⋆ NOW ANNOUNCING LORD BROM OF HOUSE GREYJOY OF PYKE , CAPTAIN OF THE HARBINGER , QUEEN YSABEL OF HOUSE DONDARRION OF STORM'S END , THE WIFE TO THE KING , RULING LORD BENJEN OF HOUSE STARK OF WINTERFELL , THE WARDEN OF THE NORTH , RULING LORD JON OF HOUSE MOOTON OF MAIDENPOOL , MASTER OF WHISPERERS , LADY ORIELLE OF HOUSE LANNISTER OF LANNISPORT , THE CAGED BIRD & SER JAIME OF HOUSE CORBRAY OF HEART'S HOME , MEMBER OF THE KINGSGUARD .
#BYBLOODS ⋆ a dependent, multimuse blog written by paige — @ ikeaslut on discord — for dracoregnitm. dni if you are not affiliated with the group.
WE DO NOT SOW : introduction , pinterest , wanted
STRIKE THEM DOWN : introduction , pinterest , wanted
WINTER IS COMING : introduction , pinterest , wanted
WISDOM AND STRENGTH : introduction , pinterest , wanted
HEAR ME ROAR : introduction , pinterest , wanted
DEEDS, NOT WORDS : introduction , pinterest , wanted
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fated for semi - open / @violetamaisonx, @fateofcrvwns, @threadedjade, @paroch1al, @beautifulsnares, @ofashandichor, @xf-regents & @seahorsestars .
pinpoint the red keep, in front of the king's chambers the morning after the royal wedding.
jaime, for all the time that he spent dreaming with his eyes open, had surprisingly keen eyes. it had been nearly a year since he had sworn his oath, a year since he had first donned the alabaster white armour of the kingsguard. in the year that he had been given night watch time and time again, he had not often seen the king rise before the sun. this was especially true when there was a woman warming his bed who was dark of hair and eyes, summery in complexion, and curly of hair. that morning, his grace had left his chambers early. one of jaime's brothers had followed after him in the direction of maegor's holdfast. jaime had remained, the new queen still within. her ladies had yet to appear in search of her. " the king is not here, " he informs the oncomer, hand rested naturally on the pommel of lady forlorn, eyes somewhat glazed over from the monotony of waiting for her grace to rise. " if you wish to leave a message, i shall see it delivered. "
his father was upset. julian had spent most of their life watching his father , getting to know how every emotion played across his face. the clenched jaw , the way he wouldn't look julian in the eyes. his father wasn't only upset , he was furious. something julian could understand as he heard the words leaving jon's lips. "what ?" julian felt almost childish as they immediately began protesting the revelation. "how could that blame be placed on you ?" the baratheon girl kept to herself and rarely talked to any of the mooton's if she could help it. "did the king wish for you to read her mind as well ?" the words were hushed , as if the king's ear reached the very room they were standing in. "father , i'm —" julian snapped his mouth shut , realising right then and there that there was nothing that would change the outcome. instead they did what he did best. he listened. behaving this way would help no one , least of all jon mooton. "you know i will. i swear it. ysa– queen ysabel will be safe."
" because she is my ward, " he explains simply. he leaves out the king's sour mood, the earliness with which he summoned jon to the throne room to dole out his punishment with the same bloodthirst that he would require to cleave a man's head from his shoulders. such concern for their father seems out of place on julian's features, now that they were encased in the white lacquered armour of the kingsguard. it was nearly oxymoronic. " the king's wishes are my duty to fulfill, " he insists, tightening his grip on his son's shoulder. the boy likely cannot feel that the gesture is intended to be imbued with reassurance through the steel of his armour. raising his gaze to meet julian's, jon sighs. house mooton stood bowed beneath the foot of the crown, led by its insolent king. " — as they are yours. " he nods once, dark eyes examining that of his son's. so similar were they to his own. more similar were they still to his wife's. " you are sworn to protect the king, my son. his queen is only your charge so long as the threat to her is not the king himself. "
what goes up, must come down. the king was nothing short of irritated this morning — somewhat hungover. back sore. balls heavy. truthfully, the sourness was overdue. he'd spent too long in a good humour. aerion had always been plagued with an uneven temperament — the pendulumn his mood hung upon swinging to and fro. none had expected that the anvil would come down so swiftly after his wedding.
“explain to me this, master of whispers," aerion muses, leaning forward in his seat with his arms bent against his knees. behind him, the halo of swords loomed. "why is there report that alysanne baratheon did not return to her rooms last night?" and, more importantly, why had it not come from jon?
jon had been present for nearly half of aerion's life. the king that sat in front of him now, nestled so comfortably on the blood of the men who had rode to war against orys baratheon in his father's name rather than his own, had once been but a boy. he had grown into his features, grown into his throne, but his ego remained too large for his body. his mood is rancid, annoyance radiating off of him like a sickly perfume. jon thinks of the queen, wonders at her wellbeing. " that would be because it seems she did not, " he answers the question — intended, jon knows, to catch him in some kind of lie of omission that did not exist. " she is only a girl, your grace. not a beast. "
news of alysanne's disappearance had come too late, reaching his ears in the morning rather than the middle of the night, as he would have preferred. even so, he had not panicked. " i have sent men out to the surrounding areas in search of her. she cannot have gotten far. " not without resources. not without help. those that he kept in his employ were hard at work, scraping through the refuse of flea bottom for word. in truth, jon had not expected to see the king upright so early in the day. he had expected, however, that if he chose not to inform the king himself, someone else would lunge at the opportunity to shove him down in the king's estimation with the heels of their boots. " she will be found by day's end. "
the scowl was permanent marring the younger stark face during the whole celebration and subsequent feast. while lyanna wandered around the loud hall, haunting the merry people with her distrust dressed in grey velvet, she had kept to herself most of the time, only speaking with trusted acquaintances and her family when they crossed her path. there was a throbbing in the back of her mind that she never felt before, she could almost feel herself slipping away from her skin there, in the middle of hall. when she found her brother benjen almost hiding away a corner. she turned to him with a sly smile, it was good to turn her back to the sychophants for more like-minded conversation, even if they could never be truly honest in that place. ❛❛ — friends. subjects. does a targaryen king know the difference? mayhaps some of them are not true friends and are just drowning their contempt in expensive dornish wine. — ❞ like us. she would rather see the pompous king choke on his own food than to toast as his friend. it was more than what she could bear.
