Fandom &nbsp; ♛ Liar&#039;s Court ♛ - A Game Of Thrones RP

idalie · Jan 8, 2020

Location: Carriage to Kings Landing
Interactions:

BELIAL.

dendygar
Mentions: //

The Stark of Harrenhal

Dorren had never slept well within the confines of Harrenhal; not since his father passed away within the cold and empty halls. Its twisted spires were a blemish, blackened stone a reminder of its harrowing construction and historical fall. You knew of that fortress from tragedies, it bore no feelings of safety or goodwill but induced a strange dread. Harrenhal was not the place he desired to be nor the home he had wished for Lyanna, who upon her arrival had spent every waking hour outside of the gates. Of course, she had loved the fertile land, but it was hard to acknowledge that the looming silhouette could be their future. Dorren tried to fix it, stonemasons tinkered with what they could to restore some appearance and Manderly gold helped finance it.

Lyanna would never have her white castle on the shore. Yet Stark would have walked to White Harbour and back to see her smile, whatever their future held it would manage somehow. To be with her was enough. Love was a hard thing to find, harder to upkeep and with things as they were, it was a blessing she’d even visited Harrenhal for as long as she had.

Eventually, even that would come to pass. The death of King Lucerys was the first spark of many which lead to Dorren making his visit to Kings Landing. He had originally declined to join his cousin, such a journey bore ill-tidings and Northmen were often biting off more than they could chew with the royal court. Lyanna’s interest soon turned the tables. If it would make her happy, surely there was no harm in it. A quick visit so the accusations and trials could clear the air, pave the way for the next coronation and all would return home. The best outcome - others he felt the need to ignore.

The gentle rattle and sway of their carriage was soporific, warm against the small form of his betrothed and facing Amabel. Dorren caught Lyanna’s hand on his, affection not going amiss as he enclosed his palm about hers and returned the gesture. He smiled, she spoke - breaking the silent spell which had fallen over their end of the convoy.

“Neither have I,” He remarked, a twinkle of boyish excitement in his gaze, “save for the timing, it might be pleasant. There’s a lot of History in Kings Landing and now, we’ll see it with our own eyes.” He shifted about to accommodate Lyanna pulling his arm over, half embracing against his chest where her head had come to lay. His free hand would reach to caress her face, brushing any awry strands of hair from her features. It meant more to him perhaps, but the tender touch was reserved for his Lyanna. He couldn’t offer much, but he could give his loyalty and he could give his love. Dorren had never been good with words, not when they were together, their letters had been integral to growth over his quiet. Where he didn’t speak he preferred touch, often enough it went unnoticed but a hand on the shoulder, the small of her back, a chaste kiss on the head.

A laugh rolled in his chest, although the sincerity of her statement left his expression thoughtful, “You may blunder, but you won’t say something of that magnitude. I wouldn’t let it happen anyhow,” He seemed sure, from the way his brows creased to how he rested his lips against her forehead momentarily. Dorren thought it too conspiratorial to voice his concern for the Queen, although how a woman who had just given birth had the strength to kill her husband - it wasn’t worth getting into. Amabel opened her mouth before he had a chance to question it aloud anyhow, his cousin Blackwood who had done nothing but sulk. At least she spoke sense, albeit in her way which made it harsher than it had to have been. “It really is nothing to be concerned about,” Dorren interjected, reduced to grumbling.

He stared at his boots; stretching one long leg and then the other with little effect. It was starting to ache, cramped in one position with the wheels clattering for hour upon hour. Lyanna drew him from focusing on the misery, her kiss one he was beguiled to. Holding his face in her hands, softer than his but often felt like he could’ve broken them with ease if he wanted to. The heat of their lips was measured, passion dampened by sweeter means. Closer their embrace became, walking the line of chaste as his heart thundered. What remained of their exchange, was only the colour they’d turned. Dorren’s smile returned, found exclusively in her comfort. “Having you this close, I won’t be able to do much else.”

He kissed her cheek once more, lightly. Settling on the dark glare given across the carriage. He returned the scowl in full. The bitter spinster she was becoming wasn’t to be favoured, certainly marriage would have to come quick. A shame her father had missed the window of betrothal due to untimely demise, perhaps she’d be happier - although Blackwood didn’t come across the mothering type. Bad enough he'd known the girl before the woman and the girl wasn't the type to lament her romantic prospects, now they were atop a pedestal.

"At least we have our health," Offered a disgruntled Stark.

QuirkyAngel · Jan 8, 2020

Lady Judyth Umber

Vikings-Lagertha-Season-3-Official-Picture-vikings-tv-series-38232408-334-500.jpg

“It’s no shame, my Prince.” Judyth returned the slight bow with her own slightly deeper curtsy. Fortunately, she’d been getting lots of practice as of late. “The Seven Kingdoms is vast and no one less than a god can be expected to remember every man.”

Or woman.

“Unfortunately, we’ve not yet had the pleasure until now. Few Lords of the North venture South very often.”

A couple brief trips to the Crownlands in her younger years with her mother and brothers.

Many more when she took ownership of the Giant’s Lover, though mostly for business, and none of it in the Red Keep. Until Now. The trial brought with it grief as well as opportunities. Though she honestly hadn’t expected Sera to introduce her to the prince of the kingdom. A pleasant surprise.

“I’m grateful for your welcome.”

His words were humble, but there was a tone ambition in them as well. And ownership.

It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. What you’d expect from royalty.

She hadn’t met Prince Jaehaerys personally, but the rumors about him were plenty. The higher the status the more eyes were drawn. And for someone of the royal family, they ranked near the top. At the very least, none of the rumors had anything about him mistreating wives. Up close, he was a handsome man despite his limp and scars. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Didn’t give off the same air of intimidation as some of the North men, but then, given her family, few men intimidated Judyth period.

“My father would be as well.” Judyth smiled. “I’d planned to greet him when he arrives with the Starks, you see. We haven’t seen each other in months since, as Lady Sera described, I do very much enjoy my work.”

What she was really curious about was his thoughts on the trial, but for now, keeping up with the pleasantries was best. They’d only just met, after all…and dealings in the South were very different from dealings in the North.

TheFool
(mentioned:

Mion , other Starks)

ailurophile · Jan 8, 2020

Sylva Martell
The Fair

Tommen's comment drew a derisive snort from his mother, who didn't know whether to be offended and angry, or proud and amused. He had wit, at least, even if he was using it against her. She smiled, but something bothered her about the quip.

Cougar.
As though she was old.

"I can't believe you'd speak to me like that. Your own mother, to who you owe your very life."

Her apparent indignation was diluted by her mischievous smile, which never left her face, especially at Tommen's little display. Obviously he'd inherited his mother's confidence: that satisfied her to no end. Every positive trait her children possessed, she was able to claim as her own influence. These were her children.

But Mariya was as sickly as her father, or at least she had been for a long time. The girl's apparent recovery was a pleasant surprise. It was terrible to say, Sylva knew that, but for a while she'd been concerned that Mariya wouldn't be able to overcome whatever it was that ailed her. Being cooped up like she had been, only seeing mainly the same four walls every day, was no life for a young woman. Sylva had gone a little mad even being away from Dorne, and was quite sure that if she'd been imprisoned in such a way, she'd have thrown herself from the window long ago.

They were very different women, though, Sylva and her daughter. Which wasn't necessarily a bad thing, though often she found herself wishing they shared at least a few more similarities. She wished this most when Mariya stuttered, as she was doing, and she hated herself for it.

It was cruel.

She waited patiently for Mariya to finish, topping up her goblet as the girl stumbled over her words. It was the excitement that was triggering the problem, Sylva reasoned.

"We'll be there soon, and then--"

The bottle was empty. A pitiful dribble followed by a series of droplets fell into her goblet, and then there was nothing. Sylva cursed. Cast the bottle in one smooth arc out of the window Tommen had delivered his speech through. Her goblet followed after she'd drained it.

