Tyrells. We are to present a united front, no mistakes, not now. A single misstep by anyone, minor or otherwise, and I will come down on you with all the fury of the Seven Hells,”

His eye twitched at this last comment. The scar that bisected it writhing like a snake beneath his skin. He kept himself under control however, the anger and frustration bubbling, but not rising to the surface this time.

“Despite what has happened we are still the Kingsguard. We were here before the Red Keep, we have outlasted the dragons, rebellions, wars and famines we have survived. This is our darkest hour, but we must band together, to give into infighting would be our doom. The King may be dead, but we must make sure that his murderer is tried and brought to justice,”

It had to be her. Locked in the room and alone with him, there was no question. In fact Quenton did not want to even dwell on the question. The Queen murdering the King meant less of a stain on his name. And right now it was time for damage limitation.

(Interaction: The Kingsguard)
 




The Prince



It had been but seven days since his brother Lucerys was found by his own Kingsguard, slaughtered, with a simple iron sword - one you could find at any armory - in his back.
But, if you had to ask Jaehaerys, his brother had been dead much, much longer than that. Seven days without a King as akin to the last seven years without one.

Jaehaerys did not grieve,
Though he did not rejoice either. What was done was done and there was nothing that could change that. Lucerys was slain and gone. Whether it be by his little wife or by a trusted advisor or… just by someone looking for some sort of change.

For all Kings must fall at some point.


The funeral was an informal one. Lucerys had requested long ago that, if he were to die ( and he had ), that he did not want such a fuss. It was to be his family and his closest members of his court. That was it. The High Septon, a man younger than most men present, said words.

Kind words.

Words that no one ever said about him previously.

Jaehaerys stood at the front of the small crowd of ‘mourners’. His hand gently touching his niece’s arm. His sister, Maegelle, holding his - as she coughed up a storm. Mae’s coughing was a nuisance. The High Septon was most especially annoyed by it, having to stop every few moments…

She was on the way out as well, Jaehaerys remembered thinking.
One by one,
House Targaryen was dying.

The blood of Old Valyria was sullied.

Jaehaerys would not have that.

Rickard Tyrell, Lucerys’ hand, stood up and said a few. Jaehaerys had never liked the man. Something about him and his manner was slimy. Impure. And it was of his belief that the roses had brought the weeds into The Red Keep. There was too many of them.
Not even members of House Tyrell - but those under them. The court, for most Lucerys' reign, had resembled a garden of black. Rot and decay.
All brought from The Reach.

After Dick,
It was his turn. Jaehaerys stood in front of everyone and spoke. His voice batting around The Great Sept. He spoke of childhood memories. Fond ones. No matter what was to be said about his brother, he did have some fond ones. There was a time where Jaehaerys had fallen down a step on the way to… some banquet… and Lord Stokeworth’s sons had laughed at him.
They called him ‘Prince Limpy’ and heckled.
A childish thing.
Lucerys appeared behind Jaehaerys and helped him up. Dusted him off and handed him back his walking stick. “A limping dragon is still mightier than a frollicking lamb, young brother.”

And Lucerys was right.

A few more people spoke.
Tears were shed, whether those cries real or not.
And it was finished. The people closest to King Lucerys The Last - as close as one could get - said their last goodbyes.

And then they burned him.


Now,
One week later. A trial was soon to begin and Dick Tyrell and The Grandmaester had asked Jaehaerys to sit and judge it. Jude The Queen. The woman who supposedly had killed his brother. He agreed to do so. Though he was not sure where his heart yet lied…

He knew the girl.
The young Queen, born surrounded by rocks and sky.
She couldn’t have done it.
And she couldn’t have hired someone to do so either. Which was what many at court did whisper.


He hobbled down a hallway.
His weirdwood cane hitting the red brick with rhythm. Using his free hand, he went to slick back his hair like he would always do. Completely forgetting that he had chopped it all off several days ago after he believed it was finally time.

Finally time for a change.

He now wore it short.
And he, himself, had not decided whether he liked it this way or not.

He arrived at the door and outside it two guards.
They bowed their heads.
He smiled.

Before he knocked once.
And knocked twice.

The door opened to a young girl. Tina was her name, he thought. A bastard of The Kettleblack. His dear niece’s handmaiden.
And someone who had recently become close with the accused Queen.

“Your grace.”
She said.

“Would my lovely niece care to join me for a walk in the garden? I do believe the freshest of air is required before everyone arrives in their upset.” Jaehaerys spoke. A smile still on his face. His hand still gripping his cane. And, aside from the missing babe, the final Prince of House Targaryen.

ailurophile ailurophile



​
 
Luceon Celtigar - The High Septon
​
"What better way to start the day if not by drinking a bottle of dornish red, brother!" Daerys spoke as he quickly fetched two small cups and poured some of the crimson liquid in them. "I would offer you some, dear mother, but with that face of yours I will assume you are in no set of mind for alcohol." The heir of House Celtigar stated as Luceon gave out a small chuckle, hearing his brother's words. "Here we are, the King's dead, our closest and most important ally and all you and your brother can think of is to poison your bodies. Daerys, if I catch you drunk again in court I will..." Lady Celtigar threatened, but before the old woman could finish, Luceon raised his hand and quickly added "No worries, mom. It's only one cup... or two" he added, winking at Daerys, whom responded with a chuckle of his own.

Naerys Celtigar rolled her eyes and sat on her couch laying her golden cane next to her. "We need to be careful now. They won't even let one of us be the judge of Ashara's trial. Not even Luceon, who is the fucking High Septon, for the Seven's sake." Daerys and Luceon both smiled, knowing very well when the woman started to curse, she was pissed. "All is well, we still have Rhaenyra on our side. She grew quite fond of me." Luceon reminded, for which his mother simply replied "Yes, yes. We all know how close you two are Luceon." Daerys gave a burst of a laugh and not even Naerys could hide her smile.

Luceon also smirked "Judge me all you want, but we still have close ties to the royal family because of me. If we can have her as ally, we still hold power. I will speak to her when the opportunity arrives, make sure we are still on the same page." he took a sip of the wine "Are we still going with plan A?" Daerys asked, followed by a nod from Naerys "It will be quite tricky, but if it works, we got ourselves the best outcome of this annoying situation."

