# ARCAN3LY . an exclusive rp blog written for 103AC, penned by manes [ twenty7 / they & she ]. please do not follow or interact with any posts on this blog if you are not affiliated with 103AC.
I. steffon arryn ( they + he ) introduction + pins.
II. alysanne targaryen ( she + her ) introduction + pins.
III. edmure fossoway ( he + him ) introduction + pins.
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located in the corridor nearby the sick rooms, after it becomes apparent that the antidote she worked on with aiysha is not very effective & fated for @firedreamt , @faatedones , @arcan3ly & @cancrorum.
mela's jaw has been clenched since the first dose of the elixir she and the lady greyjoy had mixed slipped past the throats of the sick. healing had never been what she had gravitated to when it came to practical uses of her knowledge of botany. ironically, she preferred poisons — things that would help the elderly, frail, and injured pass in peace, without pain. the weight of not knowing pressed heavily upon her now, pushing down on her shoulders as she lowers herself to perch in a nearby windowsill. how exhausting it was, to heal. how fruitless, when your efforts did not come to pass. within her skull, the backs of her eyes ache with unshed tears. was it sadness, that brought such emotion to her door? or was it frustration — anger at her inability to control the nightmare that transpired before the eyes of the court? rolling the thought over in her mind, mela cannot decide. " i have no good news to offer, " she speaks only at the sound of footsteps, insistent and echoing off of the red keep's stone walls and out into the courtyard below, the open windows carrying in a breeze that she might have found comforting, under normal circumstances. " we must wait. "
it had not been long since their arrival at the red keep, and word of an antidote did little to settle the disquiet within him. edmure had fought against the need to show their faces, had argued until he was blue in order to shield his children from the threat of an invisible beast, and yet there they were — there he was — keeping his distance from the sick bay, wondering whether any tincture had touched the spreading affliction. already cerion had been lost. there was a strange heaviness within edmure ; it was the bite of an unripe apple, the bleeding of acrid juice down his throat, stinging his back teeth. a lannister lost, but a fossoway freed. he wondered whether rosalei would mourn her husband, would ache over his loss to an unseen yet vicious enemy, or would wake to a fresher smell on the air and knowledge that, although she wore his name, she was no longer his. “do not fret. the worst has already happened. the sickness took cerion with such haste that i doubt any balm would have remedied him, only soothed his passage to the next world.” he moved forward, then, remaining healthy distance away, but with a softness in his light eyes reserved only for those he deemed kind. “the efforts of the hightowers does not erase the sweat you have put into aiding the ill. i believe you deserve rest and respite, too.”
the hand of the late king welcomes edmure fossoway, the second child of the ruling lord fossoway, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be patient and attentive, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their blinkered and avoidant tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of rolling groves filled with cider apples and citrus trees, gilded chainmail wrought from delicate links, each holding fast to one another like hands joined in prayer, the sound of tiny feet pitter - pattering across old stones. they themselves dream of a just ruler on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
i. statistics
name: edmure fossoway. age: fifty. place of birth: the reach, westeros. gender: cis man. pronouns: he & him. sexual orientation: straight. religion: faith of the seven. title: lord of cider hall. languages: the common tongue. affiliation: his own.
faceclaim: nikolaj coster - waldau. hair color: blonde, greying. eye color: blue. height: 6'3". distinguishing characteristics: crows feet in the corners of his eyes, a rope of scarring on the left side of his torso & smaller scars littering his face, two moles beneath his left eye.
character alignment: lawful good. positive traits: loyal, attentive, dedicated, detail - orientated. negative traits: reckless, blinkered, impulsive, self - critical. character parallels: nikolai lantsov ( the grishaverse ), davos seaworth ( asoiaf ). disorders: soldier's heart.
mother: lady shireen fossoway. father: lord lorence fossoway. sibling(s): rosalei lannister née fossoway, lady desmera fossoway ( half ). significant other(s): cassella fossoway. children: fossoway c, armond fossoway, npc fossoway, npc fossoway ; cassella is currently pregnant with their fifth.
ii. background & personality.
the lands surrounding cider hall are said to be amongst the most beautiful in the reach. in spring, apple blossoms paint the wilderness in shades of white and pink, orchards hang heavy with fruit and the sweet scent of crushed apples drift throughout the air. like the orchard, the fossoway house was cultivated with patience and care ; a garden of nobles raised with the sweetness of red, rather than the bitterness of green, apples. never once feeling the urge or pressure to become anything more than their humble beginnings. it was their union to house lannister that raised them from a collection of knights to those on the level of other great houses. even in his older years, with the weight of heirdom ever looming, it was a strange adjustment ; no longer could he run with his wooden swords and play out in the battlements with the dream of dying in the name of a great ruler. one day he would become one, and that possessed a patience and temperament that the wild boy had been born without. instead he was a terror to his sister, although he loved her greatly. she had always been the kinder one, the more intelligent one — a round, red, shiny fruit, against his rotten and wormy one.