what kind of peace could be bought with the blood of her father, she wondered when her eyes glazed through what benjen called friends of the king; all she could see were liars and murderers and backstabbers. ❛❛ — if we were offered the choice of coming, I suspect the crowd would be much smaller. — ❞ her words not louder than a murmur, meant for her older brother's ears only. one could never be too careful with spies eavesdropping any conversations in the den of dragons and for all that lyanna was known for her recklessness, she would not jepordize her house so directly. at the moment, her glares were all she could afford while the claws were kept away.
something more dire was pressing on her mind; the topic she longed to discuss with her siblings in the privacy of winterfell, in their godswood where the gods could protect them, but the words came out anyway. ❛❛ — dragons. not what anyone expected from this wedding. — ❞ she hoped he could understand the read the deep resentment in her eyes, in the cruel twist of her mouth when she finished the sentence. there was a petty jealousy gnawing at her insides when she had sat there, in her too warm bench, in the too crowded room, watching the little infant dragon explore the world for the first time. not jealousy of the dragon, but of the magic. the starks and other northern houses were the only of them to have their own beasts since the dance of the dragons. lyanna’s own abilities were a hidden secret. they lost the uprising but kept their blessings. now, they were not safe.
when the rebellion had fizzled, orys baratheon skewered on the end of the prince's sword, the wolves of the north had been backed into a corner. there was only so much one could do with gnashing teeth and swiping claws against the might of the iron throne. benjen had always been pragmatic. dreams of a free north, of the targaryens deposed of their rule of the seven kingdoms, were saved for slumber. in the waking hours, he knew enough to be realistic. but it was aelyx who he had taken a knee in front of as the newly dubbed warden of the north, the ailing mad king too feeble to run his own kingdom without his hand acting regent. it had been a spur of the moment agreement, one intended to protect the north from the repercussions that the stormlands were facing. there had been no time for forward thought, for imagining what kind of reign the crown prince would have when his father finally expired with his head laid upon a silken pillow, soft and misshapen as a rotten melon.
benjen has long suspected that his siblings could not understand why he had pledged the north's loyalty to the crown. house stark had reeled from the loss of both patriarch and matriarch in one fell swoop, both returning to the gods in quick succession on the battlefield — their father where he he had belonged and their mother where she had not. benjen had come into his title on a wave of blood and despair, the nature of war leaving him without time to properly mourn. the north could not have suffered more loss. that was what benjen had told himself, kneecap pressed painfully to the stone of the red keep's throne room. oaths, to him, were sacred — but his oath had died with the mad king. " we would have been here regardless, lyanna, " he reminds his sister. the guise of their loyalty could not yet be broken. " house stark shows up for its allies. "
" they mean insurmountable power for house targaryen. " insurmountable was the focal point of his sentence. as long as the targaryens had dragons, they could not be defeated by mere men. their rule was cemented until they destroyed themselves from within as they had in times past, an ever eating ouroboros of fire and blood. he pulls at the hem of his tunic, stiff with embroidery as it is. " the king is certainly lucky. "
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⧼ hudson williams + twenty five + cis man + he/him ⧽ welcome to westeros jaime of house corbray of heart's home ! it is quite well known that he is withdrawn and disciplined, though behind closed doors the people whisper that he is also fickle and also indulgent. whenever i think of him, i am reminded of the threadbare white fabric of an ancient house's banners; breaking the ice on a frozen river to access the chilled waters below; a final exhausted push, the tip of your sword making a drag path through the dirt; the creak of old wooden floors announcing your presence at home, avoiding that familiar beam that your head collided with countless times in your youth; and a heart that bleeds without so much as a nick. may he prove his worth in the game of thrones.
❦ 001. DOSSIER .
FULL NAME ser jaime corbray
TITLE(S) lord of heart's home, knight of the kingsguard
AGE twenty five
BIRTHDATE the eleventh day of the tenth moon
GENDER & PRONOUNS cis man, he/him
ORIENTATION heterosexual, heteroromantic
RELIGION the faith of the seven
LANGUAGES SPOKEN the common tongue
ALLEGIANCE house targaryen of king's landing, house corbray of heart's home
FATHER ruling liege corbray
MOTHER ruling liege corbray
SIBLINGS liege corbray
MARITAL STATUS sworn to never marry nor father children
RELATIVES n/a
ABILITIES a talented swordsman, a practiced jouster, fairly good at memorizing and reciting poetry but fairly shit at handwriting and reading, a good horseman, great at taking direction
MORAL ALIGNMENT true neutral
POSITIVES disciplined, determined, ambitious, chivalrous
NEGATIVE withdrawn, fickle, indulgent, impulsive
PASS TIMES sparring, racing horses, repairing broken things, laundering his own cloak, farming, other salt of the earth activities
WIELDS lady forlorn, the valyrian steel ancestral longsword of house corbray
CHARACTER INSPIRATIONS daeron targaryen (house of the dragon), william thatcher (a knight's tale), isildur (lord of the rings), arys oakheart (a song of ice and fire)
HEIGHT 6 foot 0, 172 cm
BUILD stocky, muscular
HAIR black hair, cropped short but not short enough that it can't fall into hsi eyes romantically don't worry
EYES dark brown
NOTABLE FEATURES inherited the pretty boy gene 😔
WARDROBE the white armour of the kingsguard, cape pinned with a heart shaped brooch to honour the sigil of his house, prior to his appointment to the kingsguard his clothes were quite shabby — house corbray do not come from riches, and his clothing reflected as much
FACE hudson williams
❦ 002. IN DEPTH .