"Big Brother is gonna get himself a wife, after all this years. Of course, I will do everything I can for you." Luceon raised his cup "Cheers, brother" Both took a big sip and finished their drinks. "Well, I'm gonna go and find the princess then. What will you do mother? Lord Humpback ?" Luceon asked. "I have to know what the Master of Whispers knows. It's his fucking job to know who wants to murder the King and why, but again that deviant was always a threat to us from the start, so I have to speak with careful words, trying to bait him to reveal what he knows and doesn't want others to know." The woman placed her fingers on her cane, decorated with a big crab's shell, bathed in gold. She got up and opened the door that connected the Master of Coins' chamber to one of the identical halls that made the Red Keep a maze for the newcomers. Serving as guards were two bannermen of House Celtigar. "Now get the fuck out of my room you two and be useful to our family." Her sons smiled at each other and also got up from their respective seats "We'll make you proud, mother" Daerys said as he waved at both of them and left, the bottle of dornish wine still in his hands. Luceon went in the opposite direction and started whistling a tune he heard from one of his brother's bards.
 
The Hand​

If it were not for the light footfalls of those recently awakened from their slumber, one might have been forgiven for assuming that morning never came to the Tower of the Hand. It was dark, the only illumination emitting gently from the flickering wick of a dying candle, though to call that melted pool of string and wax a true source of light would have been a huge exaggeration, struggling to even keep itself alight, let alone fight off the shadows that continually threatened to extinguish its flame. Just enough of a glow was given off to graze the wick’s surroundings, though it might have been a prettier sight to keep the whole room engulfed in darkness, such was the state of the Hand’s abode, covered almost entirely in the discarded relics of habitation. Two steps shy of a pig’s sty, and three short of uninhabitable, it was clear that little care was given to this hovel, and if it were not for the furious scribblings of quill against parchment, it might have been assumed that no one had lived here for the better part of half a year.

Alas, unlike the perishing wick, Rickard Tyrell would not be relieved from his duties so easily.

It had been a long few days, long for everyone, but especially for the King’s Hand, attempting to maintain the illusion that everything was running as it should be, despite the fact that the very realm was crumbling around him. Everyone assumed that upon the passing of a King, things should come to a halt, that the realm should stand still in a period of mourning to honour their deceased ruler. Unfortunately, that standstill required a significant amount of work. The best result that Dick could hope for was that no one would notice the King’s absence at all, though given the ghastly manner of his demise, and the swift spread of rumours and conspiracy around the city, that seemed like a dream that was impossible to achieve.

The Hand rubbed the ridge of his nose, attempting to dislodge the tiny bits of sleep that had persisted in clinging to his eyes, though that task proved to be harder than anticipated. True rest had eluded him, for the past few days, ever since King Lucerys had been so unceremoniously murdered after the birth of his son, and other than a temporary lapse of will, in which Dick had found himself gently snoring in the Small Council chambers for a few glorious minutes following the end of a meeting, the Tyrell had been able to keep the inviting embrace of sleep at bay for the time being. There would be time to rest when he was dead, and given the current circumstances, such a certainty seemed as it were not far off.

‘Would it please his Lordship if I were to run a bath?’ Dick could hear the voice of his steward before he saw him, the man likely standing just out of the way of the door so that he would not disturb the forest of stacked documentation that plastered the floors almost like a second carpet.

‘There’s no time.’ The Hand frowned, looking down at himself. The doublet he wore was the same one that he had worn the day prior, and the day before that as well, a fact that was beginning to show quite obviously in its rugged cuffs and wrinkled texture, though he wagered that it would still be a day or two more before the stench made it truly unwearable.

‘The Lord Commander has requested to see you.’

‘Tell Ser Quenton I’ll come by the White Sword Tower this afternoon.’

‘Lord Velaryon…’

‘Pencil him in before the Hour of the Bat.’

‘Lady…’

‘I’ll speak to Lady Stokeworth tomorrow.’

Dick yawned, which was a mistake, because the sound reminded his body just how tired he really was, the Hand’s eyes barely able to keep themselves open in the dim light.

‘And what about you daughter, my Lord?’

‘Eliza?’

‘Lady Aerea, my Lord, Lady Eliza is in the North with her husband.’

‘Right. What of her?’

‘You promised her that you would dine with her this morning. She is in the Small Hall.’

‘Could you ask Ser Pet…’

‘My Lord, you gave Ser Petyr the morning off to spend with his family.’

The Hand rubbed his temple. ‘I told Ser Petyr he could take off the Day of the Dove, for his kin.’

‘With all due respect my Lord, it is the Day of the Dove.’

‘Right.’ Dick repeated again, suppressing another yawn. There was little to distinguish each day from another now that sleep had stopped serving as such an easy demarker. ‘Give me a second to collect myself, and I’ll see Aerea in a moment.’ The Hand started to yawn once more, though this time he managed to catch himself before any noise came out.

He ran a single hand over his face, feeling the loose hairs where stubble had began to grow. He knew that he ought to shave soon, though he couldn’t bring himself to order the barber up to his chambers. Perhaps he would let it grow out, for many men of the court had began to grow out beards in recent times, though as the grey hairs grew more numerous upon his head, Dick didn’t feel like giving any more reminders of his aging body.

After taking a second to think, Dick stood, gathering a handful of the nearest papers and collecting them together into the closest thing to a neat pile that he could manage, clutching them in his hands as he sidestepped over the similar piles that cluttered the floor, careful not to knock anything over as he did so.

The Small Hall was not far from his quarters, only a few steps downwards, though this stairwell was certainly a less trodden one. In recent weeks, he had begun to have food delivered directly to his chambers, so that his need for sustenance wouldn’t interrupt his heavy workload, and with Lucerys’ death, it became more vital than ever that he not allow himself to be distracted.

‘Father!’ Before he even had a chance to react to his surroundings, Dick was attacked by a tiny brown shape, rushing over to give him embrace.