even in edmure’s youth he boasted a rugged allure, sandy-blonde hair bleached golden by the reach sun, wild blue eyes that tracked opponents across training grounds and growing fields with an ease innately within him. at the age of five and ten the rumbles of their alliance with the lannisters shifted beneath the earth. it was he who was called upon to serve as squire for a shimmering, golden knight, and edmure earned quite the reputation for both courtesy and skill with a blade. a warrior, a gleaming jewel in fossoway armor ; glory followed edmure’s heavy steps until he, too, was knighted, and fell in line beside the men that had come before him. uncles and grandparents and distant relatives who he had never seen without the protection of iron and steel. words were never shared about the dismissive nature of his superior, of the way he was made to scrub armour clean until his fingers were red, raw, bloody. such was the way, to suffer for honor — but as he spoke to others of his craft he learned that squires were not treated as poorly, neglected to such degree, as he had been. leaving casterly rock and returning home had been a blessing, but his complaints fell upon the deaf ears of his father. it was essential for a relationship to be maintained between them and houses of more prestige, to ensure their safety come war or famine or ill - fortune. when rosalei was shipped off to marry into the family, leaving him as the eldest within cider hall, he realised once more that the decisions of their father had never truly been for the good of his children, only for the good of their name.
edmure matured, believing that the measure of a ruler lay not in victories won upon battlefields but in the prosperity and security of the people entrusted to his care. while neighboring lords occasionally feuded over borders, marriages, ancient slights, he battled to maintain diplomacy and decorum, to observe his father’s rule without hatred but instead with benevolence at the forefront. fair, with measured temper and dependable word, he crafted the ruler he would be — one day — from the vows he had sworn in his youth. a duty to his countrymen, to the weak, to the gods, to himself. it was no surprise that the hand of the beautiful cassella dalt was arranged in order to provide the heir with a lady to rule beside. he was enamoured from the moment he set eyes upon her. at first their connection followed the path of his parents before him, and their parents before them ; a union of political strength rather than love, two people forced together for the good of their families. in spite of edmure attempts at growing closer to cassella she remained frosty, and so he did the same — for the first few months of their marriage they only crossed one another when they performed their nightly duties, sharing the marital bed out of obligation and duty rather than desire. never thawing, despite best efforts to forge lukewarm connection.
many a babe had been brought into the world without their parents loving one another, and although there was a twinge of guilt in edmure’s chest at the discovery of his wife’s first pregnancy he was assured that it would move without a hitch. they had access to the best care in the reach, but as the first appleseed began to grow within cassella’s belly, contorting her, exhausting her, they remained marooned on separate islands. days passed without them looking upon each other much at all. edmure would take himself out on horseback to hunt, sent to fight in nearby skirmishes for no real reason other than passing the time, returning with wounds that would scar over like thick pink ropes across his flesh. he was far from home when he received the news that their first child had been born, and upon his return the bloodied sheets were worse than any battlefield lord edmure had ever seen. it was in that moment that he chose his family over anything, and the sentiment remained ; within the lines of apple trees sprung a grove of lemon, a thousand yellow stars amongst a sky of red. it was for her — it was always for her — and, ever since, edmure had sworn fealty to nobody other than the fossoways of their own creation. Their first born, the stray they accepted out of a burning desire to offer stability and adoration to those most in need, the two offspring that followed, and their most recent germination, mid - sprout.
when the news of aegor targaryen’s death travelled to the reach, his first reaction was to turn his back and allow the passing to wash over their family like a gentle tide. edmure never did share his father’s affinity for the golden family, nor his wife’s loyalty to them, and still he views the union of rosalei and cerion as what it was — a bargain, a parlor trick, a trade - off that ended in tragedy rather than blooming as his and cassella’s had. it was his father’s idea to travel to the capital upon the news of cerion’s passing of a fleeting, devastating sickness ; edmure was reluctant in the beginning, is still reluctant now, to walk halls touched by pestilence, to put his family at risk for the sake of fragile loyalties. whoever is passed the throne, all he hopes is that they provide a safe haven for his children to grow within. he yearns for a united westeros, for a calm westeros — to his dismay, it seems as though the whispers of the court surrounding him promise otherwise.
iii. wanted connections.
first born child ( fossoway c ).
hunting partners.
extended family.
found family dynamic, lost souls that he has taken to being a father figure for.
iv. established connections.
cassella fossoway — wife.
desmera fossoway — half - sister.
armond fossoway — second child ( through adoption ).