you weren't one of the lords that bards wrote about in songs. from where you stood, knees knobbly, dirty, and close to the ground in youth, there were no riches, no glory. only toil. your shared bedroom inside of heart's home smelled of the cedar it was built from, its walls built from the trees that densely populated the vale's snakewood. your elder sibling's breathing was rhythmic, soothing you through the dark hours. when the sun had not even had its chance to peek over the mountain peaks, melting the frost from the windowpanes, your father was rousing you both for morning chores. thus was the routine of a lord of house corbray, working alongside the smallfolk for the betterment of heart's home though your blood dubbed you noble.
knighthood was a dream you shared with many young people across the realm. stories of the knights of the vale were uttered before every hearth in the region, but none were told as they were told to you and your sibling. your house's sole septa was an avid storyteller, an orator in her own right. the way she described the way their armour gleamed and their steeds responded to the lightest of kicks, the fanfare and fainting ladies upon their victorious return to their home keeps — that is what drew you to the craft. but heart's home was a long way's north, isolated from the rest of the region by glacial river and mountains both.
it was many years before a hedge knight found his way to your ancestral keep. ser guyle greenrot of the riverlands was no more than an upjumped drunkard, knighted in his youth and ruddy - faced in his middle age. it was hardly difficult to convince him to take you on as his squire. within the fortnight, you had departed heart's home for the first time atop one of your house's few horses, lady forlorn sheathed at your waist and a mere ten and six years under your belt. the first few years of your squiredom was spent sleeping on the ground and eating various stews in a plethora of taverns across the vale and the riverlands, trailing behind ser guyle as he went from town to town looking for work or participating (poorly) in tournaments hoping to earn gold.
during the rebellion, your house declared for the baratheons, following in the footsteps of their liege lords the arryns. ser guyle was not similarly fettered by loyalties, and fought on the side of whoever paid the highest price. you found yourself in lannister and targaryen war camps, surrounded by men who would slaughter your father and sibling without a second thought, should they come upon them on any of the battlefields. duty and desire were cruel mistresses, and they were what kept you warm as you slept beneath the stars, the sounds of men dying from their wounds all around you.
the rebellion died with a whimper rather than a roar, and soon ser guyle was back to his usual fare. news of a tournament at pinkmaiden drew him to the riverlands, with you still acting his shadow despite your growing disdain for the messy, disloyal, greedy man that had taught you his craft. despite his mannerisms, ser guyle was good with a sword and better with a lance, his winnings managing to provide you both with a meagre living over the years. pinkmaiden was set to be more of the same, until you stumbled upon ser guyle asleep beneath a tree between rounds of the joust. only he was not asleep — he was dead, his person already looted by pickpockets in the area. left destitute without him, your only choice was to ride in the joust in his place, to finish what he had started, and to earn enough gold to see yourself back to heart's home in one piece.
winning the tournament was only the beginning of your stroke of extraordinary luck. it was not long after you collected your winnings (on behalf of ser guyle, of course) that you were found out. instead of punishment, you were knighted by ser hectar dayne, who had been attending the tournament whilst he spent time in the riverlands solidifying his betrothal. for seven years, you had been at ser guyle's mercy. for seven years, you had all but trained yourself up to be a formidable knight. for seven years, you had waited to feel the coolness of a sword's tip touch each shoulder. it did not take long after that for word to spread of your talents, of your unusual origins. when it came time for the kingsguard to appoint another to its ranks, your name was raised alongside those of some of the richest and famed lords turned knights in the realm. when it was you who was appointed, who took the oath and pledged your sword to the king, it had been seven years since you had set foot in heart's home. now on opposite sides of a war that no one truly believes to be over, king's landing has become more of a home than the wooden hall of your birth.
❦ 003. EXTRAS .
i birthed jaime corbray of my own womb this is my son and my pride and joy and my favourite child (don't tell the rest of them).
he is very much a hopeless romantic, falls in love with every woman he ever sees and just genuinely sees the beauty in everyone and everything. he spends a lot of his time daydreaming about women frankly, and clearly didn't think the whole swearing to never take a wife thing through when he was making his oath to protect the king. has a crush on the princesses, all of their ladies, the queen, the queen's ladies, the queen's sister, the dowager queen, all of the dowager queen's friends, etc.
because house corbray has never been wealthy, they have more of a do what you have to do to get by mentality than most houses. this, combined with the fact that house corbray joined the rebellion as more of a safety in numbers thing than a true declaration, means that his relationship with his family is not strained despite them being on opposite sides of the conflict. he writes to his parents regularly, and he hopes to one day get the chance to return to heart's home.
he never learned how to read or write properly as a child who spent his days working on the upkeep of his family's keep. the red keep is the most lavish place he's ever been, something that he never could have even dreamed as a child growing up within the wooden walls of heart's home. his rudimentary reading and writing skills have all been gained during his time on the kingsguard, and he has found that he quite likes the romanticism of poetry.
he prefers to squire for himself, completing duties often left to the staff. he polishes his own armour, launders his own clothes and cares for his own horse and weapons. they're tasks that are mundane in nature, but he has done them for himself all his life and has grown to enjoy them in adulthood.
aerion would be remiss to refuse a key handed to him: "ysabel," he sighs reverently against her nape, the sound resonating like the first chord of his new favourite song. the king had been cautious of her given name, wanting not to stain it with the depravity his tongue was accustomed to. "ysabel," he repeats, savouring the flavour of it — sweet as the dornish wine that graced their table. "ysabel," he moans, breath soft and whining against her now. his fists curl into the fabric of her skirts, knuckles white as he grips her tighter, pressing the softness of her curves against his want. she had taken to his name quite easily, the sound of its syllables fitting nicely in her mouth in the private way he thought he might too.