‘Aerea.’ He replied kurtly, offering an awkward pat on the head until the hug was ended.

‘I made something.’ The girl rushed back to the table in which she had been sitting to brandish a tiny piece of what appeared to be green-ish silk, though it was hard to tell in this light. ‘Do you like it.’

‘Of course, it’s very pretty.’ He lied, not entirely sure what he was supposed to be looking at, though his words seemed enough to make the girl smile. Aerea was seven years old at this point, (or was it eight?) and yet Dick Tyrell had never grow to understand her. The Septas told him that she was a remarkable seamstress, and had a real growing talent for dress making, though Dick had never been sure how to read her. He’d never had this problem with Eliza. She’d always been so quiet and reserved, the spitting image of her father, though with Aerea… If his younger daughter didn’t have his eyes, he might have begun to question where all this unrestrained energy came from.

‘Where is your mother?’ The Hand asked quickly, shifting the subject.

‘My…?’ For a moment the child looked confused, though only for a second, and soon the smile returned to her face. ‘Lady Victaria took a stroll in the gardens. She said that Lady Stokeworth wanted to talk to you.’

‘Right.’ In all this time, Dick had failed to take a seat, instead standing steadfast in the doorway whilst his daughter looked on.

‘Are you going to stay and eat something?’
‘You know I’m very busy, Aerea.’

‘I know but…’

‘I’m very busy.’ Dick repeated, ignorant of his daughter’s pouting face. ‘You’re keeping up with your lessons.’

‘Yes father.

‘You’re doing everything that Septa Eglantine tells you?’

‘Yes father.’

‘You’re making friends with the girls at court?’

‘Yes father.’

‘Good.’ Dick smiled, and he could see the expression mirrored in his daughter. ‘We’ll speak again soon.’

Without having taken a bite, Dick Tyrell turned to leave, stifling a fourth yawn as he gestured for his steward to follow behind him. Hopefully he would find himself more awake in the coming days.
 
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Wardens



“Look father. Look!”

Eustace, back when his head was full of hair and his heart full of hope, looked. The little girl with the fairest colour of - her own - hair and the rosiest of cheeks waved at him. Her bottom planted firmly by the riverside. Her hand threading the rippling water.
“Careful Ashara!”
He called back to her. He and Edmyn with spears in their hands. Eustace’s spear having a small minnow murdered at its point.
“It’s a big fish! Father, look.”
“No not, Ashara. Stay away from the water’s edge, sweet girl.”
“But father -”
“Ashara.” His voice was strong.
He was strong back then.

At least he reminisced that he was.

The girl was upset. Upset that he didn’t come over and watch the big fish - whatever it was - swim through the currents. Upset that he didn’t ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ at its movements. At its size. Though she was only six at the time - it was a big moment for her.
To see such a creature.
And he, being the father he was, did not share in that moment with her.

Something that he now did regret.


The ride to King’s Landing was long.
The ride to King’s Landing was quiet.
Eustace was never the best at mastering the art of horse riding, as a child he would always catch his feet in the buckles. Like a fool. But, when they received the news from one of his brother’s men, Eustace got on his horse and rode as if the sun was at his back.
Getting warmer.
And warmer.
He had to escape it’s chase.

He had to protect his daughter.

They rode down the high road. Him and his brother and his men. A carriage was pulled as well, holding in it his wife and her ladies. Their son would stay in The Eyrie, much to his tantrumative protest, with Eustace’s uncle and mother.
They would look after the boy. Eustace had to look after Ashara.
He had to.

He was still in disbelief.

Utter disbelief.

There was no way his child would do such a thing. For all his and Myrielle’s faults, they had raised two good kids. Two great kids. They knew what was right and they knew what was wrong. And killing your husband… killing your King -
That was the wrongest of the wrongs.
A sin with no standing.


They finally stopped on The Kingsroad, at The Ivy Inn. A short time away from the capital. Eustace stayed seated, however, on his horse. His squire, Olyvar Hersy, fed and watered and groomed the horse. A grey beast known as Dot. Eustace sat.
Saddled.
Thinking. Of his daughter and of her supposed doings. She could not have done it.

She…

She would never.

He stared off into the woods next to the inn, and the side road that led to Sow’s Horn. He wondered what it was they were saying. Lord Hogg and his family and the other lords of The Crownlands and the King’s court and the people of King’s Landing and his own damn retinue with him right now.
Everyone had an opinion.
Everyone had a say.
About his daughter.

And he hated them for it.

Out of the woods and the trees came his brother. Ethan. Pulling up his trousers, obviously having just relieved himself. Or having returned from tumbling around with some poor woods witch, for all The Seven knew. Eustace whistled at him.

And the man approached.

There was a time where the two had been the closest of brothers, but that time - like the time with Ashara and the big fish - had passed.

“I trust you’ve yet to tire, brother.” Eustace said as Ethan came forward.

Olyvar had stopped brushing the horse with its brush and had gone to fetch the beast more water.

“And if you have, you can always go back to The Bloody Gate. While I… appreciate your coming. You’re not needed in the capital. I much rather have you protecting our home.”

His words would be harsh hearing by some stranger.
But Eustace knew that Ethan was well used to it.

Eustace blinked slowly.
He, himself, was tired. There was no denial of that. But, he could not sleep until his daughter was safe and his daughter was sound. Until she was in his protection. Which meant it’d likely be a long time before he dreamed of his daughter and that big fish again.

Togy Togy



♛ ♛ ♛



The corpse was that of a whore,
And her neck was painted violet. Her face a darker shade of it. Her eyes bulging like one of her customers would bulge at the sight of her.
She wore a plain strapped dress - brown, like her eyes - that was too thin for the Autumn weather. One of the straps had slid down her shoulder. Her right arm held its own bruises. Whether they were given to her by the man who had murdered her or by the man who had paid her or by both, Lord Commander Garon did not know.

There was a lot he still did not know.

“Another ‘un.”
Boots spoke.

“Same guy?” Pyle asked.