"Then we can get some more wine." Sylva altered her answer, settling back into the seat and running her hands through her mane of hair. "No, we'll be greeting people. The important ones-- don't waste too much time on those who don't deserve it. Look for the banners, the way they carry themselves, their hair..."

Sylva trailed off and sat up straighter in her seat as her eyes caught sight of the changing scenery beyond the carriage, which was beginning to slow until it came to a stop. A group of attendants swarmed the vehicle. She smiled at her children.

"Are you ready, little cubs?"

One quick reference to Tommen's earlier joke was all she managed to get out in private before the door was thrown open and daylight flooded the carriage.

They had arrived.

Braddington

TheFool

idalie · Jan 8, 2020

Laura-in-Perfume-rachel-hurd-wood-as-laura-richis-14457878-306-350.jpg

Location: The Honeypot, Kings Landing
Interactions:

TheFool
Mentions: //

Mags the Skirt

No takers, especially the Essosi. You either hit or miss with customers and missing always felt far worse, then again it was business. You moved on. But the other bloke, there was something off about him. The way he sat and observed, his eyes didn’t rest. They watched. The excitement of listening in on something important was wearing off, this was about the dead girls. Surely they didn’t suspect Kettleblack, however vile he might’ve been, it seemed backwards to kill the goods. Kicking them out on the streets was enough to ruin a whore, from seeing what happened to those women you saw that brothel work certainly wasn’t the bottom. You could fall much further.

The Captain turned to look at her, a handsome man but she wasn’t able to meet his gaze. Glancing to Kettleblack before she answered with a nod, “-last one after…” She trailed off, letting her focus remain on the lifted goblet. Margaret’s heart calmed, the tension suffocating. Of course, all the girls had mourned the loss of friends, yet you were safe in the brothel. Escorting men outside of it when it was your turn, that's where the risk was calculated. But Mags, like many, reassured herself that being a victim was slim. Too many men to worry, too many whores to choose. The girls were scared but fear didn’t earn your keep.

They wanted to move the conversation, Mags stepped back by default. The way Garon spoke of how the tragedy must have affected Kettleblack would’ve made her laugh in any given situation. Girls were girls, the fact the Gold Cloaks took this much interest in the situation was shocking enough. She supposed it was better than them doing nothing, yet she could imagine how much they’d complain. Whores died all the time. You just didn’t see them, not like how this killer wanted them seen.

Maggy raked her teeth across her bottom lip; it started to bleed. Darklyn poured his drink onto the floorboards with a dull splash that left red droplets on her bare feet. Her frustration spiked. Making more work for them whilst he was at it, her faith was lost quicker than she acquired it.

She’d have to take the day as far as she could from her employer after the discussion, ensure Kettleblack wasn’t looking for a scapegoat. Wasn’t her choice of wine after all but she'd be the one mopping it up. Her frown said everything knitted with exasperation as the prostitute put the flagon down. Breaking the silence to ask a towel to be fetched.

ailurophile · Jan 8, 2020

Rhaenyra Targaryen
Princess

Guy's words were heartfelt, and as sweet as the sugar that frosted his lips. They were everything she needed to hear and more, calming her anxieties and stroking her ego.

Rhaenyra's face hardened. Her lower lip jutted out, a warning sign, one that anyone who had been in the Red Keep for a suitable amount of time would recognise immediately.

"Of course, you have to say that," Rhaenyra sighed. Without giving her husband time to even process her response, let alone formulate one of his own, she unwound her body from his and rose to her feet. She lingered for a moment, her body language a perfect reflection of a vulnerable, defeated woman, and then moved away from him.

There was silence. After a brief period of consideration, she reached out to pluck a tart from the plate and nibbled the edge daintily, apparently lost in thought. Truth be told, she was.

The main issue was not her faith in Guy. In fact, she trusted him more than she would anyone else, such was the benefit of loving somebody so devoted. That being said, she had no guarantee he wouldn't mistake her concerns for ambition, and her ambition for ruthlessness. If he were to see her as power-hungry, she feared his view of her would be warped. That she would no longer be, in his eyes, the gentle young woman he thought she was.

She thoughtfully lapped sugar from her fingertips, and then returned to him, back to his lap.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be so hostile with you," Rhaenyra's voice was meek. One hand gingerly tucked a short lock of hair behind his ear, the other raised the tart to his lips, enticing him to take another bite. With the tart positioned so that he couldn't speak and interrupt her train of thought, Rhaenyra came to a decision.

Her private conversation with her Uncle would remain exactly that.

"I've had something on my mind, and I was wondering..."

Perhaps Guy couldn't help her in terms of Jaehaerys, but he was the only man who could help her with her other pressing matter.

"Wondering if, maybe..."

The hand in his hair was planted on his chest, fingers splayed. She coaxed him with the tart, and smiled. As she spoke, she looked up at him shyly through her eyelashes.

"I'd quite like to have a baby, soon. Your baby."

My heir.

Hypnos

RayPurchase · Jan 9, 2020

Lord Ormund Baratheon
The Coming Storm

The Red Keep

The Baratheon party wove their way through the city, horseshoes rining out against the cobbled streets as they proceeded down the main boulevards and streets, the looming behemoth that was the Red Keep constantly present and steadily growing in size. Had it always been this…

His train of thought was momentarily derailed by the sudden sound and stench of vomiting from one of the alleys off to their left. His nose wrinkled at the smell as a rather portly docker emerged from alley looking none to healthy. It actually summed up what he had been thinking, had it always been this squalid. He had remembered more of the shining towers of the Sept of Baelor, the mighty gates and walls, and the hustle and bustle of the docs, not so much the crowded stinking masses. The Stormlands was the only Kingdom of the 7 lacking a city, the closest was The Weeping Town, a 3 Inn port. On this street along there were at least 3 in earshot of where they were. A churning mass of noise, bodies and smells, an assault on the senses. Thankfully the throngs of people were parting before them, clearly the population was accustomed enough to the comings and goings of nobles to be quite the expert of parting before said parties of men. There was something else though, an undercurrent, below the everyday rhythm of life. A nervousness. Invisible amongst the crowd, but once you looked closer you could see it plain as day. The Gold Cloaks on patrol had a shiftiness to them, eyes darting about the crowd, weapons held that much closer to them. People hurried to and fro, heads down and eyes front. The city was like a powder keg, the tension was palatable in the air. He turned to his brother.

"Can you feel it as well? The whole place feels like it's on a knife's edge. And they've chosen to invite every major noble in the land here at the same time. It's a tinder box, one spark and the whole place will go up,"

As as they entered the Red Keep. Despite the sun’s rays beating down, a shiver passed down Ormund’s spine. The last Baratheon to have entered the Red Keep had never left, not with his life anyway. He did not know what had happened to the body, most likely cut up and distributed throughout the city, a warning to other traitors. His eyes flicked over the courtyard, as if expecting to see the blood stained visage of his uncle lurking in one of the corners. Time was a strange thing, already his Uncle’s face was blurred in his mind, softening round the edges, the features losing clarity, it was as if he was slowly disappearing down a long corridor, steadily fading from sight. But the emotions remained burning bright, smiling, laughing Uncle Rogar, the joker, the rogue, the figure as a child he wished his father would have been like. And then there was the anger, the sorrow, the rage. Killed because of love, and the jealousy of a weak King. He had often wondered of what had occurred behind those closed doors of the Red Keep, various rumours had swirled, there had been no affair, they were caught in the midst of eloping together, Lucerys burned the pair together on the pyre, Rogar was strangled with his own white cloak. Each conflicting the other and adding new layers of spurious and wild details. Perhaps now there would be a chance of an accounting, for real answers.