"please, ysabel," he's a moment away from a whimper. to have her this close feels like his skin has been set alight, both sinew and derma aflame. "let us retire." he was done with the ceremony of it all, wanting the walls to fall away, giving way to the silk of his crimson sheets. as far as he was concerned, the room held only aerion and his wife. it had been this was since he'd returned to his seat, lids growing heavy until his violet hues could be filled only with her. she was so pretty when she was pleased, the satisfied crescent of her lips bringing out the bright apples of her cheeks. he wished to bite them — a wish that he imagined, could only be fulfilled in the privacy of their marital chamber.
a flare of excitement is set alight deep in ysabel's stomach, burning hot and quick behind her navel like the comet that passed overhead as they had been wed. aerion chants her name into the crook of her neck like a prayer, and for a moment her eyes flutter shut. she inhales quietly through her nose, breath held steady and slim fingers still clutching at the stem of her emptied wine goblet. he is impossibly close, the rush of his blood humming through the fabric of her wedding gown. he is too close for ysabel to deny any longer that his desire is reciprocated. even if it is purely animalistic, a physical necessity rather than a demonstration of combined love and respect, she finds herself imagining which parts of their bodies will be touching in the next few minutes — in the next few hours, in the next few days. the king begs her leave to be with her alone, and a near maniacal smile finds its way onto her lips unbidden. she gnaws at it with the sharp of her upper teeth, molding it into an expression she can bear to admit that she wore in response to his plea.
wine finally abandoned, ysabel works his fingers away from the fabric of her dress with her own. she does so with the same gentleness that she would stroke the top line of one of her destriers, or move harmless from her preferred spot atop her bed. when she stands from his lap, she turns to look at the king of the seven kingdoms from a higher vantage point. his lids are heavy with wine, heavy with craving. his lips are as red as cherries, as blood, as the tail of the comet that had streaked across the sky. carefully, she leans down to speak to him at his level, hands braced on the armrests of the feast's throne, its king in it. she slides them along the slick surface of the polished wood, closer and closer to the chair's back rest, drawing nearer to him still.
" come, then, " ysabel commands, dark eyes bouncing across her husband's features as if she is seeing him truly for the first time. her heart feels as if it's aglow, warmed by the wine and all that he has done for her without neither expectation or pretense. her gaze drops to his lap, lingering for a nervous second's breadth. rather than just her cheeks, heat pools throughout her entire body. her eyes return to the dark violets of his gaze soon enough. she had always loved the violets that had sprung up beside blackhaven's empty moat, dark and morose as they looked. " will you come, your grace? " she refines her request, asking him rather than telling. she straightens, hands clasped together in front of her hips girlishly as she awaits his response. her fingers tangle and untangle with each other, anxious energy expressed in small amounts.
mira felt slightly overwhelmed by the praise and love radiating by the siblings. it seemed like they both were overwhelmed by the small bundles. the hitching breaths and small hands. why they felt the need to pour all those overwhelmed feelings toward mira , who was worn out and tired to the bone , she didn't know. "you two ," she mumbled , cheeks pink as she shook her head. "turn your compliments toward our miracles instead." it warmed her heart to see orielle , all of a sudden so similar to her brother , fawn and coo over the twins. the siblings , who were far apart in age , at that moment seemed like they were one.
mira watched felyx cradle myrcella to his chest , heart swelling in her chest until it felt like it was about to burst. it truly felt like a miracle. how many years had they prayed for a child , and how many times had the gods failed to hear those prayers ? mira didn't blame them , knew that it must have been for a reason. and it was. myrcella and freya were worth all the heartbreak and worry.
"my love." she held her hands out , a silent plea to her husband to give her the eldest , desperate to feel her warmth against her chest. it still felt strange to have the girls out in the world , taking their own breaths and experiencing the world outside of her. how was she supposed to know that they were okay if she wasn't feeling them at all times ? "you don't think he did ? was the heir to lannisport too busy riding his horses and practicing his skill with a sword ?" she asked orielle as she pressed myrcella against her heart. "all the lannister gold can't compare to this." @paroch1al
felyx’s eyes crinkled in the corners. “i did hold you, albeit rarely. our father was not the greatest of men and did not often let me see you, but you were a tiny bundle of linens once too. i do not think it helped train me at all. it has been many a year since i held a child.” part of the ruling lord was glad that the great cadwyn lannister had succumbed to his brief sickness before the arrival of the babes. there was plenty he would have complained about, yet each grievance was something that had firmly nestled its way into felyx's heart. their dark hair, not a hint of gold. their gentleness, their arrival as the fairer gender. critique was not welcome in lannisport. to him, they were perfect.
only in his dreams had he been able to realise his fantasy of being a father. they had fought so valiantly, had remained brave and had never given up hope that, one day, they would be parents. now that the girls were earth side, myrcella and freya would likely become sick of their doting, fussing father before long. he was like a young child clamouring to hold a stray cat. at his wife’s words, he frowned and moved a delicate hand to rest against the small of her back. “my love, are you well ? ” it was spoken like a secret, warm blue eyes trained on his love, ensuring that — amongst the excitement of it all — the lionhearted mother of their children was cared for just as closely. “are our words too much ? ”
he did not mind the jesting. if he was the next target, he would take the burden if it allowed mira a welcome break. not once did his smile abandon him. large hands transferred their eldest over to her mother, and for a moment he stood bare - armed and lost. it was as though he had lost his sword hand. bereft of the familiar weight of their firstborn, felyx busied himself by leaning into the bassinet and pressing a delicate kiss between freya's dark brows. “sweet sister,” his hands lowered into the crib, “would you like to hold her ? ” @bybloods
" oh! " the exclamation comes as no more than a huff of air, orielle's natural response to being scolded — even in warmth as mira has done. her brow furrows, adamant in her petulance. though she was no longer the youngest lannister of lannisport, passing the torch onto the twin babes before her, orielle would not yet relinquish the title of most fussy. nevertheless, she contains her offence — and it fades with the passing of her next thought. felyx's memories of their father are sharper than orielle's own. her brother had her beaten in both years spent with their father and how closely the lannisport patriarch had kept each of his children to his person. prior to the endless hours she had spent at his sickbed, orielle could not recall a time in which she had been face to face with her father for more than the time it took for him to take his evening meal in the presence of she and her mother. the thought of felyx being barred from her cribside stings at the backs of her honey - coloured eyes. she blinks rapidly, pushing the image away with the wind she imagines is generated by each flap of her eyelashes.