the body that crashes into hers is familiar, and burning, even through the fabric of her clothes. the sickening warmth is the first thing she understands: before the face comes into view, before the voice resonates in her ears, before awareness invades her mind. hands lift by instinct, quick to stabilize the person stumbling against her. then, she sees. she recognizes. alysanne, alone and drenched in sweat, a feverish plea barely crossing her lips. at first, she looks at her sister with brows furrowed, unable to make sense of the picture she paints — but inevitably, it dawns on her that perhaps she is trying to outrun this malady, to fight this foe unseen, so swift and suddenly monstrous. viserra feels rather small, the initial relief that had come from remaining untouched had soon twisted into pain, into worry, into despair. she is again a child, presented with a terrifying situation to face. ❝ aly, what are you doing here? ❞ her voice is unlike her usual notes, too thin, breathless, so she clears her throat in an attempt to dispel the knot in her chest, swallowing the panic and hiding it behind her ribcage in favor of fragile composure. she wraps her arms around her sister, determined to keep her upright. ❝ i have you. you are going to be alright, i promise. ❞ though she cannot ensure the veracity of her words, she pronounces them anyway, spinning them into a comfort meant to soothe them both. is there any other possibility? her sister is strong, and she is brave. nothing bad will happen to her. she ignores the way fear claws at her heart, brushing a strand of damp hair away from alysanne’s brow. ❝ you should be resting, ❞ the princess murmurs, gently beginning to move. ❝ come, let me take you to your bed. ❞
since the moment alysanne was born, she had been a fighter. squalling into the world red - faced and furious, clawing at the hands that sought to clean her — she had not yielded since, nor would she yield now. the battle within was something silent and vengeful and entirely hers. this ghostly affliction could not be pierced by blade or subdued by a strong hand. it battled the fire within her, the blood of the dragon twirling within her stomach ; alysanne was set to boil over, but she would not be felled without a battle. “my sisters. i search for my sisters.” words were a tangle, a mess of syllables that made little sense even to her. “there is a demon within me. there is nothing natural about this sickness.” the chanting of a mad woman. her legs trembled beneath her, the corridor twisted and swayed in her vision, but like they had once done when they were girls she allowed viserra to hold her steady. perhaps it was delusion. perhaps it was another of the many symptoms, alongside the aversions to food and the tremors and the cold sweats. even water had started to feel foreign upon her tongue. alysanne’s mind was afire with explanations, rolling back through her memories of the festivities to pinpoint when and where she had started slipping away. a touch. a cup shared. a dance. a kiss upon the cheek. some small occurrence, overlooked. when she had first fallen only a few names were amongst those stricken. now, the dead were growing, and the dragon felt as though her life was wearing thin. “maekara, and viserra.” through her glazed, glassy eyes, the features of her sister were distorted ; instead, even when both lilac eyes looked upon the girl, there was not an ounce of recognition. only urgency. only fear.
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mara sighed and shook her head. "no, that will not do us any good, lord steffon." she said honestly. she wished it would. the hightowers have put a stop to her plan, to what she wants for herself. they took the place of her father, gods rest his soul.
the lannister shuttered, the first physical reaction she had when she thought about her father. she had to remain strong though, not only for herself and her family but for westeros. she rubbed her hands together before she spoke again. "i know the hightowers being here... complicates things." she started. she knew that and now she knew others felt the same.
the brunette rubbed her hands again, she was eager for the hightowers to leave, but now with the promise of a council seat, she feared they would be staying much longer. another house in the running, another house that mara had to charm for her ultimate goal. "do you..." she started then shook her head.
mara glanced at steffon and offered him a reassuring smile. "perhaps them being here will bring their destruction?" she stated.
it was not always easy, putting himself in the shoes of others, but steffon could see the pain as it glistened within lady mara’s eyes. perhaps it was only a short while until he felt that same ache. amaya was beyond the sick curtain, sweating through a fever and clinging to life with every ounce of strength ... what would happen if she succumbed, if the arryn three were reduced only to two ? “it does not simply complicate things,” he retorted, although it was with a softness unlike the liege. “i wish that they would leave and return back to where they came from.”
maybe his lashing out would not bring back those they had lost, would not return his sister to the girl that had left the eyrie and never returned, but would it relieve the pressure within steffon’s mind ? well, he was sure of it. his knuckles ached, although the young arryn had never been strong enough to lift a sword. how was he ever meant to swing it, pierce the soft underbelly of the hightowers, destroy them before they destroyed anything else he loved ?
“my condolences. truly.” their nose twitched like a rat catching the scent of food upon the air. “there will be nobody praying harder for the hightower’s demise than me. that is a promise.”
their reunion should’ve been all that they had dreamed of , yet it had been everything but. while steffon and lyanna fell into their old patterns , sneaking out and avoiding duties , things were stilted and awkward in a way that could only be blamed on time lost. their start of adulthood had been marred by years of separation where they no longer got to know every inch of each other's lives. it had been a bitter shock to see that steffon was no longer a boy but a fully fleshed out human being , with their own darkness hiding behind his eyes. if lyanna had been home in the vale , maybe the darkness would’ve had no reason to be there. maybe , if she’d been quicker , she could’ve protected them better.
lyanna held onto steffon’s hand , her crazed eyes reflected in steffon’s. “we are wolves from the north , trapped inside human bodies ,” she whispered excitedly , shaking off the nerves that had been building since she sat down in the carriage. “our parents never knew that , did they ? if they had they wouldn’t have tried to kill their howling in our chests. they should’ve let us run free.” lyanna believed what she said with all her heart. “the moment we can , we should sneak into the castle and find all of their secrets.” the intricate embroidered collar felt like a noose around her neck , and she tugged at the fabric to ease her breathing. it wasn’t fair that she had to don a dress that made her look like a pale imitation of who she truly was. lyanna was born anything but a lady.
