Balon Strong

"No, my liege," replied Balon, softly, half-wearily. "Nothing of the kind, thank the gods."

In truth, Balon did not know what had brought him here. Only a need, perhaps, not to be alone. He was drained, tired down to the marrow of his bones. His own niece had taken ill, and Balon was haunted by creeping dread. It was so that the fires of resentment were stoked against the girl, yet it was not her doing. It was his sister's. It was they who had -- whether by intention or not -- pitted uncle against niece. Evidently, Balon was not viewed as a worthy heir to Harrenhal -- his bastard niece held up for the role she did not wish, a fact which served only to further perturb Balon. Was the outcome of his inheritance so harrowing that the girl must be thrust into a role for which she had no inclination, and precious little preparation? He felt guilty for such ruminations, often, it was true. But he felt no more guilty than now, as she trembled in the Stranger's wheedling caress.

It was distraction he sought, in truth, and Balon was grateful for the invitation. He sank into the seat opposite his liege, letting out a breath he hardly knew he'd been holding. "Thank you," he said gently, taking some small sampling of what was offering. He had not thought to eat in some time, but now his niece was asleep, he found he was hungrier than he had realized. The dried fruit was tart-sweet on his tongue as he bit down. His curious eyes ran over the other contents of the table, coming with interest upon the tales. He nodded to the book. "Which tales were you perusing tonight, my liege?"

"It was a cat, Aybüke, nothing more." The Red Keep is littered with felines, their whooshing tails and pert whiskers a continuous sight, but it was not a cat. Not this time. Not in truth. Balon was well aware of the insidious truth of that but, with a fond smile, he brushed the fine hair back from his rival niece's face, and smiled fondly down at her. "I'm watching over you, little one. There is nothing to fear." But she was still hot to the touch.

Theirs was, perhaps, a strange bond -- a strained bond -- but a bond notwithstanding. Had he not whispered these same words to her as Harrenhal sighed and moaned on windy nights when she was but a child, her little hand holding his tight? And had he not said the very same, voice tight in anger, too, when his sibling had sent brother and daughter out into the Riverlands together -- a spectacle of heir and heir to be gawked at, laughed at, even, behind their hands? Yet, for all the strain, he'd not see harm come to her. Rivers or Strong -- did not the same blood flow through her veins, an unbreakable covenant?

"Do not let these folk see you gasp," he added, with warmth. "We're of braver stock, aren't we? What was our upbringing if not a lesson in courage? You're no stranger to banging in the halls, hm? And what can truly become of any of us, away from home?"

It was a strange belief in him -- there were those, to be sure, who did not put any faith in the supposed hauntings of Harrenhal, but Balon could not be counted amongst their number, no. He believed a stranger truth: the house had claimed their souls, long ago. There would be no seven hells to greet them at the end of their days, nor any heaven, either -- only the crumbling walls of their ancient, accursed home. They would never leave it. But, because he believed this, he gave little credit to the notion that they might die elsewhere -- the house would not let them.

"Show them you are brave, Aybüke," he said, softly. "Show them you are Strong."

they  wield  their  anger  by  burying  it.  there  will  come  a  time  they  will  pull  it  to  the  surface  again,  but  tonight,  the  realm  that  gathers  is  spared.  the  entire  event  spits  in  delfina's  face,  in  the  right  she  is  owed.  everyone  in  the  room  knows,  understands,  accepts.  and  still,  they  gather  to  declare  what  will  never  be  theirs.

they  worry  one  of  their  bracelets  adorned  with  rubies,  the  rune  for  steadiness  placed  between  each  stone.  a  breath,  then  another.

Balon's smile was a grateful one, eyes sparkling. "You do me a great kindness, Your Grace," he said, gravely, taking her advice and the two steps. "It seems I sadly underestimated the ardour of King's Landing for a dance. I shall come better prepared upon the morrow -- and better shod." His boots were, in truth, meant more for looking the part when he stood somewhere, than for moving with an great agility.