she moves her gaze instead to mira, inspecting her with all the scrutiny she might inspect her pets should they act strangely for even a moment. her brother's wife seems pale — exhausted, but otherwise well. if pale and exhausted could be considered within the realm of well, orielle was not sure. regardless, she chose to categorize it as it suited her. she turns back to the crib, appraising the remaining babe as if she were taking lot of everything that could go wrong should be hold the little thing in her arms. " oh, i couldn't possibly — " such a precious thing! orielle herself was careful — she handled her mice with the same delicacy with which the sun touched on the bridge of a nose. still, the anxiety of being entrusted with what felt like the centre of the very universe at present loomed. " well, perhaps i could. " the babe was horribly cute, after all. it would be torturous to squander an opportunity to examine her up close. she stands, smoothing the plush of her skirts. it would do no good to appear rumpled for such a momentous moment. @ofelation
"of course, my queen." she says before giving her a quick bow as smile breaks on her face. all aemma could do was wish and pray to the gods that the sign of the dragon egg hatching means good things would come from this blessed union between her and her cousin. "good. otherwise i would have told aerion off the next time i see him in the council room before a meeting. if he ever treats you wrong, you let me know and I will have some stern words for him." though she doubted she would ever have to do that. "imposing is certainly a word for it. most would say that Dragonstone is very grim. our lonely keep settles on an island surrounded by storm and salt, with the smoking shadow of the mountain at its back." she said as she exaggerated some of her words. "but it is my home and sometimes i miss the gloomy and history that it holds. though I will not take it to heart if you visit for only a short time before you wish to return to the mainland. i am surprise my brother's wife is holding up well there."
ysabel feels entirely selfish, having inherited the sweetness of a larger family through her marriage whilst house dondarrion still reeled from the loss of her brother. edric had left a hole that refused to be filled, the rubble around its edge continuing to fall, the chasm's maw only widening. she swallows a thick wave of sadness at the thought, but manages to maintain her smile. " his majesty would scarcely dream of treating me poorly. " ysabel states as much with a confidence that befits aerion's new queen. surrounded as they were by the busiest bodies the seven kingdoms had to offer, it would do no good for her to even think of suggesting otherwise. in truth, he has shown her no reason to believe that her statement isn't rooted in reality. " the same is said of blackhaven, " she dismisses, " a keep merely need have black or grey walls to be dubbed grim, these days. " the same could not be said of the red keep — resplendent in red brick and lit from within as it was. " it will be aerion who wishes to return to king's landing before i. i swear it. "
he was all too glad to leave the chaos. there was something about parties of that magnitude and grandeur that was the antithesis of the northern way ; loras yearned for the cold breath of their home, for the simple pleasures of a warm pelt and perfectly cured meats. he cared little for the candied nuts and fruits with a sweetness akin to the sting of nettles on his tongue. once outside, the sounds of clinking tankards and excited chatter lowering to a mumble, he fell into step beside his brother. there was much to discuss, much to plan. their next steps simply could not wait until they were back on the road. “opportunity is slipping away from us with every passing second,” loras turned to survey the halls, ensuring that they were truly alone. the last they needed was for a loyal to be cowering behind a corner, having strayed from the celebrations to relieve themselves or for a bout of fresh air. “we must strike before the iron cools. have you made progress in your plans ? i wish to help.”
walking in step with loras, benjen is reminded of the similarities between them. in his youth, the ruling lord stark had found difficulty in likening himself to his siblings. all were much younger than he, different in temperament and interests. he stood out in his position as leader of the pack, even while their father still breathed, still commanded, still sat as warden of the north. he did not think the same as his younger brother — he could not, even if he set his mind to it. but they walked the same. they scanned a room the same. their minds, though they took different pathways, had reached the same destination. the hatching of a dragon carried only ill omen for houses which were not of valyrian descent — for all but the targaryens. " preparations have been underway for some time now, " he nods, callused fingers feeling at the unshaved stubble that lines his jaw and chin. " our vassals have been receptive to my call for stockpiled lumber and stone. i had intended to have excess weaponry forged at the wall. " castle black served as a merely a blip on the crown's maps — what lived there but criminals, wildlings, and cravens? " i had considered involving the houses of the stormlands. i am no longer sure that we are afforded with time for such diplomacy. " he looks to loras then. it is not phrased as a question, but the grey of his gaze asks for his brother's opinion.
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Edderion chuckled at the idea of Aelyx with a dragon, the mad, old fool. "Do you think he would have eaten it? I wonder, he'd probably come to the belief that if he ate it, he himself would become a dragon. Truthfully, towards the end, I would have put nothing past him. May he rest, wherever he is." He raised a brow when he was asked what he knew of dragons, and what could he acquire about them. "The Citadel is very strict about loaning out books. I've already asked for manuscripts to be copied. We should receive them within a fortnight."