“we will never be apart again , brother ,” lyanna replied and , unlike when they were children , this time she knew it was a promise she could keep. she’d rather throw herself out the moon door than leave steffon behind. “never again.”
perhaps it was misplaced, his hatred for the hightowers, but steffon could not rid his mind of the fact that they had stolen dear lyanna away. the baratheons would have done the same to him. there had been no choice but to run. better to vanish, better to be thought dead, than spend the rest of his days bound to a life he had never wished for, despite the friendship his and jocelyn’s courting had built. there were no hard feelings, at least not between those who should have been wed. the same could not be said for lyanna and her lost husband. not many were privy to her secrets. in fact, steffon was sure it was only them that had been allowed insight into how truly evil the man had been. twins had a way of speaking to one another that did not need a quill, that did not need words or a raven to carry them ; he had only to look into his sister's eyes to know when grief was gnawing at her, when old wounds had begun to ache anew.
“i wager there will be secrets enough to choke the master of whispers. we can press our ears to the walls, listen to those that wish to bid for the throne. i wonder what amaya will say.” matters of nobility had never meant much to steffon arryn. he was the closest to a wild beast that highborn houses had ever seen and, if witnessed by commonfolk out in the towns, they would have likely misjudged him as one of their own. unkempt hair, dirt upon their cheeks, ripped finery and muted house colours. it was only during summoned events like these that he looked anything close to the liege he had been born as. steffon, too, wriggled in their tight tunic, pulled at the sleeves that were cutting off supply of blood. the moment no one was looking, he meant to rid himself of half of it.
“at least i have not heard that the hightowers will be there. i would have torn their heads off, if they were invited. for what they have done to you.” for what they had done to the both of them. the words were half jest, half oath. despite the distance, the time lost between them, every heartache had been shared. still, steffon felt twinges in their chest whenever lyanna’s mood dropped, like they were connected by invisible string.
she catches her. having given chase since she departed the sick bed, the cloth not thin enough to separate the scent of fever and of wisteria-death hanging against her daughter, and without concern to her own health, she clings to her. knees near buckling, arms a vise and draconic grip to her arms, a soft whisper of high valyrian becoming a balm, a waterfall of comfort. ( let it disguise the tears, please, for the love of the gods, let her not remember. ) “ shhh. hush now, i know it hurts. ” hand to press to the clamminess of alysanne's forehead, foregoing care of her night's robes and peeling the lower hem up to wad it, to dab against the sweat. “ Īlon mustos aeragon āmāzigon toos bāne lumie jiōrion, ñuha darlinos. ” ( we must go back to the sick ward, my darling. ) “ they will be bringing something for you, a tincture. do you hear me? ” it could make her curdle, her own pleading. anger flashes bright and hot in her lilac eyes as she braces against alysanne, carrying her along, for a mother's strength outdoes even the fire in the pits. “ alysanne, can you hear me? ” palm to move back the tendrils of hair from her temples, delfina's own heart racing. whomever thought this a clever ruse would pay dearly for it with their own blood, and may it seep into the dungeons below.
how had she made it out of the sickrooms ? alysanne had always been the determined sort, unrelenting when a goal was put before her, but this was new ; it was as though something had possessed her body and brought her out into the long corridors of the red keep. she had spent her life fantasizing of the great castle, those warm - brick spires, the banners of coiled dragons. perhaps it was simply her death that she had been imagining, her story already written long before her body caught up — at least she would be put to rest at her true home. it did not only hurt. it withered alysanne from the inside, stole her strength and left her brittle. the swirling voices surrounding her that spoke when she slept had told of deaths, and the toll was mounting. at the very least, if this was her last night, she would remember the strength of her mother’s hold, the assurance that she did not pass in solitude. the youngest targaryen had been one of the first to fall, had been caught in a cycle of hysteria ; now she was marooned on a far away island as her family watched the pestilence unravel and unfold. “i hear you,” such a strong voice was thin, weak. alysanne’s fire had been extinguished to dull embers. “will they help me ? what is … what is this cruel affliction ? ”
she has stepped on something sticky, but she is not quite sure what — even with the implication spelled so neatly for her. vaiora is earnest. deadly so. "your wish is my command," she declares, smile easy as ever. it is easier to dodge accusations of dishonesty, for she often toes the line of hyperbole. and, even with the best designs at heart, vaiora is allergic to her own word, often forgetting to fulfil every promise she makes. she makes so many, after all.