Yet, for all his smiles, he watched the Targaryen with some interest. It was not terribly difficult to guess how the family must feel about this event. Yet, divested both of the blood of the dragon, and of the dragons, themselves, the realm had begun stirrings, asking dangerous questions. Aegon had become a conqueror because of his dragons, not because of his charms. For his own part, Balon wondered if they were now poised upon nominating a new monarch -- or upon breaking off again into seven (or actually nine) kingdoms, once more. Was this, indeed, to be the last gasp of the dragon, of fond union? Or, seven hells, would the kingsmoot throne a Celtigar, if their wild claims about dragonbonds proved true? Was it only that, all along? Balon wasn't certain one way or another. Where power truly lay was more a riddle, he believed, than a tangible truth, and it was difficult to see the way ahead.

"I pray you had an easy journey here? I hear the winds off the bay have made for some difficult passage between here and Dragonstone?" He wished to ask what ran now throuh their mind, but he did not. He bit his tongue, and watched the dancers. Some questions were better left unasked.

LOCATION: the streets outside of the red keep, before the day of the feast.

                                     the  wheelhouse  stopped  once  again,  the  third  time  in  a  couple  of  minutes,  to  amerei’s  candid  despair.  it  was  to  be  expected  when  most  of  the  lords  of  the  realms  were  expecting  to  enter  the  keep  at  the  same  time,  eager  for  glory  or  for  the  chance  to  step  out  of  the  scorching  sun.  all  amerei  cared,  though,  was  how  humid  it  was  inside.  summer  may  be  ending  but  before  the  sweet  chill  of  autumn  could  descend  it  was  leaving  its  own  powerful  impression.  and  it  didn’t  make  the  city  smell  any  sweeter.  amerei  was  left  to  enter  alone  in  one  of  the  tully’s  wheelhouses,  alone  with  her  thoughts  and  the  sweat  dripping  down  her  neck  for  no  cooling  breeze  would  come  through  the  window.

                                     still  stuck  in  the  middle  of  the  line,  she  was  suddenly  overcome  with  boredom.  impulsively,  she  put  her  head  out  of  the  window,  her  brown  ecstatic  eyes  falling  on  the  first  person  outside;  if  either  tending  to  their  own  ride  or  outside  of  a  carriage,  she  would  not  care  to  observe.  ❛❛  —  would  you  like  to  join  my  caravan,  my  liege?  this  line  is  moving  so  terribly  slow,  some  company  would  be  mostly  appreciated.  it’s  boring  at  these  roads.  —  ❞  she  smiled  her  bright  smile,  the  one  that  tends  to  convince  her  grandfather  of  acquiescing  to  anything  her  heart  desired.  surely  this  noble  company  would  not  deny  her  such  a  simple  request.  opening  the  door  before  even  receiving  an  answer,  she  continued  her  friendly  chatter.  ❛❛ —  interesting  what  it  takes  for  most  of  the  realm  to  come  together.  not  a  nameday  celebration  or  a  summer  tourney.  but  the  death  of  a  king.  rest  his  soul.  and  the  promise  of  a  kingsmoot.  woe  that  they  would  chose  more  joyful  excuses.  —  ❞  kingsmoot.  even  the  word  even  tasted  bitterly  in  her  mouth.  what  a  ludicrous  idea,  by  the  gods.  she  would  let  the  big  brains  with  ambitious  hearts  get  drunk  on  the  idea  of  power,  if  it  resulted  in  a  lively  trip  to  king’s  landing  before  the  weather  turned  to  worse.  ❛❛ —  but  by  the  mother,  who  cares?  all  these  silly  details  will  be  resolved  one  way  or  another.  how  were  your  travels,  my  liege?  —  ❞

The sun was merciless. Though it had long been summer, Balon required little imagination, in such searing heat, to appreciate the warning of his Karstark mother's native House words. Yet, the sun of summer was perhaps even more ferocious.