They stood around the body, which was sprawled out in what may have been the darkest and dirtiest alley leading out of The Street Of Silk. The poor girl. Garon knelt beside her, examining the crime. No knife wound and no blood, minus a few scrapes to her face.
He didn’t know her name.
He didn’t know any of their names. Any of the victims of The Silk Street Strangler. The people knew that name alright. They had known it well for the last four weeks.

“Same guy.”
Garon declared.

He looked at the girl more. Her hair as blonde as any Lannister. The previous victim was a redhead. The one before that a brunette.
Would he choose someone with hair that was raven black next?
He wondered.
Or was the pattern not a pattern. Merely a coincidence.

“How can ‘ya tell?” Boots questioned.
Pyle scoffed, “Well, let us see, Bootsy, this be the third whore to wind up dead and strangled. You think we’ve got more than one whore killer in this city right now?”
“Always a possibility, Shits.”

Whore.

Garon hated that word. These weren’t whores. Well, they were. That was their profession. But they were much more than that. They were women. Women who mattered the same as everyone else in this damned city. At least they did to him.

“Do either of you recognise her?”
Garon asked.

“Not the slightest clue.” Pyle said.

“Think ‘ah might ‘ave seen her around Kettleblack’s place.” Boots added, informative for once in his life.

“The Honeypot?”
Garon stood up.
The morning sun peeked through the clouds above and lit up the alley all the slightly. “That’s the one.” Boots said, kicking a curious street-chicken away from the girl’s corpse. Saving her of its pecking.
“Bring her to The Black Maester. Have him examine the body some more. He’ll know better than I would.” Garon ordered.
His two men nodded, simply.
“What about you, Lord Commander?” Pyle asked.
Garon let out a sigh,
“I’m going to pay Ser Gwayne a visit. Officer Syero and I.”
Pyle looked disgruntled, “The Essosi?”
“Watch it, Pyle.”
“I just -”
“Watch. It.”
The man shut up.
“Now take her to Amos’ and be careful with her body.”
“Yes ser.” Boots said, with a firmness.
Pyle followed, “Yes, Commander.”

They went. The girl with them. Leaving Garon Darklyn alone in an alleyway. The dirtiest and darkest alleyway there was in a city already so dark and so filth-ridden. He placed his hand on the pommel of his sword and put on his helmet now that he no longer needed to examine anymore choked women.

He had asked Syero, the night before, to meet him at The Honeypot before noon. While he suspected a pattern in doing with hair colour, there was also another link. This girl was likely employed by Ser Gwayne Kettleblack.
As had all the others.

This meeting had been four weeks coming.

Aside from The Queen,

King’s Landing had a murderer on its hands.

High Moon High Moon
ReverseTex ReverseTex



​
 
The Tommen Tully


Disgusting. That was the only way you could describe the sight that now formed in front of him. He had been locked in a pleasant dream, his mother's voice shoving him out of it and opening his eyes to what he could only assume was the Seven Hells. Had they perhaps been set upon by bandits? Had they massacred the Tully caravan in the dead of night?

He patted himself.

No. He was still alive. That monstrosity was the capital city. Kings Landing.

Gods bless good King Aegon. He would have needed their blessings to survive this shithole.

He yawned loudly, stretching his body with a smile, his arm brushing against his sister as he did so. His one emerald eye scanning his mother as if bathing in a pleasant sight to wash his pupils of the offel he had awoken too.

“I can see why, cougars don’t like big cities.”

He smirked before stretching for a second time, hitting his head against the top of the carriage. Fucking hell.

As the gates approached, the caravan came to a halt as formalities with the Gold Cloaks were sorted out. Though it was hardly like anyone would have a casual entourage of knights to infiltrate the city. They stood still for a good thirty minutes, or at least it felt like it as they pulled into the city. Onlookers going about their business as if it was a common occurrence for such people to pass by them. He couldn’t help but give an enthusiastic wave to them as they passed, shouting into the streets as he did so.

“Seven blessings to you, good people of this city! It is I, Tommen Tully! Tell your children of the great lord you have seen here today! And no, I don’t mean the creepy old Septon! Start a petition for a statue with the King, once he’s been found!”

His body rested once more inside the relative safety of the well scented carriage.

Maybe it was in bad taste to make such jokes with the Kings death. Fine by him, they were probably used to bad taste with the spices they use. Or rather didn’t. Besides, did they truly care for the man? All Tommen knew of him was his predisposition of executing women he didn’t like. He probably deserved it.

It was Jae he was worried about. It was Sylva he was worried about. It was Mariya he worried about. Not some dead deformity.

His hand came to his sisters, clasping it gently with a warming smile. Though she grew stronger every day, he couldn’t help but treat her differently. Not like a porcelain doll, just ... differently.
And since Edmyn, he needed her hand just as much as she needed his.

He had barely known the man. He had his nose. Was that it? Was there anything else of the old man in him? It wouldn’t matter now, he supposed. He wasn’t even there for the funeral. His half brother Almos having been the one to fire the arrow that set his father alight.

The hand tightened.

“Don’t worry, dear sister. We won’t be here long. By the Seven I hope not.”

TheFool TheFool ailurophile ailurophile ​
 
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Wylla
​


location: Red Keep

with: no-one



Regularly, Wylla had her work cut out for her. She kept to her duties in the keep: scrubbing where needed, tending to kitchen work where needed, and all-around running around when needed-- as well as keeping an ear to the doors that she passed by. Most rooms had a secret or two, all it took was a well pressed ear and a sense of recollection. It took a hefty balance to manage both these things without being caught or whipped for slacking. She kept to herself, and managed well. It was busy work but it was better than starving in Flea Bottom, perhaps making a second grave next to the blood stains where her mother once laid.

But after the death of the king, things got a whole lot more interesting. Tensions were high between servants and staff, as well as between the nobles and guards hissing and spitting to each other. It was even more of a game for Wylla. There were secrets afoot, especially around the mysterious murder. Would a wife, fresh out of birth, truly be able to murder her husband in cold blood? Could a wife organize the slaying of her king? Wylla didn’t know anyone terribly well that wasn’t among the same layer of muck in the social ladder. There were a few odd facts, perhaps, but not enough to garner judgement. It would be tragic to see more death; as if the ones on the streets everyday weren’t bad enough.