He hummed, pondering the question of what did he already know. "I have some knowledge of the dragons, yes. It seems the dragon has bonded to the Princess......so she'll be the only one able to truly command it. I expect envy and tension to grow from this if no other eggs hatch."
jon finds no amusement in the image of the former king devouring a dragon. the notion is vaguely cannibalistic — a king eating the source of his own power, only to still find himself powerless at the end of his life. " yes. may the stranger guide him. " jon imagined the old king was somewhere in the seven hells, roaming without destination. he nods his approval of the grandmaester's initiative, tapping a finger absentmindedly atop his knee. " i am due to begin journeying north by day's end. it is my hope that we can remain in communication until my return. " he curses the day that the mad king impetuously saddled his house with the baratheon girl. " word has already reached the smallfolk of the egg's hatching. it will not be long before the assassins and cretins of flea bottom begin to form their own ideas of who should be in possession of the beast. even sooner yet will similar thoughts find themselves seeded in the minds of the rebel houses. "
laurentia’s mouth curved, slow and knowing, as ysabel accepted the invitation so neatly laid at her feet. not triumph. not quite amusement. something closer to recognition. good, then, she thought. the girl has teeth, even if she keeps them sheathed. she guided the queen a few measured steps farther from the press of bodies, to where the sound softened into a low tide rather than a crashing wave. only then did she speak again, her tone slipping into something almost conversational, almost fond.
“very well,” laurentia murmured. “i shall begin with the one he would most dearly wish entombed beneath the red keep itself.” her gaze flicked, almost lazily, toward the king, radiant and remote amid laughter that skimmed him without ever quite landing. she had known him before that distance set in. before crowns calcified boys into symbols. “you must understand,” she continued, voice low and unhurried, “that his grace has always possessed a reckless fondness for spectacle, particularly when wine is involved.”
she let the memory unspool. “we were scarcely more than youths, flushed with the sort of invincibility only those untouched by consequence can afford. lyonel was there, one of his cousins, myself. the prince had acquired a quantity of dornish red he insisted was educational.” a pause, precise. “by the time education concluded, he had decided the royal hounds were profoundly misunderstood creatures and deserved companionship.” her mouth twitched. “we were discovered at dawn asleep in the kennels, tangled in cloaks and dog hair, smelling so thoroughly of wet fur that the king’s guards refused to let us pass without inspection. his grace insisted it was an act of solidarity. i believe he was sincere.”
the next memory followed easily, like a second card laid atop the first. “another time,” laurentia went on, “he commissioned matching doublets for us all. red, naturally. trimmed with little bells.” she inclined her head, a queen of understatement. “he declared us the order of the infidels and demanded we attend court dressed as such. we jingled when we walked.” she glanced at queen ysabel, dry and unrepentant. “the ridiculousness of it-- can you even imagine?” she allowed herself a moment’s silence, long enough to let the absurdity settle, then softened, subtly. “but those are the stories one tells to amuse,” she said. “not the one that matters.” her fingers flexed once at her side, a rare tell. “this one,” she added, “he does not know how to tell himself.”
laurentia’s voice dropped, not in volume but in weight. “i was seventeen. newly knighted. old enough to be remarked upon, young enough to still be wounded by it.” she did not look at ysabel now; this was not a story that required witnesses so much as presence. “i had always dressed for ease. for movement. so naturally, i felt more comfortable in masculine attire. my father allowed it. my mother attempted to correct it until her strength failed, the poor woman.” a breath, measured. “after my knighting, the murmurs changed. no, not changed, incresed. perhaps not from outrage, but merely curiosity sharpened into cruelty. does she wish to be a man? does she even remember how to be a woman?”
her mouth curved, humorless. “one voice suggested i hid myself because i could not bear to be seen.” she lifted a shoulder. “i decided to disprove them. disastrously.” she described the gown without indulgence. the weight of borrowed hair braided into her own. the stays negotiating with her breath. the way the room seemed to demand stillness of her body and submission of her spine. “i lasted through the dance,” she said. “and fled to a balcony afterward, to remember how air worked.” then, at last, she looked at ysabel again. “that was when your royal husband found me.”
the memory softened her, just enough to be dangerous. “he stared. said nothing. then informed me, quite sincerely, that i looked dastardly in a gown and asked why i could not dress like a normal person.” a quiet laugh escaped her. “i laughed until my chest hurt. it was not kindness. it was honesty. his own way of being friendly, i suppose,” she went on. “we talked a while. and i told him how i hated my hair. how heavy it felt. my governess had allowed me to cut it at shoulder length because of my training, but no shorter than that,” her fingers brushed the short fall at her nape, unconscious. “then the next morning, he took me with him to have his cut. no one questioned a crown prince’s request. that was the first time my hair was shorn like this.” a pause, reverent without sentimentality. “i have never worn it long again.”
laurentia inclined her head, the story complete. “that is the aerion you married,” she said quietly. “sharp, infuriating, careless with ceremony, occasionally careless with hearts. but capable, in rare moments, of seeing exactly what someone needs and handing it to them without flourish.” a beat. “he will loathe that you know this.” her mouth curved, finally, into something like warmth. “which,” she added, conspiratorial and precise, “i strongly recommend you remember.”
silence begins to fall around them like a fine mist rather than the deluges the stormlands were accustomed to. the din of the wedding feast remains, but it ebbs slowly away as the new queen is led away from the eye of the storm by her husband's lioness of coin. as they stroll, ysabel feels the eyes of the realm upon her. none grate so much as the dark, glassy, lifeless eyes of the white hart that aerion had slain in her name, propped up in front of the head table such that the king could admire the spoils of the hunt at any point during the night. when she had begged him make the foray into the kingswood worth her imprisonment within a needlepoint circle, she had not imagined the unease she would feel at staring down the sigil of the house that had sheltered her as if she were their own for half of her life. she pointedly averts her eyes now, justified in her avoidance by the way its carcass has been well and truly picked over and served to their guests.