"do not fear, i will explain that we are gravely serious, liege steffon." willy will be sure to convey their plight well against his father. vaiora, with a weighted gravity matching that which steffon sets in the tone, declares, "i will fetch some parchment from my rooms!" then, sorting through the muddle of her mind, she recalls the additional instruction. "as well as a quill." really, she would like to relieve herself too. that could occur on the way. the redwyne holds out her little finger, every intention of fulfilling the request, "i will be back before you can say flea bottom. slowly, though. very, very slowly."
it wasn’t always easy to identify whether those around them were sincere, or mocking them. throughout their early years, steffon had heard whispers about the way they behaved. there was questions, inquiries from those that did not matter, silent evaluations of whether their mind was complete or disjointed, out of alignment. when he looked upon vaiora he hoped that his friend would not think him simply strange, that she understood — or tried to understand — the way his heart was tied in knots, had been since the return of his dear sister. “the most serious i have ever been,” they spoke once more, if she had been in doubt.
at the very least, it was an excuse for them to leave behind the chaos. “that is a great idea. i will speak and you shall write, and we will show them exactly who they are dealing with.” the falcon offered their own little finger, a single joint of a vast wing. their eyes lingered upon those of their friend and, in the silence, he hoped that vaiora could see through the cracks ; that she understood how much it meant, to have someone that wasn’t family be firmly rooted in their corner. “do not idle. i do not wish to be here alone for long.”
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" you'll do what, steffon? " jacks's voice is as shadowy as the door he emerges from, curtains drawn and candles snuffed such that no fearful next of kin would have to lay eyes on the truth of the sickly pallor of their loved ones. their symptoms spelled death, even to jacks's untrained eye. he had not been present when his mother had died, but in between the dreams in which he was a hound, in which he was his gyrfalcon — when he dreamed of his mother's death, it looked much like this. it had been long, since he had seen the arryn twins. it had been long since he had felt a part of a pack. " you will do nothing. leave them to the hounds, " he insists, the sun glinting off of his single iron canine as he grins, stalking forward to place a steady palm on their shoulder. the contact is unfamiliar, the wish to reassure even less so. it would be easier, jacks thinks, if they were in the eyrie. if they could go back to when they were children, when he had only just confessed to steffon and their sister the weight of his dreams. no matter the nerves he had endured then, they would not stand up to this, the red keep a mess of premature grief and fear. " amaya fares the same. i have been in to see her. "
steffon stiffened, watching the descent of jacks' hand upon his shoulder like the lowering of a great gate. it felt impossibly heavy, and beneath the strong and steady hold it was clear the young liege of arryn was trembling. from anger ? perhaps. from fear ? a likelier explanation. amaya was beyond the curtain, feverish and delirious and lethargic, and their thoughts could not seem to stray from those of pessimism. if his eldest sister did not survive, would it be lyanna on the ruling seat or himself ? if she succumbed to the sickness that held the red keep by its throat, they would never have the chance to look into their sister’s eyes and see pride rather than disappointment. he knew that displays of emotion were weaknesses, that if the hightowers looked upon his jittering frame they would have seen his cracks glow gold, but there was a familiarity in jacks. with daemian unable to look upon him, with lyanna having returned from oldtown changed, with amaya already caught in the clutches of death, jacks bolton was the closest to home steffon could find. not many could find solace within a flayed man. “and will the hounds deliver the justice they deserve ? i think not.” but neither would they. the liege could hardly hold a greatsword, let alone swing it. “there is no change ? she must be at least somewhat better ? ”
the remark regarding your siblings curdled in your stomach like poison. stray dogs. how bold. your expression did not shift beyond the faintest arch of one brow, though a hot tide of fury flooded your veins quietly. the audacity was almost impressive. this girl, tucked away half her life upon dragonstone beneath the shadow of her mothers’ exile, speaking of your trueborn siblings as though she possessed the standing to do so. as though she were not herself a lucky stray plucked from some slum into the bosom of nobility. your siblings were insufferable creatures, truly, and half your waking life had been spent containing disasters they created for sport, but they were your disasters. your blood. your house. you could badmouth them at will, and that you did often; but others were not welcomed to. let alone to your face. some brazenness she had. and yet you kept your composure. unlike her, you had long since learned that power rested just as much in restraint as it did in teeth. "hm." your eyes rested upon her face, long and quiet and heavy. "it is rather interesting hearing you compare my siblings to stray dogs, your grace." no wrath touched your tone, though it would not have been undeserved. was this the nature of youth, you wondered, to speak first and measure consequence later? and would your own child, when they came, carry the same careless edges as they grew into themselves? if you had any habit left of prayer, it would be spent hoping not. "still, i assure you, they were raised with considerably more discipline than to bare their teeth at potential allies upon first meeting them." a half-truth, at best. they had been raised to such standards, yes, but whether they truly upheld them was another question altogether. not that it was hers to voice. a faint grimace touched your lips then, mimicking a smile. "and i have no doubt your own family shall prove equally well-behaved throughout the festivities." you hoped that to be enough of a warning. you loathed the thought of lingering another moment in a room where your ancestral name was even slightly breathed against.