She also knew a little of the murders happening on Silk Street. Her mother had talked about working there briefly, one of the ladies of the night that tilted their chests to the highest bidder. She shied against it, especially after her mother told her of all the horror stories. Wylla was desperate for coin and food, moreso in the past, but she wouldn’t stoop to that level of danger. Real danger. Nevertheless, Wylla had a few friends that worked at brothels. They provided their own secrets and stories, prodded in the right direction.

One of her friends had been a victim. Brutally choked out. Ripped from the world. Wylla felt grief from the event, when it had happened, but she knew better than to stick to moral despair. Perhaps it was unfair, or maybe it was better than being beat and stuck by ever fancy prick in town. Still, part of her wished she could do more. With all the hubub of the trial happening, maybe there would be time to sneak out? Ask around without entangling too tightly with the Gold Cloaks, who were no doubt going to do their own ‘sight-seeing’. They won’t get very far, she would think with a sneer. People like us are too afraid to speak to people like them.

Of course, all of that was on the off chance that she could sneak away. But there was little chance of that. For now, it was keeping a low profile and keeping an ear out. So many lords and ladies from all over Westeros… so many secrets.

The Master of Whispers would have some ideas of where to stick one of his reliable ears-- that being Wylla. She did not pity Lord Aemon for his deformity, but for the treatment that others gave him. They looked down on a man who was not of able body; even with his position being so crucially higher than most of the common lords and ladies in the Red Keep. She enjoyed his company as well, and he did not shy away from giving her sweets. It was a good deal, and a great way for the young girl to hone her skills. She’d love to be in his position one day; but more so in a rich land far from the dusty grounds of King’s Landing. This was one way up.

A few items in tow to appear busy, Wylla was able to sneak around the corners and curves. Seeing servants scuttle about wasn’t out of habit, but specifically disappearing for however long her visit would be, well that was another story.

On her way toward, she spotted an older woman with a golden cane, seemingly heading in the same direction that Wylla had. Lady Celtigar, Master of Coin. She narrowed her eyes, and kept her distance, but recognized that there might be another visitor to Lord Aemon.

No matter. Wylla would wait. Watch.

codedbycrucialstar​
 
A Kingsguard​

Was there truly any foe more pathetic than a frail woman hours after giving birth to a child? Was there any harder a target to lose than a babe so young it hadn’t yet learned how to walk? Was there any charge easier to protect than a King who had failed to deviate from the same boring old routine for almost twenty years?

Two dirty boots rested lazily upon the edge of the table, their heels rugged and well worn, a stark contrast to the sparkling white motiff of the rest of the White Sword Tower, the muck and filth they had treaded in from the streets of Flea Bottom leaving an almost perfect pathway away from the doorway. A knife scraped against them, leaving residue of dirt and other less savoury debris scattered in an almost perfect circle, though the boot’s owner seemed to care little for the mess that he had created, instead focusing on ensuring that his footwear were as clean as possible before once again resting them upon the floor.

‘Lord Commander?’ A voice croaked. The low drawl of a Dornishman joined soon by the red stained smile of a man who was no stranger to the taste of sour leaf. ‘With all due respect. Are we really needed at a time like this?’ Murky eyes darted around the room as if looking for agreement, before returning quickly to that of their commander.

‘We have Gold Cloaks to mind the streets, Knights to patrol the roads, and Guardsman to watch over the castle. We are Knights of the Kingsguard? Is not the role of bailiff beneath us?’ The Dornishman flashed another half smile to show that no disrespect was meant by his words, though there was certainly a level of fervour in his tone.

‘Does it even matter if the Arryn bitch is guilty?’ This voice came from another source, though from a distance one would be hard pressed to tell, the same angular face, the same murky eyes, the same dark hair. The only difference was that this speaker’s teeth were whiter than the cloak upon his back, that and the fresh collection of purple bruises and scratch marks that clung to his face. It was best not to ask where those came from.

‘Exactly.’ The first man continued, his persistent grin starting to seem more insincere every second that it clung to his face. ‘The way I see it, the King is dead, Gods rest his soul, and...’

‘And his son is somewhere in Flea Bottom, mushed up in a bowl of brown.’

‘Thank you, Daz.’ The first knight gave the second a dirty look. ‘Anyway, the truth of the matter is, whether or not Queen Ashara did it.’

‘Which she did.’

‘Thank you, Daz. Whether or not Queen Ashara actually killed the King, that still leaves us Kingless and without charge.’

‘And what’s a Kingsguard if they haven’t got no King to actually guard?’

‘Exactly.’ The first knight gestured, still clutching in his hands the dagger coated in boot-bottom muck. ‘So we shouldn’t just go around, acting out the motions as if good King Lucerys, Gods rest his soul, was still alive.’

‘Oly’s right.’

‘So we should resign ourselves to either popping a crown upon Prince Jaehaerys’ pretty little head.’

‘Which would definitely suit him.’

‘Or making ourselves scarce until things die down, and someone else does it for us.’

‘Which would definitely suit us.’

Both knights turned to their Lord Commander.


Tagging the Kingsguard ( RayPurchase RayPurchase Braddington Braddington Yahhah Yahhah )
 
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Rhaenyra Targaryen
Princess
​
When Tyana vanished from her side to answer the door, Rhaenyra was left to attend to her own hair. A handful of pins, jewels carefully nestled amidst a sea of silver, and she was done. She was so focused that she didn't register the voices at all at first, and was delayed in her response to Tyana.

"Your uncle has invited you to walk with him."

"My uncle?"

They hadn't seen one another since the funeral, and that had been the first time Rhaenyra had seen anyone save for her handmaiden in days. All visitors had been refused, and anyone who tried to seek an audience with her, personal or professional, received a rejection plucked from a small selection of excuses.

The princess is tired.
She's grieving.
Unwell.
Asleep.
Busy.

It was nice, Rhaenyra had mused as she'd heard the guards turn prospective visitors away, to have people whose sole purpose was to keep her happy. But nobody could keep Jaehaerys away, and she wasn't sure she wanted them to. He had always been a sweet man, charming.