It had been a grueling journey. The wind had been with him as he'd ridden from Harrenhal, it was so -- driving off the God's Eye in a torrent which he'd imagined, at the time, not ill favored. It hadn't taken long, however, for the doldrums' stillness to set in, sweltering and sticking at the back of his neck and running down his spine, his once-dry clothing clinging to him beneath his mantel. There was a silver lining, though. He had little leisure to rue his own doubtlessly awful stench, given the stink coming off the city. King's Landing, he thought with a wry grin, had always had a way of making itself felt even from leagues away -- in one way or another.

I ought never to have taken off in such haste, he realized, baking in the sun in stagnant motion, simply waiting for the next great wheelhouse at the top of the line to pass inspection. Alone on horseback was not the way to beat the sun. Ruefully, he half wondered who the gold cloaks were even warding for at this juncture -- the smallfolk of King's Landing would hardly find themselves ill used by volleys of people arriving in their own wheelhouses -- and the only Targaryens left were, in fact, outside the city. Balon wished almost to laugh at the ridiculous of their circumstance, but he bit it back. In such a throng, that might prove even more impetuous than diving out of Harrenhal on horseback in the heat of summer.

Balon soon found himself surprised out of his reverie, however, by a familiar voice. Lips quirking upwards, he realized with some self-directed bemusement that the wheelhouse by which he was stopped bore the Tully sigil. His chuckled, gratefully ducking into the shade alongside his liege lady. "I suppose the road from the Riverlands runs as smoothly as they say, for us to have seemingly made the same time in coming here."

Balon had always spent a good deal of time riding between Harrenhal and Riverrun, first upon his father's business, and later upon his sister's. He felt he had quite grown up alongside the Tullies, at some times, and he and Amarei were practically of an age, but whether they all felt the same was a thing uncertain. He had never thought to ask. "Seaguard must be beautiful at present. I imagine you catch wonderful breezes." He half-hoped the mention thereof might suddenly conjure one from the jealous Blackwater -- the bay, it seemed, did not intend to take the bait.

Hearing her words, Balon chuckled. "Call it an effect of my upbringing," he replied, a touch archly, thinking fondly of home -- supposedly amongst the most haunted castles in all of Westeros -- "But I cannot claim any astonishment on the point. King's Landing is undefended, and smells of carrion." A touch too literally, he considered with a quirk of his brows, upon having the misfortune to inhale. He tilted his head towards Lady Mallister as she spoke. It was harder for him to think so dismissively of the Iron Throne as she seemed to: he had too much the carrion crow's instinct, himself. But there was something refreshing in her permissive brand of scorn for the topic. It felt too genuine to be forced. But Balon had never been the trusting sort. He took it with a grain of salt.

"Have you no notion, then, of your lord grandsire's elevation to the most uncomfortable chair in the land?" He smiled wanly. There were treatises, of course, to be read upon the worthy wisdom of Aegon the Dragon in his dragon-forged throne -- a king ought not to sit too comfortably upon his throne, it was said. But, pretty as those words ever were, his successors had seemed comfortable enough and, now, he had little doubt, whoever their successor proved to be would find themselves equally well suited to a throne made of war. "I do not deny that I, myself, believe that he would prove a credit to the Kingdoms, were ever he to mount that seat."

Her question took him a touch by surprise and he laughed, a warm sound. "The less said on that point the better," he jested. "I will not deny my gratitude for both the company you provide -- and the shade. I have found I cannot in good conscience recommend riding ahorse from the Riverlands to here in broad summer. Yours was the wiser tack, my lady. But it seems were are, both of us, victims of sad inefficiency." He flicked his gaze through the wheelhouse towards the broad gates. "Are they questioning everyone who enters?"

they'd decided to take the unorthodox path into king's landing. being stuck in a wheelhouse on a long arduous journey seemed an utter bore on the best of days, but when the opportunity arose to explore the city and take a few detours, how could she deny herself? ever dutiful, aila did inform the captain of the household guard who traveled with them of her planned excursions, the usual promise and well-natured bribe to prevent her escapades being reported back to her parents and grandfather. even going so far as to make a brief appearance before their sister in proper attire, dolled up in the way only amerei was allowed to demand, said the briefest of hello and goodbyes to other nobles, all the correct things, before feigning exhaustion and slipping back to their rooms.

aila had found her escape after donning more comfortable garb. a plain tunic and trousers, material subpar for nobles, yet still a touch too refined for the smallfolk. the only clear indications of her identity were their signet ring and a small concealed weapon if trouble were to find them. sneaking around the edges of the red keep proved easy enough, making her way back towards the guest chambers, however...

it didn't help that what began as a drizzle of rain started to come down harder. aila ducked into the covered area, shutting the door gently behind.