come to think of it, none of the redwynes and westerlings have proved unkind to you yet. perhaps it was something you'd take into consideration hereafter. still, you stood silently as she spilled more and more of her aggravating blabber. speaking of the blood of the dragon as though something she could simply claim if only she believed it hers, a prayer uttered as fiercely and as many times needed to make itself heard, to make itself true. a quiet breath escaped through your nose that bordered dangerously close to a laugh. "see, i do not deny what you are. if anything, the arms that hold a child shape the heart more than lineage ever could," you said softly, your words sharp as a tiny needle. "but i do think it unwise to announce certainty in matters the realm has not yet agreed upon. especially when the realm is currently gathered to decide precisely such things. make no claims of blood where blood is not yours to claim. there are wiser ways to make your case." you glanced briefly, almost lazily, toward the hall beyond her shoulder. all those banners stitched to fabric in winsome colors. all those listening ears pretending not to listen. "people become very creative when they hear the word blood thrown around too often. sometimes they begin asking questions that are not flattering to anyone involved." you added. an advice she should take earnestly, if the thinking matter in her skull served her any purpose. "i am not your enemy, princess," you said at last. neither yet her friend. "and i was not speaking to you as one. i would prefer to keep it that way." and only then, almost as an afterthought, you answered her last question, returning neatly to safer ground. "well, yes, the road was tiresome. i've travelled with my aunt; it is, at times, draining. but we had time enough to rest before the gates of the red keep opened, so i must bury my complaints. and you? excited for the harvest feast, i take it. quite a beauty, you are. should you not expect a betrothal by season's end? all things considered, of course. i'd worry about that, rather than the wolfishness of others."
perhaps her sisters would have bitten, but alysanne simply smiled. it was the first genuine uptick of her mouth that evening, and her head of dark hair tilted at a quizzical angle. she had heard of the arryn three — who had not ? — lyanna, whose husband mysteriously ceased to exist, steffon who always ran away. if her siblings carried such secrets, alysanne did not dare think what amaya might be shielding beneath a veil of intelligence and stoicism. never had it mattered that she was not the blood of targaryens. her and her sisters had been raised as though they had been grown in their mothers wombs, as though they had been within dragonstone since their first nameday. not a glimmer of abandonment, not a spark of disappointment. alysanne wondered if amaya could say the same for her siblings, in spite of their shared lineage. “i am the best behaved of the flock, my lady. if you are interpreting my words as lacking decorum, i suggest you stay well away from my sisters. they are a little more … prone to biting.” the explicit permission from deflina not to hold her tongue, not to honor restraint, echoed in alysanne’s head like drumming. every house had enemies, she was simply making a head start on her inevitable ruling.
“i am not claiming myself wise, lady arryn. i am also not asking for your counsel. i answer to targaryens and targaryens alone. biting my tongue will only allow for more of an eruption later, when nobles are three drinks in and full - bellied.” many a disagreement, battle, death, had occurred after one too many drinks, at the conclusion of seemingly innocuous parties. best to allow for her words to meet the open air when sober, than for them to come rushing out like water past a broken dam when red and gold began to flow. creating a world within her head where her family did not sit upon the great seat was impossible. whenever she strained her imagination, put her ego aside and attempted to picture a future without them within the red keep, her mind grew fuzzy and her chest tightened. best not to think of it at all, to move through the halls with her head high and her gaze steady. “you can think i am foolish. you can think that we are unwise, that we are speaking out of turn. there is only one way of things, and we will find the answer soon enough. until then i will not shrink simply to garner respect,” especially when the respect went unreciprocated towards most nobles that walked the halls, that had been invited to offer their biddings, that had made the trip from wherever they had been born to the great capital. a beauty. more often, alysanne’s temperament was seen long before her looks, deterred even the greatest of lords ( thank the gods ). she hummed, then, looking up at the great banners that waved in the breeze like branches of trees. “our journey was smooth. unremarkable. and i assume many men are falling at the feet of my mother, begging for my hand, trailing me around like sick puppies. but i am not interested. they will need to try much harder to gain my respect.”
daemian had spent his whole life being used. being a plan set into motion without his knowledge, a pawn in a game he did not want to play, and despite the visceral denials he would give, he was to still play. he was to still be useful in some way against his own will. he feels that way now, looking upon the liege arryn and realizes perhaps he was being used back then too. some means to an end that daemian did not understand and truly did not wish to in this moment. there had been an onslaught of emotions that had built up inside of himself throughout the night. too many to count on his hands and it was beginning to make the composed edge of himself, crack. this is why he did not help nobles, they were always doing something for their own gain and daemian had learned to be sick of it.