The courtyard was impressive in scale, oustripping that of Storm’s End, with the entourages of the various lords arriving it had to be Ormond supposed, nothing worse than having a queue of baggage extending out of the front gate. His eyes was drawn to the silver haired figure, cane clutched in one hand. It would appear that the Dragon had emerged from his lair, eager to greet the Wolves, Stags, Lions and Flowers, a true menagerie of noble creatures. He was almost kingly, stood at perhaps the same height as Ormund. Unlike his brother the stories spoke of a gregarious and vivacious Prince, intelligent, forgiving. He really did tick so many boxes. Yet Ormund’s eyes slipped to the cane that was grasped in hand. It didn’t matter really, that’s one of the first thing that anyone saw. The Dragon with the clipped wing. It did not matter what fire lay in its belly, or the impressive coat of scales. Without the wonder of flight, a Dragon was little more interesting or awe inspiring than an over bloated Lizard. What would the Conqueror have made of it, his noble house reduced to cripples and broken things. One for the Maester’s to discuss. The Baratheon party came to a halt in a clattering of horse shoes, Ormund’s own destrier a few metres from Jaehaerys and the woman he had been in conversation with, sheltered by the high walls of the keep the Baratheon banners lost some of their lustre, the gold darkened to a mustard yellow, and the rampant stags stilled. He didn’t recognise her. Northerner if he had to put a bet on it by her complexion and dress. He swung himself down from his mount. The cold blue of his eyes meeting the warm brown depths of Jaehaerys’. The next few minutes would be critical. Reconciliation or civil war, Ormund wasn’t sure which way the arrow would swing. Pulling off his gloves he glanced about the courtyard, granting Jaehaerys a nod, no bow, no supplication. In more normal times it could have been considered scandalous, a breach of protocol. What was made of it in times such as this was anyone’s guess.

“Prince Jaehaerys it has certainly been some time. It has been a while since there has been a Baratheon in The Red Keep,”

Especially with what happened to the last one.

“I see you drew the short end of the bargain, dealing with the meeting and greeting. The Princess is otherwise indisposed I presume. Matters of state perhaps?”

Stories of the petulant young Rhaenyra and her tantrums had filtered down to him (He may have chosen self imposed exile but that did not mean that he closed his eyes and ears to the comings and goings of court). On some level he was quite thankful that it was the Prince awaiting them on the doorstep. He looked over his shoulder.

“My brother Jon, I don’t think he ever had the… pleasure of attending the court before our, lets call it absence for now,” He looked over Judyth, throughout the exchange there had been little outpouring of emotion, either in his voice, or marking his features, the stern eyes and jaw affixed in place. He offered her little more than a glance however, his eyes returning to the Dragon before him.

(Interaction

TheFool Jaehaerys,

QuirkyAngel Judyth,

Yahhah Jon
Mention

ailurophile Rhaenyra)

Awesome_Nemo · Jan 9, 2020

A Hedgeknight

Beds in cities were quite different from hedges in forests. The most obvious to Godric was that his back hated him less when he woke up in a bed, with the second most obvious being that hedges didn’t normally feel so soft and warm when they lay beside him. The Brunette woman idly traced the scars on his sweaty and muscular chest with her fingers, drawing patterns and humming to herself some ballad or song that Godric had never cared to remember the name of.

The room was far from small, but not exactly big, with a small table and a large bed with sheets that likely cost more than his entire wardrobe, now stained from his and the woman’s activities. It was dark, with the exception of a few candles, their light glinting off of the bottles of wine and goblets. The walls were bare, made of wood and stone. The curtains had been closed, not for the light, but to shield from prying eyes and the pervasive smell of shit in the streets (a difference from a hedge that he hated about the city). The Hedgeknight enjoyed the feeling of peace and the dryness in the room with a bed that would have knocked him out had he not had someone to keep him awake. It was rare he could lie down comfortably like this, and despite the choking smell of perfumes in the room disguising the stench of King’s landing and the sound of groans and laughter echoing in the halls. The guard who recommended the Honey Pot to him was truly a prophet of the Seven, and the Essosi woman who had kept him such pleasant company had to have been some divine agent sent by the gods.

The woman, Taena, had claimed to have been an Essosi dancer from Myr, and while she did move like one, and had the alluring accent, Godric had heard that accent slip the night before during the throes of passion raising his own doubts. It hadn’t mattered much to him, though the thought the accent was fake saddened him; it was what encouraged him to pay her.

“What is it you’re humming?” Godric asked, his voice deep and clear. He asked not out of genuine curiosity, it was a droning song that lords and ladies would enjoy at weddings -Godric preferred a lively jig or birdsong more than anything else- but more from a desire to hear that seductive accent again, as fake as it may have been.

The Whore grinned, leaning over and looking up into the knight’s silvery and pale Blue eyes with her chocolate brown ones. “Hands of gold, ser. Surely you’ve heard such a thing before?” Her sultry grin turned to a smile, wide and bright, but still calm as though hiding something. It was a look she seemed to have mastered, looking as though she knew something you didn’t. Even when she could hardly keep up the act of being from Myr the night before, Taena had managed to still smile like she had a secret far juicier than her ambiguous homeland.

Godric smiled and took a lock of her dark hair on his finger, winding it around. Her hair her was softer than his horses. “I fear I haven’t, my lady.” He began to split the lock into three and started to braid it. A horse’s mane was far more difficult than a woman’s hair. “Would you care to sing it to me?”

He was taken aback when she let out a melodious laugh, as if he had told a joke, and Godric himself couldn’t help but laugh along himself, his handsome, chiseled face cracking open into a toothy smile, though he didn’t know what was so humorous. When she finally calmed herself, she spoke between small giggles. “No ser, I would not. I’m a whore, not a singer.” She stood up, and walked to the table, swinging her hips seductively as the candlelight and streak of sun that peaked through the curtains into the musty room, lit up her bare form. Pouring a cup of wine, from their third bottle since entering the room, Godric waited quietly with baited breath. Simply the way she moved told him this enigma of a woman had something to say, and sure enough, after sipping from the cup she said it. “You’re a knight, it’d be like asking you to buy a whore… Oh wait.” She said it teasingly, smirking with a coy look on her face as she sipped, walking back to the bed. She was testing him, waiting to see his response.

“Nothing in my oath says I can not. And upon my code of chivalry says I must respect women. Your profession is your profession, to deride you for it would be far from respectful wouldn’t it?” He said with a grin, sitting up and moving atop her, looking down into her eyes. Leaning close.

“I’ve met knights, and none have claimed that paying coin to slide a hand up my skirt would be respecting me. Of course, many of those knight’s enjoy doing things they would never do with their wives.” She stated, a bit dully, sitting up. Getting closer to him.

“And my being unmarried; what does that say to you?”

They were even closer together now

“That you have a lot of respect among other things to handle.”

Godric could feel her breath on his lips; she smelt like wine and lavender.

“And would you let me respect you now, my lady?” He asked grinning, leaning closer, their lips almost touching.

“Depends Ser knight,” Taena said, her lips brushing his. “Can your purse afford a day, as well as a night?”

The question caught Godric off guard. Of course that was a factor in all this. Sitting up, he looked down with a smile at Taena before climbing off the bed. And grabbing his trousers. “I’m afraid not, love, as much as I pray to the Seven it could.”

“A pious knight who beds whores. Do all hedgeknight’s have as interesting logic as you?” She asked with another coy grin, the accent like honey to his ears.

“Afraid not. I am one of a kind, dear maiden,” He smiled as he pulled his shirt on and began strapping on his armour, with Taena watching with a curious look in her eyes, like a cat would watch an amusing mouse.

When Godric had fully dressed he walked over to the woman, bending down to kiss the hand she offered him. “Come back when your purse is full again. I enjoyed you.”

“I’ll be sure to. Until then however, be safe.”

“Trust that I will,” she stated simply as he made his way out the door, sipping her drink as he closed it behind him, not caring to give him another glance. Godric preferred the interesting ones, conversation was more interesting than grunting. Of course, looking into the battered leather pursed at his belt, he was dismayed at the single silver stag gleaming up at him; he wouldn’t be seeing Taena again for a while it seemed.