Balon Strong missed home. It was a sentiment baffling to many, perhaps, but the House of Strong was was dedicated to Harrenhal in a way that defied reason. Bound to it. Balon, personally, believed their very souls belonged to it. In truth, it gave him a strange boldness: he did not fully believe he could truly die away from Harrenhal: it had too keen a grasp yet upon his spirit. It would not give it up. No, Balon did not believe that he -- or any other Strong -- would ever truly its halls, dead or alive. They would join the fathomless shrieking ghosts when, at last, they slipped the mortal coil. There would be no seven hells for them; no lofty heavens, either. Just a cursed castle they could not quite escape.

Yet, for all that, trapped in yet another castle which was home to whispered atrocities in generations past, Balon couldn't help but long for the strange clangs and moans which overtook home at night -- lost souls with whom his own had mingled, all his life.

He was hardly thinking -- absorbed in such macabre thoughts -- he failed to notice, at first, as another figure slipped into the room on soft-treading feet. They were arrayed in a pool of glimmering silver light, ghostly in silhouette, the very sort of sight for which he seemingly yearned -- yet in a twist of strange irony, he failed to notice it till they were quite upon him.

"Seven hells," swore the knight under his breath and, in half a moment, he was laughing as well. "Where did you come from, my liege?" He bit his lip, holding back self-directed laughter as they spoke. Despite the surprise, it was fortuitous to see the young Tully, and he did not mean to let the opportunity slip between his fingers. "Thank you--I've rather a preference for company, I think, if you do not mind it. I'm afraid I was rather foolishly indulging in pointless sadness." He shook his head. "No, keep your parasol, I insist. I've no need of it." A moment more he cast his gaze upon them. "If I'm not mistaken -- you're doubtless in search of the rumored secret passages in the Keep? I'm rather missing the mysteries of home, just now -- perhaps we might explore them together?"

How  he'd  love  to  wallow,  drown  himself  in  work  back  in  the  country,  grovel  for  his  family's  forgiveness  before  repeating  the  same  wrongdoings  over  again.  Christopher  doubted  he'd  ever  have  the  gumption  to  truly  change,  his  character  already  spoiled,  rotten  to  the  core.  The  least  he  could  do  was  to  ease  his  family's  troubles,  brought  on  by  the  burden  that  was  his  nature,  and  keep  up  appearances.  Keep  up  their  good  name.

"A  game  of  pall  mall  sounds  entirely  sensible."  The  thought  of  his  dear  wife  'accidentally'  losing  her  aim  and  sending  Her  Majesty's  arrow  deep  into  some  soft  and  unguarded  part  of  him  rather  made  his  stomach  churn.  "A  group  game,  my  dear?  Or  would  you  prefer  we  go  against  one  another,  one  on  one?"

In truth, it pained her that their children knew. Though it would mean missing out on their own sister, Athénaïs wished they had been left in the dark. His philandering was, she believed, her shame. If she had known what he'd meant to say, that evening, she would have bid him remain silent. It had been a hard revelation -- something she did not like knowing about herself. Before the dawn of this season, she would have said that there was nothing she would not sacrifice for her children's well fare. She had believed it. Now, she knew herself to be lesser than she had imaged. She would not, willingly, have sacrificed her pride, that they might know their own sister. It was a selfishness for which she could not quite forgive herself -- and a revelation for which she, still further, resented him.