"you had been desperate? and yet you could not have been honest with me?" there is a crack to his voice, a feeling of intense care that had been buried within himself for the person in front of him trying to claw its way out of him and let him be free of it. "i saved your life, steffon," the name tasting acrid on his tongue, of poison, deception, and lies. "and i do not mean to use the notion as leverage for i would not do that to you," to the person that lied to him for months. "but as a reminder of what was risked, what i had done for you and would have done again because i had cared for you — and you could not even give me a semblance of honesty? a name to go with a face i carried all the way—" he stops himself there. it is no business of the liege arryn where daemian had been all these years, not any longer, not when the lies sat between them so heavily. "you tell me you were hopeless, yet you say you would have protected me. which am i to believe? what hopelessness could protect me from the wrath of your family?"
they were a stray dog begging for food. they were a lost man praying at an altar. steffon gazed at daemian, and in that moment the entire world was in their eyes. it was desperation and fear, the same bodily reaction that one may exhibit if being chased by a wild animal through the thicket. thin, desperate breathing and a mounting panic that trembled through their body and set them to shivering. when steffon tried to speak, to explain what had already been offered, they found that words did not come. instead he shrank, shoulders falling forward, hands lifting to cover his features behind the comforting veil of splayed fingers. “please,” was all they mustered. in that moment, all they wanted was for lyanna to stand at their side and explain it all. wasn’t that why they had been brought into the world at once, so that there would always be someone to defend the other in their moments of raw and palpable pain ?
it was easier, to speak behind the mask of his own hands. “i needed to find my sister. i needed to be reunited with her. that was all i cared about, it was like i was possessed by some … by some being. my mind was poisoned, and i am sorry. i would have explained to my eldest sister that you were not to blame, that you saved me, that you never meant me harm.” their voice hitched. it would have been easier, steffon thought, to claw their eyes out there and then, so that they would never need to look upon the stricken expression of daemian celtigar again. some young lieges collected swords, others collected the names of ladies they proudly bedded. it seemed that steffon was collecting disappointment wherever he went ; this was one more name to add to the list. “you should believe that i would have protected you because i am telling the truth. what do i need to earn your forgiveness ? i will fall to my knees and beg if i have to.”
hands find grip in mortar joints, lifting herself along with the wall close enough to be in earshot but far enough without intrusion. ill-advised decision to leave her room by the one maester that she'd bothered to ask, suggestions of maintaining a safe recovery and whatnot unheeded. squinting produces knowledge of just who was soliloquizing, curiously observing their appearance. “ yes, you'll...? “ common sense not to pry into these sort of matters, though did not care nearly enough to stop now. steffon had been a well of knowledge for her, always with such interesting stories about his own travels. didn't matter that such tales usually attracted raised eyebrows and excessive sighing from those who were unfortunate enough to hear them retold by aybüke, were entertaining enough to last her for years without boredom. “ whatever you say, i swear i won't tell another soul. ” voice is thinner than usual and pitches awkwardly at the wrong moments, unwanted product of sickness unshakeable despite innumerable cups of tea drank. useless suggestions, those maesters loved handing out. ” the thought of gossiping makes me nauseous, anyways. ”
steffon had spun such tales to aybüke that even they were unsure of what was true and what was folly. this, though, was deadly serious, and their shock soon dissipated to relief at looking upon his friend. sickness had descended over the nobles, had stolen his eldest sister and many of those he deemed closest. “aybüke. are you welll ? ” it was relief that the afflicted were beginning to emerge, a light in endless darkness … but steffon refused to believe it was down to the hightowers that an antidote had finally started to work. the sickness did not scare him. steffon hurried up the corridor, closing the space between them, lessening the chance of any of the oldtown rats overhearing. “those hightowers are not to be trusted. if any come near me i will show them the true wrath of the falcon. i will not hold back.” they were misty eyed, red - cheeked ; steffon’s breath was thin and thready and, up close, they were trembling. “i need to protect my sister from them. i do not want her looking upon the faces of the family that tore her apart. we came into this world at the same time. i am meant to protect her.”
delfina prefers none of them to be composed. it may bring consequences down upon their house, but mitigating those from brash replies as opposed to having to force them to speak up, it feels not so much at unease. even so, it was maekara who embodies this the most, and alysanne prefers to have her composure, to sit as though each seat was her throne. viserra walks amongst the wolves and salt and hides anger behind gnashing teeth. these, her dragons she chose. who needs the pits? ( the longing gives suggestion that still she does. ) “ and what a blessing from the old gods it will be to see you reach my age, where i can become a withering dowager and you can be the pinnacle of grace. ” half a tease, and the other half serious. these banners that were there to pray on their downfall, might eventually be sworn to the house, and others who swear now, might fracture apart. so was the game of thrones, and did she prepare alysanne well enough for this moment? for a time when the realm could pivot with the single spilled droplet of wine upon the wrong dress? “ just promise me you'll let me sit in on council meetings, and not condemn me to leisurely strolls around the gardens. ” the claim to the throne … that was another matter entirely. half of what her mind races with are the thoughts of solidifying those claims, for they were loose besides her own. she has passed on her name in the way she chose, but to many, that isn't good enough. even if she takes the seat … she must prepare for what comes after. “ have you any … suitors following you here? any noble who has caught your eye from afar? ” her other children were occupied with such things in their fascinating ways, and delfina was curious. who might she look to showing up next to alysanne?