The armoured knight came down the stairs, his helmet hanging from a strap at his belt, near his sword, freeing up his hands. The armour he wore was once brightly shining steel, though now it had been painted over in black, with flecks of paint chipping off. It was of the practical idea, as opposed to the aesthetic, helping to keep it from shining in light and making it easier to maintain than constantly oiling it to save it from rust. It was a simple harness, with plate covering an arming gambeson and being simple enough to avoid clanking with every step. Not as protective as a full suit with mail and thousands of interlocking sections, but far more comfortable and easy to move in. The scratches littering its surface only proved that it was far from ineffective as armour.

When he stepped down the stairs, aiming for the door and the shitcovered streets to retrieve his horse, he almost stepped into the middle of a small gathering. Gold cloaks speaking with the owner, Kettleback, and a redheaded woman he recognized but hadn’t gotten the name of. Looking down at them -quite literally. Godric was a rather tall man, and out of all of the ensemble, the only one he truly judged would have been the whoremaster.- he stood for a moment, quietly listening, more from curiosity than anything else.

ailurophile · Jan 9, 2020

Erena Stark

The Virgin

It was a complicated thing, to love animals so dearly and yet be fascinated by hunting.

Erena had killed her first animal the day she'd got her flower, just to prove that she could. In truth, it hadn't been much of a victory: a rustling in the foliage had spooked her and, out of instinct, she'd let her arrow loose and it'd struck a badger right through its small head. Though embarrassing at first, when the group had examined the unfortunate animal, they'd praised Erena for her aim. Which quickly became her talent of choice.

She hadn't killed anything since then, but with her own bow she'd stood and shot at targets for hours on end throughout her adolescence and into her adulthood. There wasn't a lot for her to do in Winterfell besides practice, practice her dancing and her singing and her embroidery. So archery was a special hobby, delicate without being vulnerable.

Which was what Erena liked to think she was, too.

When Addam missed, she couldn't help the pity in her eyes as he delegated the weapon to Edric instead. It must be hard, she often mused, to be a brother to a man so wonderful as her twin. It didn't affect her quite so much, since her own feminine role was different to the one her brothers had to fill, but she tried to at least understand it. Or perhaps she was biased, and Addam didn't feel threatened by Edric's prowess at all.

She smiled at her twin. "Do you hear that? The kill is yours."

Playfully, she urged her horse on, leaving her twin's side to advance a few steps as though threatening to take off into the woods at any given moment. Erena giggled and ran her hands over the mare's smooth neck, silently demanding her patience.

"It'd be a shame if somebody else beat you to it."

There was no way she'd beat him. Even if she did, she had little interest in taking the stag down.

"I'll race you."

But this was about the game.

Braddington , mentioning

Rusty of Shackleford

Rusty of Shackleford · Jan 9, 2020

Lord Erich Reyne
The Raging Lion
Location: The Honey Pot

Erich was now rememberee why he hadn't been to King's Landing since he was a boy. The place was a shithole. Even the better parts had shit on the streets up to your heels. The Lord of Castemere had arrived in the capital a day prior, ahead of Lord Lannister. This was for two reasons: one, he didn't want to arrive late to the trial. His family had always served House Lannister, loyally or not. Secondly, he wanted to get some debauchery out of the way, as to not make an ass of himself in front of his Lord. It was well known of Erich's...bedroom activities, but it was best that he kept away from his favorite hobby during the trial. And so, the Reyne had found himself a den of iniquity, and went inside for a bit of fun.

The tall man looked around the inside of the Honey Pot. He thought the city was bad...this place looked shady. The smell of booze and sex filled Erich's nostrils, and was sickening even for him. Though the ensemble was...varied. Knight's, soldiers, Gold Cloaks, mercenaries, cutthroats, the average visitors to a brothel. Though a few caught the man's attention. A dark skinned man, most likely Essosi. What looked like the Captain of the Gold Cloak's, and what seemed to be the owner of this establishment...Gwayne Kettleback, if Erich's memory recalled. Hopefully, there were some girls ready, though he could use a good drink first, maybe a brawl to get the blood pumping. Anything to distract himself from how utterly dreadful this whole situation was...

As he began walking, he accidentally bumped into a man in full plate armor. Dark hair, blue eyes...could it be a Baratheon? No, not likely. They were hot blooded, but this man was neither Jon nor Ormund. And Erich would know, seeing as he was their brother-in-law to be. No, this was most likely a knight. Not an uncommon sight in whorehouses. It was usually those who talked to most of honor that spent the most time acting like I'm uncultured. Erich, despite his desire for a brawl, wasn't intending on fighting a man in full plate when all he had was his doublet and a longsword. So, the Lion swallowed his pride, and said in a pretty sincere tone, "Oh, sorry friend. Was a bit lost in my thoughts." He wasn't too meek. He was still a Lord, Lord of one of the Westerland's wealthiest House's. He couldn't be seen as someone that could be stepped all over with impunity. But he didn't want to be an arse and get himself killed either. There was a difference between being a man and being a fool.

Though he supposed that even coming to this damned trial, and spending his days drinking and whoring made him a fool. He knew that's what Ysabel would say about it. She always had strong opinions about such things....
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ailurophile · Jan 9, 2020

Tyana Waters
Handmaiden

With Rhaenyra gone, the room was quiet, and Tyana had time to put it in order. She straightened the sheets and rearranged the the crowd of cushions, she plucked items of clothing and jewelry from the floor and returned them to their respective homes, and she emptied the dregs of wine from cups and discarded empty bottles. Finally, when she was apparently finished, she perched on the edge of Rhaenyra's bed to critically survey her work.

She couldn't understand how somebody could own such precious things and not take care of them. Tyana had so many necklaces that Rhaenyra had suddenly decided, seemingly for no good reason besides capriciousness being part of her nature, that she no longer liked them. Some items hadn't been fortunate enough to be rehomed: Tyana had watched the princess toss bracelets from windows, bend rings out of shape, and slip beads from their thread one by one.

Everything Tyana had, she treasured. Because she didn't have a lot compared to the people she dealt with on a daily basis. She had more now than when she'd been residing in the brothel, of course, but she still cared greatly for every possession.

There was no telling how long Rhaenyra would be gone, and Tyana couldn't stand another minute of sitting in silence with nothing to do. The flowers in the vase on the vanity had wilted and died several days ago, and were yet to be replaced -- somebody, most likely her husband, had left flowers at the door, but Rhaenyra had tossed them from the window just like her bracelets -- so she resolved to do that next. A walk, even a lone one, would be nice.

But when she left the room, she was met with an approaching figure, and an opportunity.

"Your Holiness!" Tyana exclaimed, dipping her head in a respectful greeting as she clasped both hands around the vase. "What an unexpected treat."

It occurred to her then that he could only have one purpose for visiting at such a busy time.

"The Princess left with Prince Jaehaerys a short while ago, I'm afraid. Perhaps I could pass a message for you?"

Her head remained lowered.

JPTheWarrior

ailurophile · Jan 9, 2020

Myranda Westerling
Sister

At her own request, Myranda was left alone in her carriage.

It gave her time to think, and to grieve, the two processes that had occupied much of her time as of late. She hadn't ever been fond of conversation, even as a girl: too many thoughts would cloud her mind at once and find it too difficult to get the right words out, and then she'd be left flustered and embarrassed. It was easier to just keep to herself. Writing letters was a form of solace, though: over the years she'd had a handful of penpals, some closer confidants than others, and that was her way of socializing. When she wrote, she could do so at her leisure, without pressure. There was no fear of saying the wrong thing and watching somebody's expression change once it was too late to retract her statement.

She'd written so many letters to Lynora when she'd left home.
The only person she'd ever been able to speak to in person without anxieties arising.

Myranda leaned her head against the wall as the memory of her last trip to King's Landing came flooding back. The news had come in a letter, the news of her sister's impending execution. No trial, no alternative option, no second chance. She remembered her anguish all too well, how she'd screamed to anyone who would listen about the injustice of it all.

And then she'd rushed to make the trip, to speak on her sister's behalf, to beg for some kind of mercy. Failing that, she'd wanted to be there to support her, to let her know that there was somebody present who mourned for her already, and who knew she wasn't the person she'd been painted as.

She'd been quick.
They had been quicker.