as she listens to laurentia, ysabel tilts her head slightly. she hangs on to every word as if they themselves were keepsakes. it is not necessarily the content that she finds enthralling, but the way that her companion speaks them. it is clear that the stories she is being fed are not mere deception, thought up in the moment if only to illustrate to ysabel the sheer proximity of house lannister to the crown. there is fondness woven throughout them, a tapestry of friendship and loyalty. ysabel had known such allegiance once. she thinks of alysanne, briefly and with mixed emotion. the last time they had spoke had been marked by vitriol, but there had once been nothing but love between them. ysabel cannot think of home without seeing alysanne's face, the other girl's memory so intertwined with ysabel's notions of comfort, of safety, of full bellies and the sound of rain on windowpanes.
ysabel tears herself from her reverie unceremoniously and viciously, like a throat ripped out with teeth. she could no longer afford to waste time thinking of a friend who had become a stranger — one who held nothing but ire and hate for ysabel in return for the labyrinthine way thought of their former friendship as of late. she only hums in response to the disclaimer concerning aerion's proclivity for drink. her dark eyes are trained on the figure he cuts as he's seated at the long table. something swells within her chest that she cannot quite put a name to. " the king is fond of his hounds, " she concurs, thinking of the way he favoured the whelp he had gifted her, treating him with such tenderness that it served to surprise her. she laughs once, a breath exhaled, at the image of the teenaged companions waking up in the kennels.
the next tale melts into the first, and ysabel is grateful that laurentia does not require any great humming or hawing or marvelling at her storytelling. it was enough for the queen to just listen, to be privy to the past that the mistress of coin shared with the king. what the conversation revealed was that though the form which teenagehood seemed to take in the crownlands differed greatly from that which is took in the stormlands, the function was much the same. to be young and to be surrounded by the kind of ephemeral devotion that only a child could offer to another child. these kinds of tethers only lasted for a brief time, but would be woven into the lasting bonds that came with adulthood.
ysabel is not so much of an isolato that she did not know when a story required silence. she keeps her gaze steadily on the floor ahead of them, regarding the red stone of the keep with a newfound appreciation. she imagines laurentia in the splendour described, trussed up much like the hart at the feast's centrepiece. she snorts through her nose, a soft noise, at the notion that the lady lannister would not be seen regardless of what she were clad in. it comes without being bidden, but she soon falls silent again.
" i think you look quite handsome with short hair, " she admits, plainly. " aerion spent time in storm's end when we were both young. i was five and ten. a companion to alysanne. i suppose i cared quite little for princes or lords back then. " for a moment, she feels a pang of guilt at how she had turned away from him, time and time again. " evidently, he has since forgiven me for the childish way i was hells bent on slighting him. " ysabel lets silence fall between them, and in it she thinks of nothing but the king. when she speaks again, there is a faint smile on her wine pinkened lips. " his grace has done much for me since my first visit to king's landing. your claims of his character have already been proven times over. i find him to be quite . . . sweet, in his ways. " she hopes laurentia finds some amusement in her description of the king, as saccharine and naively framed as she knows it to be.
With the attentions of Lord Sunderland and his wife drawn elsewhere by the hobnobbing such a feast made opportune, Helaena had indulged in perhaps one or two more cups of Arbor red than usual. It was likely the wine was to blame for the lapse in memory that left the Sunderland heir wracking her brain to try and recall exactly how she'd come to be on the balcony with Orielle Lannister. Not that the lady of the Three Sisters particularly minded, if anything she found her companion to be the most pleasant of the Lannisters to spend time near. Moving forward a few places, Helaena joined her at the balcony's edge and settled into position with chin propped against her palm. "I suppose it might be nice...especially considering most of the time those same people, or just as many others might be wishing you ill as the crown. Balance it all out a bit." She murmured, glancing down at the city below.
orielle cannot help but wrinkle her nose at the other lady's words. if she had wished to hear tales of reality — of ill wishes and smallfolk discontent, she would have stayed home in lannisport alongside her brother and good sister, perhaps sitting in for felyx in a few of the meetings regarding returning lannisport to its former glory following the destruction and devastation of the riots. orielle imagines herself now, sitting in her brother's wooden seat, pretending to know what it was the men around her discussed. she would hold her chin high, her gaze aimed low, and would imagine her eyelashes to be prison bars, holding the speakers captive in her gaze. how dramatic it could have been! " in my estimation, i imagine the people of king's landing will take to queen ysabel quite quickly. people do so love ladies with pretty faces. no one will wish her ill, as you say. " a monologue that is perhaps idealistic — but the young lady of lannisport is nothing if not known for such things.
pinpoint the red keep, the morning after the royal wedding.
ysabel had slept deeply and well into the morning, the hours dissolving just as her tears had into her skin the night previous. when she woke wrapped in the crimson sheets of the king's bed, she was alone. aerion was cross with her, his dark mood hanging over the keep like a stormcloud. she had cried hard enough to wash his hands from her body, to push him away, to deny him his pleasures on the eve of their marriage. as her ladies had dressed her in his chambers, carrying yet another gown of targaryen black and red with them from her own boudoir, her cheeks had burned with shame. but so too had she seethed in her own right. by the time they had finished their fiddling with her hair, ysabel had become both impatient and beleaguered by the acrid flavour of her own annoyance. oh, certainly the king had spoke her name so devotedly into the skin of her neck when he believed he was mere moments away from bedding her — but he had also left her to wake to the first morning of their marriage in only the company of her dog. her new husband was a hedonistic man, and ysabel found herself to be quite eager to withhold in response. " julian! " her eyebrows raise as she exits the king's rooms, features flipping from misery to delight as if her face was either side of a coin. at the sight of her cousin in his pristine armour, with her standing before him in targaryen colours — the tableau is surreal. she shakes her head slightly, scoffing in a quiet exhale of air. " i can hardly believe it, still. "
pinpoint the red keep, after aerion has sentenced jon to a fate worse than death (having to go to the north).