one thing was for certain, and that was that the red keep still held the shape of dragons. their reign was not over yet and, in spite of the judging gazes and the subdued whispers that undercut the noise like a gentle breeze, alysanne was not changing her stance. they were the targaryens. the iron throne was theirs to take, and theirs to take alone. “i don’t think you could ever be a withering dowager, mother. you are the most beautiful woman i have ever seen … other than my other mother, of course.” it pained alysanne, sometimes, to look into her reflection and see someone so far removed from both delfina and hira. perhaps in certain lights she could have passed as hira’s brood, but she saw it like a flame ; the differences in the way their noses hooked, in the shape and color of their eyes, in the curves of their lips and the lines of their jaws. but regardless of their differences they were pieces to the same puzzle, and needed those irregularities to fit together into their perfect storm. deflina, hira, maekara, viserra and, finally, alysanne. when she had played amongst their sisters when they were younger, she knew that it was her that would make a fine queen one day. she was less prone to force, to violence, although her fire - blood bubbled within all the same. “you will always be at my side, mother, until the day that the gods take us home. we are one. as the years pass, we will remain at one another’s sides no matter what.” it was then that the softness in her face faltered. her dark brows downturned, her jaw fell open, and a beat of humorless laughter discharged from alysanne’s lips like a crossbow bolt. “gods, no. i could not think of anything worse. i think i have made it very clear that there are few i associate with within these walls. don’t tell me there is further interest in my hand ? ”
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"i am of the belief that speaking catastrophe into existence invites it to reveal its claws." perhaps one of those hideous dragon banners would fall in some cruel twist of fate, knocking them both from the competition of houses. superstition was baked into the marrow of her bones — raised with every sort of sailor's warning in her ear, for there were many god beyond the seven and you did not know which were listening.
the statement amuses her somewhat, the petal curve of her lip sharp as a thorn on a tyrell rose. rightful owner. the targaryen needed a lesson in subtly — ironic from the woman clad in a dozen gold bangles that sung with every inch of movement. "the seven will surely guide us forward, into a new age of prosperity." what a farce to play so nicely with a felled dragon, but vaiora prided herself on performance. sympathetically, she nods. a saccharine flavour drips from every subsequent word, "it must be a shock to meet so many new faces. however, each house was invited to prove their sustained contribution to the realm. which i find to be a far more civilized practice than say..." she shrugs, "conquering." and it wasn't as if house targaryen would be doing much of that without a drake beneath them.
no matter the beliefs of others, no matter the whispers and the taunts and the unspoken words, one thing was for certain. the halls of the red keep were still pasted with the sigil of the targaryens, and there was no shifting it so soon. camaraderie and good food would be shared, wine would be poured and guzzled by the gallon, and yet the dragon remained, staring down upon the guests and their fruitless biddings. the dance would, always and forever, go on. “trust in the gods can be a funny thing, can’t it ? our dear, all - lovings gods.” part of alysanne was devout. the other screamed in her ear and tugged at her scalp, screaming at her that if the gods truly were all - knowing, ever - wise, they would not let such atrocities simply be. were the gods just as rotten as everybody else, or were the heavens simply empty.
“there is a time and a place for being civilised. i fear that there are few within these walls that truly know what that means.” alysanne had been forced to learn decorum, in spite of her reluctance. she wished that she could have been scrappy, sharp, violent like maekara, but instead the dark - haired targaryen had been slowly shaped into the princess her title demanded of her. “let us hope that things remain clean. i wish you well, lady redwyne, and hope that you enjoy the festivities.”
“ what will you do? ” the question takes form in a quiet, stern voice. the dark blues of tully emerge before the door swings shut and their face makes itself known, a bundle of wisteria at their lapel to assist in driving out the scent of the sick, the ache of remembering. there are two books which they carry along with them, books that have been used to read for the endless nights of others being struck down with the plague. their tongue feels like a fucking trout in their mouth, laden down with sand, but the arryn liege is more nervous than the tully, and they sigh heavily. “ speak of it, lad, i'm no hightower to ail you. tell me what you'll do so you don't lose your temper on them. ” mordhred has seen what it means to tremble and obey, to not wish to and yet have no choice, and they have tried to carve a space where some of this can be regained back. the failed marriage, the withering vines — they clear their throat and scratch at the bristle of their cheek. “ seven buggering hells, ” they mutter. sometimes, it feels as though they have no child, and have only walked through this world like a ghost.
silenced by the presence of the leaping trout, it was steffon’s open mouth that resembled a fish suffocating upon dry riverbanks. a temper ? it was not simply the quibble of a wronged boy, it was years of mounting upset and heartache that had compressed within the liege like coal turning to diamond. there was a heaviness in his stomach, and they wondered if their gut was filled, finally, with precious gems ; but no amount of riches could ever erase what the hightowers had done to lyanna, the way his dear sister had returned to the vale inexplicably changed. “well, i will … i will show them what’s what. i will make them rue the day they ever arrived at a red keep with me inside of it.” but it was a mouse rearing against a great stallion. steffon was lithe, bony in all the wrong places, shorter than most, uncoordinated to chronic degrees. what good would his fist be around the hilt of a blade ? what harm could such a pathetic excuse for a noble ever cause ? and would it have simply mustered more disappointment from poor, well - meaning amaya, who bit her tongue and stayed silent at their wild ways ?