When she'd reached King's Landing, she'd been informed that the execution had already taken place. Her request for an audience with the King had been politely declined: what would be the point in it? So she'd been forced to return home, where she'd remained, spiralling.

Until now.

They were nearing the Red Keep. The Dragons' lair. Myranda had been battling the question of whether or not to attend the trial but in the end, despite her fear and the guilt that shrouded that evil place, she'd decided to go.

Because even though she hadn't been able to be there to give Lynora her support, Myranda wanted to extend that courtesy to Ashara Arryn. A girl without a sister of her own.

If Myranda could help it, she'd know she had one now.

TheFool · Jan 9, 2020

The Prince

Prince Jaehaerys, as per ever, put in an effort to be invested.
Invested in Judyth Umber’s words,
And equally so in her cousin’s amorous glances. His ears listened well to the merchantess - whilst his lips simpered for the young Sera Sunglass.

“And where was it? The place your work last took you?” Jaehaerys asked. Invested. He wondered how invested Judyth Umber was in him. He, if she played her cards correctly, could be a powerful ally for a woman of the ware to have.
And vice versa.

His eyes, invested in neither woman fully, found themselves being drawn to the courtyard’s entrance. To horses and to carriages and to foot soldiers waving woven banners. And horns. Some of them carried horns. That, in his opinion, was a bit much.
But -
The people did love a spectacle. “I’m afraid my presence may be ripped from you, my lady.” He told Judyth. His gaze studying the traffic. The first banner he saw was one with a trout. The trout, specifically. House Tully. Though, in the floating sea of fish, there was also scattered ‘orange suns’.
Tommen.
He thought.
And his mother, no doubt. Sylva Martell was a woman of renown beauty. And renown prestige.
The second banner,

Oh.

The one accompanied by the horns. House Baratheon. The stag. He had not seen that sigil in years. Lynora Westerling’s lover wore it upon his shield, he remembered.
He was sure that shield was still in The Red Keep.

Hidden behind cobweb tangled boxes and piles of old cloth. He didn’t think that good old Lucerys The Last would’ve given it back to Ser Rogar’s family.
Not a chance.

Walys waddled over to where The Tully’s stopped.
Jaehaerys cursed him for that.
For that meant he had to deal with… them. With the deer. The ever proud deer. Ours Is The Fury. Well, Jaehaerys’ was fire and was blood.

He inched a bit closer.

His cane scraping dry muck and red gravel.

Ormund was an impressive man.
Not overly handsome, no, but impressive still. Mighty. A man for the men. A man one could follow. His brother, Jon, was similarly so - with a lot more of the mightiness. They both approached him. Their presence almost chaotically confident.
Jaehaerys would be a liar if he said he did not feel one bit intimidated.
A liar indeed.
Ormund was the first, obviously, to speak. The Lord of Storm’s End. Jaehaerys wondered what it was he would say. Would he reignite violent winds?
A returning storm.

He spoke.

His tone of voice valiant. Handsome. More handsome than his appearance anyway. He did not bow. The first box one would tick when talking with a Prince. With a Targaryen. With a dragon.

He spoke more.

Ormund Baratheon clearly intended on controlling this conversation.
And control it, he would.

Jaehaerys would let him.

He would invest.

“You are right, my good lord Ormund.” Jaehaerys Targaryen began, “I think the last time we saw one another was the tourney at Bitterbridge?”
Wrong.
They’d seen each other at the tourney at The Crag. Held by Lynora Westerling’s family shortly after her marriage to Lucerys. Jaehaerys would not mention that, however. There would be no mention of Lynora and Ser Rogar until Ormund himself brought it up.
“And right again.”
He continued.
“The Red Keep has been full as of late. Full of roses and of foxes and of golden trees. Full of birds and of crabs and… and of giants.” He said, lyrically.
Looking back at Judyth Umber as he did.
“But The Red Keep has missed the stag the most, if I may say. The impact your absence had was paramount.” He looked to Ormund.

Jaehaerys was smiling, thinly. But his eyes sorrowed. His stare apologised on his brother’s behalf. And he hoped Lord Baratheon would see that.

He then chuckled,
“Princess Rhaenyra always preferred the more luxurious tasks, ha. Standing around all day is not my strong suit - but the lords and ladies of The Seven Kingdoms matter more to me than an evening with a sore foot.”

Fickle.
Fickle people.

“Thank you for coming too, Lord Jon. Even though you’re here under difficult circumstances, I appreciate it. The realm appreciates it.”

He arched his back a little bit.

Avoiding slouching over, which is what happened sometimes when he would do nothing but stand and rely on his cane for support.

In the corner of his eye he could see Walys greeting and attending to Sylva Martell and her young daughter, Mariya, and -

And Tommen.

“Justice appreciates it.”

Awesome_Nemo · Jan 9, 2020

The Hedgeknight

Godric stumbled back slightly, when the man bumped into him. It wasn’t unpleasant, his breastplate absorbing most of the blow, and looking at the man, it seemed obvious that it was a mistake. The hedgeknight knew a noble when he saw one, they often carried themselves a different manner than common folk, and often smelled better. They often dressed better, and judging by this man’s doublet and sword, even the way he wore his hair, it was obvious he was a wealthy one. Godric judged the man’s belt was worth more than all his possessions, most of which he was currently carrying.

The look in his eye however was something that put the knight on guard. Godric knew when someone was looking for a fight, or about to start one, and it often was in the eyes. One could tell a lot about a person’s intent from their eyes, and Godric’s suspiciously narrowed, looking from the noble’s face, quickly to his sword.

Godric did not want a fight. He was a simple hedgeknight and a bastard from a near broken house. If he were to fight a noble, and one as rich as this one was, it would likely end poorly for him even if he won; no doubt the man had bodyguard’s waiting outside. Not that the knight would blame him. In this city one could never be too careful.

Just as he was about to utter an apology to hopefully diffuse the situation, the man himself spoke up. Surprising really. He never knew young nobles to apologize for such things, and looking at the young man’s eyes, he realized the combative look had left. Perhaps living on the road had made him a bit paranoid, Godric reflected on himself.

Smiling warmly, he stepped to the side, out of the way he had been blocking. Resting a hand on his helmet, and waving his hand. “Worry not, your lordship. The fault is mine,” he stated calmly. While it was a gamble to assume the man was a lord, as opposed to simply being wealthy, it was better than to assumed a lord was simply wealthy. Far less violence he found. Standing at the same level, it seemed obvious just how tall the hedgeknight was, easily a head taller than most of the men in the room, to the point his head grazed the doorway into the establishment, and with a body heavily muscled.

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ailurophile · Jan 9, 2020

Clea
Whore

"So tell all your friends, sweets, that I really can bend like that," Clea purred in the low, sultry voice she reserved for clients as she drew her legs back down from behind her head. She lounged back across the scattered cushions on the bed, watching the sheepish man dress. He couldn't be much older than she was, judging by the speed of their encounter-- at least, she hoped he wasn't more than a boy. If that were the case, she pitied him and whichever poor bitch he married.

Just as he reached the door, Clea clicked her tongue and lazily held out a hand, open, palm facing up.

"I thought I paid downstairs?"

"You pay the standard rate downstairs. What I just gave you was much more than standard. I work for tips."

Not too begrudgingly, the blonde boy rummaged in his purse and placed three coins into her hand. He lingered for a moment, a hopeful look on his face, but slunk away when Clea curled her fingers over the payment and nodded towards the door. Once the door closed behind him, she rolled over to slip the coins in amongst the others in a small pouch she kept tucked beneath one leg of the bed, wedged between that and the wall. Satisfied in more ways than one, she stretched and enjoyed a few moments of peace, before stepping back into her dress and preparing to head back downstairs.

She admired herself in the mirror before she left. A ring of gold encircled her neck, and bangles of the same metal clinked at her wrists and ankles. Her dress was a lavish affair, a translucent material, as orange as flame and as light as air. Gifts, every item.