As if to distract herself from her own unpleasant thoughts, Athénaïs reached for the mallets, and put one into his hand, grasping the other for herself. "Mine is the first blow," she announced with a touch of triumph, sending a ball flinging into the garden beyond. It felt good to hit something hard. Her look was one of satisfaction. She turned to her husband with an arched brow. "There. Your turn, my love. Where will your strike?"

"lady  alderidge,"  sevda  greets  warmly,  lips  upturned  into  a  practiced  smile.  it  was  as  neat  as  her  curtsey,  mauve  skirts  gathered  between  gloved  palms.  "i  am  so  grateful  to  take  you  on  your  offer  for  tea  at  last."

"Ah, my dear, as am I. And there has been so much excitement since last we have met, I should be most curious to hear your impressions of events." She wished to know, most particularly, how Sevda would react. Even the merest hint of scandal was sometimes enough to catch a peak within. And any potential bride of one of her son's, the marchioness knew, would need a stomach made of steel.

"Did you attend Her Majesty the Queen's Garden Party?"

letters  from  her  son  always  left  yu  jie  with  shame  bubbling  in  her  stomach,  feeling  terrible  for  the  distance  she  demanded  between  them.  griffin,  who  she  once  adored,  was  a  stranger  to  her  at  his  large  age  of  five  and  ten.  though,  the  lady  church  found  that  the  taste  of  guilt  was  masked  easily  with  her  favourite  blend  of  tea  and  a  spot  of  gossip.

"i  must  admit,"  yu  jie  starts,  lowering  her  marigold  cup  to  its  matching  saucer,  "i  am  rather  surprised  our  dear  lady  whistledown  has  yet  to  publish  her  thoughts  on  the  excitement  of  the  garden  party."

The smile was friendly enough, but bland -- the kind of smile reserved for distractions. A smile which said that one may proceed in any direction -- the marchioness would gladly follow: whether to confide troubling contents, or entirely to ignore them. She did not trouble herself that her friend chose not to confide. In her experience, there was little more rewarding or challenging than a son.

Athenais chuckled, arching a slender brow. "There was so much to record -- doubtless it shall take her some time to write down. I cannot help but feel for Her Majesty. I should be horrified, in her shoes." She was only relieved it had been the Queen's sons, and not her own, who had made a display of themselves. That, at least, was something to be grateful for. Still, it impacted her family. The Princess of Wales was, after all, her daughter.

"Dearest," began her mother. "Forgive me for saying it, but...You do not look well." Athénaïs' expression was indulgent, if -- as ever a touch overbearing. A princess Caroline might be, the House of Hanover might now claim her as its own denizen -- yet, Athénaïs' daughter she remained. And subtlety towards her children's well-being had never been the marchioness' strong suit. "I don't like this hollowness in your cheeks." Her eyes flicked to Caroline's, fingers grazing her daughter's chin. "What have you been eating?"

Gaze appraisingly sweeping over her daughter, she tilted her head. As a daughter of France, Athénaïs had always known properly how to feed her children. In all due patriotism -- she wondered if this German queen, and her German-ordered cooks, knew the first thing about it. Certainly, Queen Anne's children had proven a rather quarrelsome lot -- in striking comparison to Athénaïs' own brood.