"Uncle," she slipped past Tyana, who melted back into the room behind them to start on her chores. "It's lovely to see you. I'm sorry it's at such a tragic time."

Her eyes met his as she spoke and she studied him for a moment, as though she was looking for something. Then, as quickly as she'd paused, she jumped back to life.

"I was promised a walk?"

As they headed for the gardens, they moved in silence, save for the sound of the bracelets that chimed like bells at Rhaenyra's wrists. So delicate, but in such large quantities they weighed her down like shackles.
As they headed for the gardens, she considered Jaehaerys' position, and how it was so similar to her own. Like her, he must have feared that the end of their line was on the horizon.
As they headed for the gardens, she made a quiet note to herself that the drought she'd forced upon her poor husband would finally have to end that very evening.

As they reached the gardens, her curiosity got the better of her.

"Have you really roused me only for the freshest of air?"
TheFool TheFool

 




Dragons



The leaves of the trees had turned the colour of fresh blood and sunrise. Slowly, but surely, wilting. Welcoming in winter’s presence. Jaehaerys hated it, the winter. The cold did not suit him. Though neither did the warmth. Spending so many years, as a boy, in Dorne, left him hating the heat too. If only it was eternally Spring. With light scattered rain and the rousing of rose bushes.

His thoughts were of The Tyrells.

Maybe not eternally Spring, so. Autumn would have to do for now.

Rhaenyra asked him her question as they strolled down several gravelly steps that led to a small courtyard, furnished with piles of raked leaves and a fountain filled to its brim with blue-green water. Jaehaerys watched his step. Clinging to his cane, still. “The air’s good, no?” He chuckled. The two of them moving towards the geysering structure -
Made of some of the same red brick that The Red Keep, itself, was made of.

Her jewellery clinked as they walked.
As did his pocket,
Full of coins.

They stopped.

Gazed.

“I wanted to see how you were, niece.” His language formal. She was his blood, that much was much. Though he didn’t truly know the girl. The woman. There was a few years between them but for the majority of their lives there had been many miles between them also.

“I don’t think we’ve spoken… since… the funeral.”

He continued.

His cane dug into the gravel beneath them.
Making its mark.

He cleared his throat, “The child is missing, as you know. Your half-brother. And even if he is found, would the people want a boy born of traitor’s blood to be their King. Even with the trouble of a sixteen year regency.”

Jaehaerys looked at her.

“It’s only us now.”

ailurophile ailurophile



​
 
​
Rhaenyra Targaryen​
​

Princess
​
”Good enough.”

Rhaenyra didn’t look at him as he spoke, gazing off into the distance. Not disinterested, but lost in thought.

She gave a chuckle laced with bitterness. “I’m doing wonderfully. You know how everyone envies the life of an orphan.”

His final words lingered in the air between them when she didn’t respond immediately, almost as if she hadn’t heard him. After a few long moments, she turned to face him directly.

“People have put plenty of traitors on the throne before. One could argue that treachery is apparently a desirable quality in a monarch.” Her face betrayed something, then. But it melted into her usual smile before more than a second had passed, and she laughed again, this time more warmly than before. “Personally, I think the amount of time we’ll have to wait before we see if his mother’s blood outweighs my father’s is more pressing than his traitorous genes themselves. He’s an infant.”

And I am a woman.

That argument remained unspoken.

A small hand found her Uncle’s placed atop his cane. She traced her fingertips over it.

“Surely you can’t think they’d choose him.”

Her lips curled into a smile, more spiteful than before:

“Do we even know for certain that the child is of my father’s blood?”


TheFool TheFool

 




Dragons



Jaehaerys thought of her,

Of Ashara Arryn.

He played around with the thought of her being innocent. The thought of her being guilty. It did not matter. Whether she had committed the crime or not, she would suffer for it. Someone wanted her to suffer for it. Someone who would make sure she did.
He was sure of that much.

“Do you think she… slept with other men? Like the last one?” Jaehaerys asked. The sound of the spewing water so slightly muffling his words. He had… fond memories of Lynora Westerling, though he only knew her for a short time. She livened up the court.
Until that life was taken from her. He was not there for the execution, but people talked about it for days after. How The King’s Justice could not seem to immediately hack her head off of her shoulders.

The bachelors of Westeros, himself included, often praised that neck of hers.

A shame,
It was nothing but a bloodied gash by the end of it.

He changed the topic quickly,
“I am not sure what happens, my niece. If the babe is found and Ashara is guilty, then… a grand council, perhaps? To decide. Decide if the child’s fit for it. Decide if there’s a better candidate.”
He looked at her.
“Though…”
He looked at the fountain beside them. Its water wild - violent. “Do we truly want the lords and ladies of The Seven Kingdoms to decide?”

ailurophile ailurophile



​
 
Addam Stark
The Prodigal Son

Winterfell had been quiet for over a week,, ever since news of the King's murder had reached the North. Too quiet. Well, for Addam it was just fine, but he could see how things were...uneasy. Which is why he asked Gila, the twins, and a few retainers out for a hunt. It didn't really matter what they were hunting, just anything the get out of Winterfell for a bit. Addam himself was a bit uneasy. He had a bit of fear, hoping that whatever business Cregan had down South would get the damned fool killed. Then things would pass to Edric, and... nevermind.

thunk
A crossbow embedded itself into a tree trunk, it's target, a stag of average size, quickly dashing off. Addam cursed, shouldering his crossbow as he said, "Damn it...bastard ran off..." The man had been mostly quiet on the hunt, enjoying the peace and quiet of Wolfswood. He was never someone who hunted for sport, despite doing it often in his youth. He was more interested in the solitude of it, the serene silence of the wilderness. But now he was with his family...part of the reason he used to go out hunting so much in the first place. He was reluctant to ask the twins to join him, due to their...bedroom activities, but he supposed it was best everyone had some out time. Especially the twins...