The tavern was much quieter than she would've liked, despite the number of occupants. The reason was immediately clear: Goldcloaks. They didn't grab her interest, though-- in Clea's experience, while many were surprisingly useful off-duty, they were almost impenetrable when working. Which was a shame.

But there were plenty of other targets.

Clea leaned against the wall, surveying the room, a predator looking for her prey. There were eyes on her too, plenty: men craved something new, something different from what they'd experienced in the past. They were fascinated by her appearance, and captivated by her talent.

Too easy, though.

There was a brunette with his back to her, and that's who she chose. Though he was engaged in conversation, she crossed the room, hips swaying gently from side to side-- if she failed to close the deal with her current focus, she needed to keep attention on herself to select a suitable rebound. Her fingertips traced a few small circles onto his upper arm before she stepped neatly between the two men.

"Can I help you, honey?" Slowly, she batted her eyelashes, and turned to his companion with a smirk forming on her face. "The offer extends to you both, of course. A drink, or..?"

Because no matter what they all claimed, no man had ever come to the Honeypot just for the wine.

Rusty of Shackleford

Awesome_Nemo

JPTheWarrior · Jan 9, 2020

Luceon Celtigar - High Septon

Right before his hand touched on the door, ready to knock, it opened and Luceon faced a woman, much to his disdain, of brown hair and saphire eyes. The woman quickly realized who he was and greeted him with the expected behavior, speaking to him with her head lowered and her eyes looking down. To even make this meeting less unpleasant, she gave him the knowledge that the princess was not only not in her quarters but she was with the person Luceon did not want to see them talking together, at least right away, although he probably knew anyways that Rhaenyra often visited the Sept of Baelor, to confess her sins to the High Septon and be forgiven. At least this brown haired woman was the first person to talk to him in a none sarcastic tone this day so that was something going for her. Before he lifted her head with one finger in her chin so she was looking at him, he quickly glanced to his sides to make sure they were alone. After doing it so, his right hand moved towards Tyana and he placed a finger on her chin, raising softly so their eyes would meet. With a warm smile he said "Now now, Tyana I believe? I remember you, we've spoken once or twice before and Princess Rhaenyra often speaks kindly of you, about how you are an irreplaceable company. Seven blessings to you, my dear. The Prince is with her, you say? The poor two must be devastated and the company of each other is a must to handle such difficult and dark times."

"I thank you for your generosity. If you see her, tell her I passed by to make sure she was doing alright with the whole trial coming soon. We've spoken after the King's incident, but it was brief and short. But tell me, do you think she will come soon?" He asked, hoping for a short and quick 'yes'. If Jaehaerys came to speak with her Luceon could only deduce the worst. A conversation about the future heir, maybe? Jaehaerys looked like the type who would certainly want it. His mother needed to speak with him soon too, to make sure whoever sat on that Throne by the end of Summer would guarantee House Celtigar was still relevant. However, this was a good opportunity from his part. He never really had the chance to ever talk to this handmaiden alone and while the woman herself is of small importance, what she hears and speaks with Rhaenyra has quite the weight. "I've never seen you come to the Sept of Baelor before, at least alone." Luceon remembered something Rhaenyra had told him, something he overlooked at the time. Tyana's past, ah yes, certainly not considered something pure for the Faith, although Luceon could care less about that. "I hope you don't find it overwhelming or unwelcoming. One thing I have been working forever on is for everyone to see the Sept of Baelor as a guiding beacon to all, whoever you are. A second home, if I must use a metaphor for it." Luceon's soft and pale lips curved into a tender smile. He didn't look menacing at all, but the opposite. Right now, he gave out the feeling that he was truly a friend of everyone that wished him to be as so.

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ailurophile - Tyana Waters

ailurophile · Jan 9, 2020

Tyana Waters
Handmaiden

As much as men tended to put Tyana into a state of unease, she was starved of gentle words, and even more so of gentle touches. When the man lifted her head to look up at him, she was sure her surprise would be written all over her face. But he was a man to be trusted, probably more than any King's Landing had to offer.

And he was influential.
So she didn't pull away independently.

It was interesting to hear that Rhaenyra spoke so sweetly of her, so much so that she almost felt guilty for all of her private thoughts on the young woman. Perhaps she'd been too quick to judge her, her resentment fed by jealousy. Because Rhaenyra wanted for nothing, or so it seemed, whilst Tyana had to work for everything.

Even her own name.

The thought reminded her of her purpose within the Red Keep. She met the High Septon's smile with a sweet one of her own.

"I expect she'll be back soon: I hadn't finished doing her hair for her when she left, and you know how particular she is about such things," Tyana quipped. From what she could remember, this man had quite a close relationship with the woman in question: when they visited the Sept together, Tyana would often be left to her own devices for a period while Rhaenyra spoke to him in private. She didn't know exactly what they discussed, but their conversations were far longer than one would expect a simple exchange of smalltalk to take.

"My apologies, Your Holiness, I'm afraid I've been slacking in that department. I'll try and visit more frequently, if you'll have me. It's so kind of you to note my absence."

This was unfamiliar territory for Tyana, and she felt her way blindly through the interaction. She'd dealt with nobility and royalty, and businessmen and beggars, and clients from all walks of life and the whores who served them alongside her, but never someone in quite so unique a position as the High Septon. He was too difficult to second guess, and while she didn't want to bore him with standard responses, she also didn't want to take a risk and end up offending him either.

She decided to take a risk.

"If it's not completely ridiculous of me to ask, and please do tell me if I'm prying, but what is it you need to see the Princess about so urgently? She seems to be over the worst part of her grief, at least for now." Tyana paused, wondering if she dared to continue. Then:

"I like to think that I know her better than anybody else. Maybe I'd be able to advise you on what her thoughts would be? If you had something beyond a courtesy call."

Tyana clutched the vase a little tighter, nervous.

Her father had worked hard to put her into the position she now held. It'd be a waste if she didn't utilize the opportunity she'd been given.

JPTheWarrior

BELIAL. · Jan 9, 2020

Lyanna Manderly
The Lady of White Harbor

location: Kings Landing

with: Dorren Stark, Amabel Blackwood

tags:

idalie

dendygar

She was thankful to have Dorren at her side. Her mind had been anywhere near sanity back at Harrenhal, feeling feverish in the cursed walls and preferring her days outdoors. It was strained for a time, but neither mentioned it. Both knew it, Lyanna wasn’t blind or dumb, but she was grateful it hadn’t been addressed. Maybe it was just a phase for her, some intermittent lapse in normality after leaving White Harbor. She wouldn't know until they got back. Hopefully things will change by then.

Lyanna was already reminded of the old days when Dorren returned her affections. It warmed her heart, and in that moment she had truly forgotten that Amabel was in the carriage with them. The girl was quiet most of the journey, and Lyanna had assumed she was sleeping or something. But no, her comments came clipped and as empathetic as they could be. Dorren reassured Lyee while Amabel did nothing but prove that things were complicated outside of the walls of King’s Landing. Lyanna had heard stories and rumors. You were often lending an ear to gossip between sailors when your home was a port town-- the most used in the North at that.

Her cheeks were red, smiling at Dorren’s reply. “I’m protected from all evil now,” she said with a whisper and a giggle. She accepted his kiss, cued to the cough from across the carriage. There was an apparent competition for who could dig the deepest hole with their heavy frowns.

Her steely blue gaze tracked Amabel’s expressions, and her apparent aversion to the couple’s affection. Few private moments would exist after this, or if they did it would be stifling and strange in a foreign land. For Lyanna at any rate. She couldn’t fathom shedding her cloak in the lack of frost, let alone pretending to be herself in somewhere so far away from home.

“You misunderstand my concern. I do not fear the law coming after me, but those who make their own laws. We’re strangers here. We are at a disadvantage,” she said with a lowered voice, her gaze sliding to the window. Coming to the city, she sat up a bit. “I don’t mean to sound paranoid, but there’s been a tremor in the structure. Pieces are bound to fall.”