❝  mother  ...  ❞ there  was  a  hint  of  impatience  in  her  tone  as  carrie  sat  perfectly  still  before  her  mother,  allowing  the  marchioness  to  pick  out  what  little  flaws  had  slipped  past  her  maids  that  morning  ─  she  felt,  at  once,  both  a  woman  grown  and  a  child  in  the  eyes  of  athénaïs  alderidge,  and  the  feeling  was  humbling  for  the  princess  of  wales,  though  with  that,  too,  came  a  measure  of  discomfort.  not  because  she  believed  herself  too  high  for  the  gentle  chastising  but  because  she  wished,  not  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  that  she  had  a  mother  that  she  could  speak  plainly  with,  especially  now  that  carrie  saw  such  similarities  between  their  situations.  she  rubbed  a  hand  against  her  chest  to  ease  the  ache  there  and  managed  a  smile  for  her  mother,  rolling  her  eyes  slightly  with  little  annoyance  behind  the  gesture. ❝  i  eat.  ❞  she  waved  off  the  concern  with  a  bejewelled  hand,  focused  instead  on  the  position  that  her  mother  now  assumed  ─  it  was  one  that  carrie  knew  well,  having  been  under  the  tutelage  of  the  marchioness  since  birth.  ❝  mother  ...  !  ❞  impatience,  now  colored  with  a  hint  of  scandal,  face  turning  from  athénaïs  as  she  huffed  out  a  small  grumble  about  meddling.  ❝  i  am  well  aware  of  my  duty,  mother.  what  would  you  have  me  do  ─  chain  him  to  the  bed  ?  ❞ beneath  the  impatience,  there  was  a  hint  of  desperation  and  self - doubt,  if  her  mother  knew  where  to  look  for  it.  a  fear  that  any  attempts  made  to  invite  her  husband  back  to  her  bed  would  be  met  with  ridicule  or  worst,  comparison  to  his  other  lovers.  it  made  her  feel  sick  and  she  took  a  trembling  sip  of  the  tea,  brow  furrowed  so  fiercely  that  she  looked  much  like  her  father  in  that  moment.  ❝  it  is  hard.  i  ...  i  do  not  know  what  to  do.  i  am  too  proud  to  beg  for  anything,  even  from  the  prince,  mother.  this  is  how  you  raised  me.  ❞  almost  accusatory  now.  ❝  what  more  can  i  do  ?  ❞

"Good," replied the Marchioness with an ironic twang as she began to sip her tea. "It would be a pity were you to waste away and leave me all alone with only men for company." There was, she supposed, Matilda, but though the girl was family to everyone else she held dear -- she was no relation of Athénaïs', whatsoever. She paused, sighed. "You know, I do rely upon you, darling." It was as sentimental as Athénaïs ever seemed to be.

At her daughters' colorful suggestion, Athénaïs chuckled. "If you think that will help then, by all means -- yes, you should." She exhaled, looking her flushed daughter up and down. It was hardly a comfortable subject for mother and daughter to pursue, but Athénaïs was a direct woman, and she men to have this conversation. No embarrassment would put her off. "Darling, no one can doubt in your beauty or charms but -- you must do whatever it takes to entice him. Your husband's scandals are brandished for all the ton to read in these filthy scandal rags. That he is dissolute and dissipated, however, are not matters with which you can afford yet to concern yourself. You must invite him every night to your bed until you are with child. Then, by all means, bar your door every night, but for the time being, it seems you are the sole responsible party in this house, and I am afraid that means doing things which may prove onerous. Besides, my dear, I assure you, that your child will prove as great a comfort to you as your husband may prove a disappointment." She sipped her tea, put it down again, and with a calm mien added. "I know of what I speak."

The marchioness let out a long breath. Well she knew her child, and she saw the little fretwork of anxieties that marched over her face. She saw, too, the echo of her husband's looks looming over her. Whatever troubles Athénaïs faced in her own marriage, tempting her husband into bed (indeed, he had proven a touch too eager to fall into any bed, as it turned out, she thought, unaware that Caroline was facing that demon, as well) had never proven an obstacle to her. "I see." The words were not unkind. Athénaïs rose from her seat across from her, came around the table between them, and sank into the sofa beside her. She took Caroline's cup from her, laid it upon the table and took her soft white hand in her own. "You are my child. You are every inch my child. Because of that, you are strong, but we are not, either of us, made of iron. You need not beg, darling. You can do better. You can bend." So saying, she gently curled her daughter's fingers into a fist and, reaching up, ran her fingers through her hair. "Men think they have all the power, hm? You must not prove them right -- only do not shatter their illusion, all at once. We women will know the truth. If you want something from a man, take it. It is as simple as letting him believe he has conquered, when you were the warrior all along."

She paused, tucking her daughter's hair behind her ear. "Now, tell me, has he rebuffed your...advances?" She arched a suggestive brow. "Repairing your marriage and providing an heir are not always the same thing. You need not be friends, after all, to conceive a child..."