The youngest Stark sighed, gesturing for his retainers as he said, "We best get after it. Looks like it's heading for a clearing on thr other side of these trees...cut it off and guide it back to us." The two men nodded, spurring their horses and leaving the Stark's behind. Addam dismounted his horse, grabbing a fresh bolt from the case on his saddle. He placed the projectile on the crossbow, pulling the taught string back with the front pointed to the ground, in case Addam made a complete ass of himself and prematurely fired the weapon. Once it was loaded, Addam walked over to Edric, his second eldest brother. The Kinfucker. He handed the crossbow to his eldest twin, saying, "The kill is yours, Brother."

With that, Addam mounted his made once again, a beautiful mare by the name of Aly. He patted the beast's mane gently, before turning to his wife. He smiled at the woman warmly, taking her hand as he whispered, "How was Lya today? Is she doing well?" Lya had been a sickly child when she was born. Small and weak. Addam spent night after night cradling the child, making sure his first child would just make it through another day. Her condition improved, and she was a healthy baby girl now. But Addam still worried about her. At times, more than his own family. More than his own blood.

More than Edric and Erena...

Braddington Braddington
ailurophile ailurophile
Tiny Tiny​
 
The Seahorse

Aemon had completed his morning exercises, his office filled with the moans and groans of a broken old man. The crunch of every movement unsettling courtiers and guards alike as they passed his door. Aemon lived here. He slept here. He ate here. This was home. This small, cramped room in the Red Keep barely fit to hold a small child let alone a fully grown man of his many years was his paradise. And seeing less of him seemed to work for the Lord's just as much as it did for him.

His hands, bony and thin as a wafer, fiddled with the dirt infested jars that stood on a bookshelf. Reaching in every now and then to pull some piece of paper or old parchment from them. For what purpose no would be able to guess, but Aemon enjoyed organisation. The aesthetic also served his purpose. Eyes were always wandering and the mystery of dangerous monster often made them avert their gaze.

If they didn’t, he could poke them out.

Taking his seat with a loud bang, various things falling off his desk as he adjusted his hump, the Master of Whispers began writing his morning letters.

Lord Swann
Lady Redfort
Lord Tarth
Lord Hightower…

The list was endless. Everyone wanted to know who killed the King, everyone wanted to know if Aemon knew. He would pen them all the same letter he had written a hundred times before.

Wait until the trial. That was the place for evidence.

And he had plenty.

His milky eyes darted to the walls as he finished the correspondence. Which little mouse was in there now? No matter. He enjoyed company. Maybe they would squeak to him a little song for his rather unceremonious morning.

Finally arising some hours later, the sun finally beginning to rise over the city, he adjusted his clothing and threw water on his face. It would do no one good for him to be unpresentable. Maybe someone would give him a compliment for his efforts, he thought, running a greasy hand through his hair before hobbling over to his door.

Only to see her.

He didn’t like her.

He liked everyone.

Lady Celtigar was everything he despised about his position. Stereotypical was a good word to assign to the entire Celtigar family. How could an entire line be so vile? So despicable? Even his pirate father had the decency of stealing from the rich. They took everything from those that had the least.

And he didn’t like crabs either.

He approached the Lady, his clouded eyes once more fixated on his surroundings. A small smile on his face. He bowed.

“My dear Mistress, how long has it been?”

He bowed deeper. Holding his hand out to shake. He knew she hated touching him, another reason to dislike her. Manners were important.

“What brings you to me? I am afraid I still have no word on the status of the linen shipments from Myr...they seem to have been waylaid...if you gave me more time I am sure I could find them.”

It was obvious why she was here. It was obvious why everyone came to him. They all wanted something and with Lucerys gone it hardly took much deduction to figure out what lay beneath their pleasantries. He turned around, guiding her to his office once more, the smell pungent.

“Please, take a seat my dear. I shall have some tea brought immediately.”

He grabbed a small bowl of half empty sweets, picking one up and shoving it towards her.

“A sweety, Mistress?”

JPTheWarrior JPTheWarrior BELIAL. BELIAL. ​
 
Last edited:
​
​

Rhaenyra Targaryen

​


Princess
​
”Good enough.”

His question was avoided and Rhaenyra withdrew her hand to toy with a lock of her hair. She’d blossomed since childhood, yet such old habits temporarily brought back the ghost of a much younger girl. More silence as she contemplated her words, both a cruel accusation, and an unintentionally crueller joke. She herself had been fond of Lynora Westerling. Admired her, even.

But her father was a man who had always, in her eyes, done great injustices towards her and the people she cared about. Rhaenyra’s memories of her father were marred with the idea that he had scorned her, and starved her of his attention and affections as punishment for a crime she couldn’t recall committing. Perhaps Lynora had committed such a crime, but she didn’t deserve the retaliation.

She deserved justice.

Rhaenyra dropped her hair and looked back at the man, so familiar, and yet a stranger.

“I’m not convinced they have the expertise to decide. They can be such fickle people. Easily swayed.”

She held his gaze.

“I’m intrigued, uncle, but I’m impatient. Always have been. You seem to have something right on the tip of your tongue.”

A smile, unreadable.

“We’re alone. We may speak frankly, no?”



TheFool TheFool

 
-Ser Gwayne Kettleblack-

-A Gent of Good Intent.-

-The Honeypot-​


Seated in his ‘office’, overlooking the patrons of his inn, as he tried to manage the ledger of the inn. keeping up with the books was Tyana's job to help him keep the books, paying for the kid's tuition was one of the best investments he made during his lifetime. And now that she was off in the Dragon’s Palace his job had become a lot harder. Perhaps it was time to welcome another one of his bastards into family proper...


The thought was cut short by the doors to his opening to welcome a new bunch of low-lifes into his den, they brought with them the foul stench of flea bottom to his fine establishment. Nothing, not even the best of perfumes could drown out the reeking stench they brought in their wake, thankfully enough wine could stop one from caring too much about their surroundings, and thankfully wine and ale continued to flow freely as ever, perhaps even more so than normal. What's better to ease your woes in these troublesome times than a good ale and the comfort of women. ''Miserable sods'' he breathed as he continued to try and understand what was written in the book, and from what he understood the records were rather alarming.