She sighed, shaking her head and taking a stronger notice to the view outside of the interior city. Peering out and at the line of carriages, banners and riders leading toward the Red Keep. It would be a full house, definitely. “I think we all will be benefited to leave this carriage. Soon though. We’re nearly there,” Lyanna said and pressed herself back against the seat. She interlocked her fingers with Dorren’s, squeezing his palm to try and rid the scowl off his face.

Trying to change the subject, she opened her mouth to speak. The carriage instead came to a halt, and Lyanna’s face lit up. “Wonderful timing. And quit it, both of you.”

The light that came out was a shocking bright, and far more yellow than the North. The Riverlands were a green, blending into the rolling hills as a backdrop. Instantly it warmed her skin, and she threw a look back over her shoulder at the two. She grinned brightly, suddenly wanting to ditch all responsibilities and throw herself into the nearest garden.

Perhaps most people would not be so excited as Lyanna was. Nature called her, and the vibrancy of it called her like a long lost friend. Ever since she was a child, it was the sea or it was the woods. Even Alaric showed similar, though a bit spastic, tendencies. Cley didn’t get it, and Lyanna doubted that Dorren or Amabel would understand.

Her eyes lit up more at the flurry of activity taking place all around. Choruses of voices, servants dipping in and out of attention. Far away smells tempted the girl. The Red Keep was a giantess in the sky, and she was beautiful. It was not white, but it was not the dark hallowed halls of Harrenhal. She would enjoy her time here; this breath of fresh air.

codedbycrucialstar

dendygar · Jan 9, 2020

Lady Amabel Blackwood

The Raven looked out the window, staring longingly at the outside world. Lyanna wasn't the only one who had grown up in the lush forests, hunting all sorts of creatures. She remembered running alongside Braeden and Conran at their heels with a slingshot, the two of them having been old enough to wield their own longbows. But she was still too small.

The greenery overwhelmed her senses, the world ablaze and teeming with life. No matter how much her own life seemed to shift and take new shapes and forms, the forest never wavered. The all-knowing trees and the creeks that always gave their little whispers, speaking of tales too ancient for her young ears to understand. The large eyes of a doe, watching, waiting.

The dark beauty watched as handmaidens and squires rushed about, seeming so busy with serving others. They seemed.. content. It was work, but they weren't dreading it. Amabel wondered what a life like theirs would be like.. endlessly less complicated, she imagined. And her life was about to get even more so when they arrived, the doom of the rest of her life looming over her mop of black hair.

Jon Baratheon. She had never met the man, never met any of the Baratheon's, truth be told. But her late family had, all of them- it must have happened on one of her great many trips far away from Raventree Hall.

For her entire life, Amabel had been preparing to not marry. To carry on her family name and maybe adopt a son, or have a son with some man whom she wouldn't take his name and pass the Blackwood lineage down to him. But she knew that was unrealistic, and reality came and slammed it's hard-knuckled fist right into her jaw when her brother waltzed into the picture. Amabel had assumed that the betrothal had been called off at that point, but she was very, very wrong. Ormund Baratheon was quite happy with the match.

She'd never even seen the man, she knew nothing about him. Gods, how was she going to manage this? The beautiful city passing in front of her wasn't something that she was seeing, not truly. The Raven's dark eyes stared off into a seemingly endless void, no emotions flittering and fluttering across her features. Lyanna was much more expressive than she was.

The carriage came to a halt. Amabel's feet felt cemented into the floor of the carriage, fear suddenly seizing her by the throat. It had all seemed a bit like a bad dream up until right now, and she realized she couldn't pinch or slap herself to wake up. The carriage lightly shook when their trunks and belongings were taken off and hauled to their final destinations.

The young woman looked at Lyanna and Dorren with the most expression she'd displayed in weeks. She looked like a little girl, the same frightened little girl that Dorren grew up with when they had gotten caught doing something they shouldn't have.

The Raven's eyes didn't look as wide or as tired any longer, her skin had lost whatever tint it'd had. Her hands were clenched together, and light suddenly flooded into the little box they'd been traveling in as the door was opened, a squire greeting them with a bow and the proper pleasantries, welcoming them to the Red Keep. I want to go home. I want my family. Save me, please. Her expression cried out. But it was clear that she was expected to exit first, and Amabel stood up and looked more like a ghost than a living, breathing woman as she stepped out. The warm breeze rustled her hair, and time seemed to stop.

Quickly, Amabel Blackwood forced herself to snap out of it. There was no point in wallowing in self-pity. She was here for a trial, she was here to get her marriage arrangements settled. There was no way she could go back into that carriage and demand them take her to Raventree Hall. Nobody was there waiting for her, nobody who cared. Her family was right here with her, and Gods willing, she would get off on the right foot with Jon Baratheon and justice would be carried out.

BELIAL.

idalie

QuirkyAngel · Jan 10, 2020

Lady Judyth Umber

“Essos.”

That was all Judyth could get out in reply before the prince was forced to cut their conversation short, which was all well and good, because she wouldn’t have elaborated anyway. Not to be coy, but because of customer confidentiality, which she respected. Keeping things vague worked wonders sometimes too. By baiting the fish in with curiosity—about where she’s been and what she’s done—she could ensure a second conversation.

Probably.

If not, losing the golden fish would’ve been a pity.

Judyth wasn’t unaware of the opportunity Sera had presented her. Kings. Queens. Princes. Princesses. They had connections. Their subjects mirrored what they did. Tried to imitate. The clothes they wore. The accessories they adorned. The wares they endorsed. Those became popular and, in turn, brought business.

Though, she refused to deal in weirwood.

It was a matter of principal.

Glancing briefly at Sera, Judyth mentally sighed when she saw her cousin was still looking at Jaehaerys. A prince was an excellent catch to be sure, but there was something decidedly…fake…about the way he interacted. He was sweet. Too sweet. Almost double-layered. She wondered if Sera had caught on.

Still. Judyth knew a good investment when she saw one.

She didn’t think Jaehaerys would treat her cousin the same way Lucerys treated his wives either. It was just a hunch. She’d have to double check with Sera. Confirm (subtly) the prince’s thoughts on the matter. His lack of marriage and rumored interest in men were well known, after all. If all went well, she could inform Uncle Clint and have him get things started. The man would have a field day if he knew the liking men thing wasn’t true.

More importantly, connections to royalty were good for business.

The Lord Paramount of the Stormlands was another big one.

She could feel his gaze on her during his conversation with the prince, brief though it was. She matched it unwaveringly. The ones who’ve gone to war. The ones who’ve taken a man’s life. They had an aura about them. Ormund Baratheon had that aura. He was a good swordsman. She could tell. It stirred the challenger within her. The ‘Umber blood’ her father would call it.

Judyth inclined her head, smiling amusedly, when Prince Jaehaerys acknowledged her with an…introduction—if one could even call it that. All depended on if Baratheon knew his houses. Otherwise, it might’ve sounded like an insult.

Either, way the invisible tension was interesting to watch.

She knew about it of course. How the Baratheons hadn’t been to court since the death of Rogar Baratheon.

Justice.

It was Justice that dealt the blow to Rogar Baratheon. It would be Justice that deals the blow to Ashara Arryn. Judyth wondered if the prince should have chosen his words more carefully. Then again, she wasn’t entirely positive where he stood on the trial just yet. She had an inkling of course, but it wasn’t enough to take action. If she even wanted to take action.

Maybe she wouldn't have to. Maybe Queen Ashara would initiate a trial-by-combat. An entertaining thought.

“Judyth Umber, Lords Baratheon.” Judyth curtsied and introduced herself before speaking. “It’s also my first time in court so I hope we get along well.”

From the corner of her eye, she could see that the Northern party had arrived.

Finally.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must go meet with my family.”

Tapping Sera’s shoulder to get her attention, Judyth dragged her cousin (in a lady-like manner) to where Jon and Jarl were dismounting from their poor horses.