" my son. " it is a shock in itself that the words manage to eke their way through jon's clenched teeth, his age - hunched yet still broad shoulders tensed with anger to the point of pain. gaze downcast, the ruling lord mooton finds it difficult to admit to the youngest of his brood that he has been punished — scolded like a child or kicked like a badly behaved dog. keegan dayne pranced off to starfall with the wool well and truly pulled over his eyes, and jon himself was sent northward. the kingdom would burn before either of them had the chance to make their return journeys to the red keep. " the king has seen fit to place the blame for alysanne baratheon's disappearance on my shoulders alone. " the information comes clinically, jon's tone as matter - of - fact as he might sound in a written letter rather than a living, breathing conversation between he and his son. " i will be leaving king's landing before nightfall. " he looks to them now, large hand braced against julian's shoulder, encased in the telltale armour of the kingsguard. it brings a half smile to his features, even now. even within the cloud of ire he finds himself encased in. " i implore you, truly — watch after the queen. to the very best of your abilities. "
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thank the gods that they had found opportunity when they had. felyx still had life left in him — so long as no battles threatened to take him prematurely a second time — and he would be damned if he let orielle’s youth pass him by again. the space between them had once been a void ; now, her older brother could fill the place their father had left open. he could flood it with the warmth and love that had never been there before. golden hair was slowly turning silver, lines that resembled the talons of crows had burrowed their way firmly at the corners of his eyes, but there remained a vibrancy to felyx. he was not dusty and doddery like a maester. not yet, at least. “low hanging fruit,” chuckled the ruling lord, “i’ll have you know that my wife thinks my age is rather alluring. you are allowed to keep secrets — as a sister does — but i wish to be a brother to you in the way that i always should have been.”
perhaps he was moving too quickly. felyx perched upon the window ledge that looked out across his land, warm blue eyes sweeping across it. “we do not need to run. you know better than most that my sporting days are behind me.” his side was made of nothing but scars. movements were tight and pained as though he now wore a too - tight tunic beneath his armor. another slight to thank the greyjoys for. “but lannisport is healing, and there is no one i would rather have at my side than my sister. you are a lannister as much as i. why don’t you show me what you spend your time with ? ” felyx was not yet a father, but already he was learning that joy could come from the enthusiasm of others. “how are your mice ? ”
the passing of their father had been a bittersweet loss. orielle's childhood had been held behind lock and key, imprisoned within the steady, callused grip of lord cadwyn lannister. her mother's doting, in the form in which it was delivered, could never have been enough. material things could not stand in place of advocacy, and what the lannister lady needed from her mother was for her to tell her husband that it would do their daughter no good to keep her so sheltered, to lock her away from the rest of the realm to wilt. orielle was a hothouse flower, and her father's death constituted the removal of her glass walls. thus far, it was unclear whether or not she would be hardy enough to endure the open air. skirting around the topic with felyx now unsettles her, she shifts, bare feet pressed to the cool stone of the floor. " you are a fine brother, felyx, " she insists, " as you always have been. "
all at once, orielle is embarrassed by her small life. her brother stands before her married, decorated at war, the ruling lord of a house, and soon to be a father. in comparison, orielle's mice and her other childish frivolities are laughable. " tytos has been picky as of late. i believe he is jealous of tybalt's natural zeal. " though she is feeling mildly reluctant, orielle will never pass up an opportunity to discuss her closest friends. she looks to their cage, where the two mice are surely burrowed deep within the hay strewn about the base of it. " regrettably, i've not had the chance to spend much time with them as of late. " she wishes not to elaborate on the reasons for it. the riots had been spoken about enough, discussed at length in many of the conversation orielle had overheard. it would do no good for her to spew her own words into the pot. " i should not like to keep you from mira long this afternoon. as it happens, it is nearing time for my handmaidens to aid me with my hair. it has become horribly tangled, what with all the time i've spent abed as of late. "
"ah..." bronwyn nods sagely. the crescents of her almond eyes hide a mischievous sparkle. she lays one gentle pat to his muscle, teasing, before clasping her hands with the soft pads of her fingers pressed into themselves. "your years are catching up to you and you grow tired faster. i suppose the hour has grown late, my lord. i, nor your exceptionally polite niece, would reproach you for retiring." the king, on the other hand... well, if aerion decided to care, then he could find fault in anything. which, was much like raising a young lady. she did not envy jon's position — he was the only man in the keep with enough gravitas and sense to guide the king. the rest only enabled him. her beloved queen dowager included. "in any case, i am glad that worry does not mar your brow, friend. i detest such wrinkles." they were the most unbecoming to have. smile lines were born of joy, at least. "she is lovely, jon." the lady dowager says, trailing off as she thinks of his niece. it feels vain, but she cannot help but draw a line between the two of them. "it is no wonder the king is so enamoured by her."
jon cannot find it within himself to offer any more than a mere grunt in response to her mention of retiring. he could, he supposes, call upon his aged bones and lack of leg as a reason to retreat to his chambers, but the fatherly parts of him wish to see the new queen through the final stage of her wedding night. once she left the feast, she was beyond his aid. but for now, he remained watchful. his ears, as well as the ears of those in his employ were open, listening for whispers of the realm's first reactions to their new queen. if the tides turned and their reception of his niece soured, jon would want to be present to do something about it. " my good brother has raised capable ladies. such is no small feat, " he admits. deep down, jon knows he and his wife, among others, have had their hand in moulding ysabel and sarella's dispositions as well. he is proud of the dondarrion girls in the same way he is proud of his own brood. " luckily my face remains ever smooth, " he jests in good nature, " it is the white of my hair that gives me away. " he sighs, dark gaze once again finding its way to the king and his bride. jon finds himself wondering when ysabel's affections toward the king had become so obvious. " she will be a fine queen, bronwyn. that much i am certain of. " he wrings his callused hands, elbows perched on either knee. " the king is singular in his desires. i believe his intention to be handfasted to her began longer ago than the realm may realise. "