Making a living out of the desperation of others was a double-edged sword, The mismanagement of the city and the Golden Ruffians tendency to forget about that the misery of the masses even existed with a few stags lining that pockets had helped him double his fortune, a few stags there, a dragon now could and had trickled into a small fortune, alas it also meant his girls sometimes went missing. It was a risk they agreed to when they wanted him to invest in them. A risk of the trade as he would call it, and it was starting to hurt his pocket more than he wanted to admit. It was getting harder and harder to hire new strumpets with the news of the streak of killings that had happened. He had sent Tob and a bunch of his hired-swords out to hunt down this mysterious murderer but there wasn’t any progress. Admittedly Tobho was born to beat people not carry out investigations.


Than the inn went quite, except for the moans and groans coming from the 'bridal suites' that suddenly became much louder that the all the chatter and laughter had died down. looking over from his books to see what had happened to make this lot of whoresons go quiet for even a moment. The Gold Cloaked Ruffians, and not the usual run of the mill ones either but the top dog, Darklyn a very eccentric man for his position, hard to predict a loose cannon not unlike himself, only on a very different path of life. From the looks of it he was flanked by a new recruit, a foreigner that he did not recognize. taking one last swig from the bottle of wine he stood up, adjusted his sash and plastered the best polite smile he could. It was time for a show.


Walking down the stairs with haste ''Welcome Good Sers! Come, seat yourselves! Here to drown out your sorrows away? Release some frustration?'' He offered his hand to Darklyn, a friendly attitude was often key to a good reputation in his business. ''Red, come here for a second would you?'' he beckoned the girl over, politely but the fact that it was a hidden demand wasn't lost on anyone who knew Kettleblack. ''darling would you get these gentlemen a bottle of fine dornish wine! and have the girls clean out the rooms, put in the best and cleanest sheets for my friends here!'' taking a seat in one of the cleaner tables he continued. ‘’Well? How can I be of help to you?’’

TheFool TheFool
ReverseTex ReverseTex
idalie idalie
 
Jon Baratheon
​
The ride from Storms End had been a calm one. Jon found it a more deceptive calm, like that before a storm. The massive man sat up straight in the saddle atop a black stallion, which had it been any smaller one would've wondered how the horse managed to carry its passenger. Jon's warhammer was kept tied to his back, he felt more comfortable having a weapon close and he was a bit disappointed no bandits had tried they're luck. It'd been a time since Jon had smashed in a skull, and he would've welcomed the distraction. The wind caused his beard to wave out in the same fashion as his cloak. Jon couldn't say he thought going to King's Landing was a good idea, dead king or no. Though he was a bit pleased the king had gotten what he deserved, Jon didn't know of a Baratheon who wouldn't be happy to see that the man who'd slain his uncle was gone.

Jon narrowed his eyes as he slowed his horse to stay beside of Ormund. The sudden appearance of a sun seemed to disagree with his eyes. Jon turned to his brother when he spoke.

"It always was a stinking cesspit. A man atop the throne makes no difference"

Jon answered. He was fond of his older brother. Though they did not have much in the way of similarity Ormund carried a wit Jon decidedly lacked. Where Jon was a battering ram, Ormund was an arrow. Jon was powerful and aggressive whereas Ormund was precise and calculated. That was the way it worked at least to Jon. When Ormund voiced his doubts about coming Jon shared them, he distrusted the men at King's Landing. The cowardly knives who hid in shadow that collected there made it the last place he wanted to go. Least of all for his brother to go. Jon was quiet for a bit before he sighed.

"Perhaps their memory is short enough that they forget the injustice they did us. King's Landing is a conniving place but perhaps this is our chance for justice"

Jon attempted to give his brother his support and in the same motion hide his own uneasiness. Jon may be ox-headed at times but he was aware that you could not fight shadows with a hammer.

RayPurchase RayPurchase

Ser Garth Florent
​
Garth stood in the White Sword Tower listening to the Lord Commander. He stood at attention in his white cloak with a sword sheathed at his side. Garth wore a stoic expression as the Lord Commander went on. Garth himself felt his failure of duty sharp as a knife stabbed into his back. He found this trial to be some confounded joke, the knight found the prospect that the queen would manage to kill the king mere hours after giving birth laughable. He found the fact that the crown refused to attempt and find who had actually murdered the king a disgrace. But Ser Garth would do his duty, that was what he was meant to do after all. He had taken the vows and was not about to break them at the moment it was most crucial he did not.

"Yes sir"

Garth's two simple words came out. He respected the Lord Commander, as the Commander was his superior. Garth's own thoughts on the matter did not mean much, even if he found the trial a joke he would do as the Commander said. Garth's eyes flicked over to the Dornishmen in annoyance. He did not find their manner of finishing each other's sentences amusing and found their lack of faith in their duty and general manner to be quite frankly, disgusting. Though one would not be able to tell that through Garth's stoic expression.

The Kingsguard.

(Both kinda short sorry, that's all I've got)
 




Dragons



“Fickle, ha.”
Another chuckle.
He tightened the grip on the head of his weirwood cane, now that she had taken her hand away. “As good a word as any to describe our… uh… subjects.” He extended the ‘ess’ sound at the end of the word. Subjects.

Our.

Jaehaerys would have been a liar if he were to say that he expected the boldness of her next sentence. He did not know his niece all too well, sure, but he always imagined her more… coy. A girl who flirted with the meaning behind her words.

Like him.

She was right though.
There was something there. On his tongue’s tip. Hanging from an imaginary ledge in his mind. Ready to fall. Fall hard. As if he were a young Prince again - a young Prince whose older brother helped lift up and helped recover from said fall.

She smiled at him.
He smiled at her.

Though the smiles were just pleasantry.

“You are my niece. My kin. The only daughter of my dear departed brother. I only want you to know that I will stand by your side, as you would by mine. Let us… sit this trial. Get it over with.” His smile widened. His teeth well enough kept, albeit a bit yellow.

“And then afterwards,”

He stopped and chuckled - again - to himself. He used his free hand to reach out and touch the strand of hair Rhaenyra had been previously playing with. Like a child would.

“You can sit back. Be the beautiful Princess you are. And cheer me on.”

He let go of the strand.

“Cheer me on as I rule over these... fickle folk.”

ailurophile ailurophile



​
 
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