RayPurchase

Yahhah

RayPurchase · Jan 10, 2020

Lord Commander Quenton Hightower
White Sword Tower

Quenton’s left eye began to quiver. The Dalts. A double edged Dornish thorn in his side. Bearable when the going was good, nothing but a whining source of complaints constantly ringing in his ear more recently. His hand tightened on the pommel of his sword. He could just kill one of them, Brutal, bold, would certainly send a message. It’s what they would have done in Essos, far simpler times, a man steps out of line, you cut out the festering wound. The problem now however was that by the time the wounds here were amputated there wouldn’t be a lot of healthy parts left, not enough to survive anyway. At least Florent was mercifully limited with his contribution. He felt that he was one of the few that he could rely on. Ser Bushey and Darke may have been absent, not necessarily a bad thing they were two of the more...eccentric members, but they could be relied upon.

The last, and least, of the Kingsguard near enough stumbled into the room at the same time as he stumbled into Quenton’s thoughts. The eye began to quiver again. The Dalts, Florent, even Lucerys went out of his mind. Kettleblack, claim to fame being related to the ‘Maester of Whores’. The fingers had gone as white as the cloak on his back now, shaking as they gripped at the pommel.

“You three, dismissed, attend your duties, and the next words out of your mouth had better be ‘Yes Lord Commander’,”

He hissed through gritted teeth. His brown eyes were locked on Triston, the fire beginning to simmer behind them. He remained motionless until the others had left. As the door shut he surged forwards grabbing Triston by the scruff of the cloak that Quenton loathed to see him besmirch simply by wearing it.

“To think of the man you replaced. Beesbury is likely spinning in his grave. If you turn up like this again, I will throw you out of that window myself, and be rid of the greatest stain to ever befould the pages of the White Book. Do I make myself perfectly clear, or will I have to beat this lesson into you?”

He gave the younger man a vigorous shake at this last question. He could just do it now mind you, a push backwards and down the stairs, the fall would surely kill him, there were enough witnesses to have seen him swaying his way here, the perfect accident. The perfect scapegoat for recent events, 2 birds with one stone. Quenton found his grip tightening on Triston’s cloak. So easy...

(Interaction: @TheKingsguard,

Braddington (Ser Triston) )

High Moon · Jan 10, 2020

Ser Gwayne Kettleblack
A Gent of Good Intent
The Honeypot.

The Foreigner and the Commander did take their seats even with the opposition of the former but after the later opened his damned trap Kettleblack already started to regret his decision, The Whoremaster might act like a fool and a jester but that was the thing, it was an act, a facade created to entertain and rip as much money as possible from these whoresons who drank themselves to the seven hells.

Smug bastard thought he was being funny with such base jokes about the nature of his business.The Seven these knights believed in certainly had not granted Darklyn with an ounce of wit.“Of course good ser! Of course! Pleasure is my business after all!’’ he agreed, gulping down the wine offered to him with a classic smirk. Then the unexpected happened.

The Ruffian had just wasted one of his more pricey goods on the floorboard, worth more than the entirety of peasants could ever dream to earn in their short miserable lifes. Than the young brat continued on, implying “We wouldn’t want to worry nor do we want to bother the good people here with these kind of antics. The Honeypot is a place for the weary to ease their mind. Come on gentlemen, It’s best to continue this conversation in my office!” he said abruptly standing up and moving towards to

Turning back for a moment. “Red, my girl, why don’t you take a few hours off? Rest a while’ You look a little tense.” he adressed the poor whore. “I’ll see you after our friends are done with their business here.’’

As he walked up the stairs with the two fuckers trailing behind him his face became increasingly weary, with each creak of the old wood, his nerves tensed up as well before finnaly gtting into the office. He took his seat in the lavish chair, before pointing for the other two to take their seats. Eyeing up the bottle of wine that he had left here he decided to continue what he had started, grabbed the bottle and downed it in one go before turning back to the two crooks of his majesty. His face hardened, dark eyes bloodied with the taint of alcohol, shifting between the tall foreigner and the commander. a drastic shift from the jovial demeanour he used just a few minutes before. “Well Ser Darklyn, I believe you are here to ask me about the disappearance of my girls… You are about a month late aren’t you?” sarcasm dripped out of his words, sarcasm and mockery. “No matter, ask your questions, albeit I doubt you’ll get the answers you desire, had I known anything I would have nailed that madman’s arse on my office already.” He pushed the ledger towards the two men, if they weren’t gonna act along there were no need to keep up appearances.

idalie

Rusty of Shackleford · Jan 11, 2020

Lord Erich Reyne
The Raging Lion
Location: The Honey Pot

It seemed that this knight had similar intentions. Erich held out his arms in a way to show that he had no intention of fighting, the Lord saying, "Easy, friend. I had my head up my arse, wasn't paying attention. And don't call me Lordship. We're all scum in here." Erich was used to this kind of respect, given his status, but not in a whorehouse. Usually, he was told to fuck off and things devolved into a brawl. Erich was somewhat disappointed that things didn't take that route, but he was used to disappointment. Though this chap seemed the amicable type. Not the usual customer of a brothel...Erich bowed respectfully, saying, "Erich, of House Reyne. At your service. And you are...?" The Lord of Castemere had no delusions of grandeur from his rank. Friends in low places was a useful thing to have, plus they seemed to have a mutual hobby, one that brought together many Lord's of Westeros and Essos: drinking and whoring.

Speaking of which, it seemed that Erich hsd attracted the attention of a working girl. A dark skinned beauty, to be exact. A smirk crept across the Lord's face as she stepped between him and his new aquaintance, offering her services to them both. Erich took the woman's hand, bringing the back of it to his lips as he said suavely, "A drink would be nice...and maybe something else. The ride here was dreadfully boring. Perhaps you could aleviate that for me, My Lady?" He then turned to the dark haired knight, saying, "Excuse me, my friend. It seems that I've suddenly gotten...busy. Here, buy yourself a drink." Erich passed the man some silver, an apology for leaving so suddenly, and for bumping into him. The Reyne's had the gold and silver to spare, though his alotted coin may just run dry after purchasing this woman's services...

Erich allowed the woman to lead the way, all the while asking, "May I have your name, dear? Just because this is business doesn't mean we have to be so impersonal..." Erich usually told the women he slept with his first name, though always neglected his House. More of a way of keeping any controversy from biting him in the ass. He also made damn sure he didn't catch any... pestilance in his activities. He was to be married soon, after all, and he didn't want to end up like his father: with a single son and a broken mind. He couldn't do that to someone, put them through that. He was a bastard. An angry, aggressive, womanizing bastard. But even he had standards. It was the least he could do...

Interacting:

Awesome_Nemo

ailurophile

ReverseTex · Jan 11, 2020

Syero Essaar- "The Crow"

Commander Darklyn was infamous for his abrasive means in scenarios like this: hence why Syero often tagged along. Keeping a professional and calm demeanor was often his personal job, as it allowed him to better read the situation. Whereas his senior preferred a more aggressive approach, hoping to startle the person of interest into making a mistake. As Darklyn poured the Dornish wine upon the mold-ridden floors, Syero kept a careful watch upon the red-headed whore. Her eyes flashed with worry. Not the worry of having to clean the dirtied boards, but it appeared to be fear. Fear of what? Her boss?

But as quickly as the moment came it escaped his clutches, as Kettleblack's barking and ordering sent him back to the situation at hand. He said nothing in response to the tavern owner as he took the invitation to follow the man in silence, the creaks of the boards truly accentuating the tension in the Pot. Once the trio reached his office, Syero took a seat at one of the suggested chairs. Seeing as Darklyn was the bold and brash one, it often helped in his case to be indulgent to the person of interest. Plus it humanized him a bit. "With what's been going on with the royal family I'm 'fraid that's why our response is a bit delayed Ser." Syero sighed as he began to remove a small pad of parchment from his belt. "Mind?" He asked, though waited for no response as he took Kettleblack's inkpot and quill. "Left mine in the Isles I'm 'fraid ," Syero smiled as he readied his utensil for notes.

"Now I know you know this but it best be said now. Your candor is highly encouraged for our sake and your business's sake. So think carefully before you speak Ser, i'm sure you wise enough eh?"