LADY CASSEL

“we can only hope.” hope, against the ever-turning wheel of time. the futile, oh so human desire to slow and stop and live forever. but forever is not to be. it never has been: they had their time. now DEATH was on its way to claim them. oh, and the gods. the gods and their callous games, their toying. their neediness, craving worship and images and food and wine and life and death - the many faced god had wanted so much from her that she had forsaken him. the old gods of the north… they did not care, no, but they asked for little in return. the forests became her gods’ domain. would they want to claim her? “that would make all of us unworthy, my lady. and i do not think that is so.”

@casselisims​

           satin worried at his bottom lip with his teeth, wondering what on earth he was going to do. the lord commander was busy, satin knew that, and he knew to forgive his lapses in thought when the lives of thousands laid seemingly on his shoulders. the library at dragonstone was far more well stocked than the one at castle black and he knew he had to get the book jon had asked for somehow. that didn’t help the fact that satin had never had anyone teach him his letters, and looking at the spines of the books, they may as well have all been in high valyrian for the amount that satin could make sense of them.

          he could feel his eyes welling up with tears at the frustration he felt and realised that he was going to have to embarrass himself in front of one of the other noble blooded patrons of the library. he already felt like such an imposter here, dressed in his blacks, with a bastard’s surname and a past that would make any self respecting aristocrat turn up their nose. now he was going to have to admit to being illiterate in front of the beautiful dressed woman reading by the window. “my lady. do you, uh, do you have a moment? i was wondering if you could help me…” 

ALWAYS AN EAGER BOOKWORM,    beth had found herself taking great liberty of the amount of literature at her fingertips at dragonstone. there were books here that she'd never seen at winterfell, and her curiosity drove her to dive into them. already having gone through two books, she was sitting by the window for what felt like hours working through a third when she hears a soft voice speaking to her. gentle eyes raise from the pages of her literature, resting upon delicate features. her head tilted, a sweet smile blossoming on her lips. she recognized the black clothing as being a member of the nights' watch. she guessed his being here likely related to the night king ascending on them.

        old   wyk   was   his   home .      there   wouldn’t   be   a   time   where   he   wouldn’t   return   there,   he   was   certain.   part   of   it   must   come   from   a     nostalgic   impulse     inside   of   him,   but   he   would   explain   it   as   loyalty   and   devotion.   it   was   a   holy   space   for   the   ironborn,   fateful   and   historic.   besides,   he   was   instructed   by     tradition     to   never   stray   too   far   from   the   sea,   and   it   was   a   belief   of   derran’s   that   one   could   not   find   a   city   closer   to   the   ocean   than   that   he   had   grown   up   in.   as   a   child,   he   had   often   escaped   to   the   water’s   edge;   he   would   find   comfort   in   rocks   and   tidepools,   an   escape   from   the   rest   of   the   world   that   he   didn’t   quite   fit   into.   he   had   been   a     strange     child,   one   that   had   grown   into   an   equally     peculiar     adult.

         ‘     beth,     ’     he   echoes,   testing   how   the   name   feels   in   his   mouth.   as   he   looks   back   to   her,   he   notices   the   similarity   of   their   eyes,   both     watery     in   appearance.   he   sees   a   curiosity   in   them   he   recognizes   too.   shark   -   like     grin   returns   to   his   features,   too   many   teeth   to   be   friendly,   but   he’s   trying   his   best.   or    so   it   appears.     ‘     only   the   edges,     ’     he   replies   with   a   slight   chuckle   at   his   own   relative   inexperience.   he   raises   a   hand,   the   one   not   currently   holding   the   glass   of   wine,   and   begins     tracing   the   border   of   westeros     in   the   air   between   them.     ‘     only   places   my   ship   can   take   me.     ’     go   too   far   from   the     sound   of   water     or   the   way     salt   lingers   in   the   air     near   shore   and   he   begins   to   get   uncomfortable.   ‘   the   unfamiliar   is   exhilarating,   you   just   have   to   have   enough   trust   that   your   god   will   see   you   through.   ’

HER EYES FOLLOW THE    movement of his finger, tracing the outline of westeros. she imagined even just seeing the edges was breathtaking. so many things one could see in one town, she knew. being here in dragonstone was evidence enough, winterfell too. she'd never been a fan of the ocean, though. too many creatures could potentially exist just beneath the surface. the water too unpredictable to feel safe on. beth cassel quite liked the feeling of safety, and it was one that she most definitely would never experience atop the waves of any ocean. still, she could picture it in her mind's eye. the colour of the sea, the smell of the salt, the different lands that she could visit. and what a beautiful vision it was. her curious heart ached.

           asha chuckled as the girl classed her as warrior, something even most men from her homeland refused to do on account of her being born a woman. this little northwoman, northern she presumed from the accent, certainly knew how to stroke an ego. the ironborn emitted a little grunt of assent, though it mattered not, considering the girl had already sat down next to her in an act that endeared her a little to asha. 

          the isles were hard, harsh places, and so much of the energy of those who lived upon them was put to survival - there was no time for the kind of fancies this girl spoke of. art, drawing, poetry - it was lost on the drowned god’s people. they knew art in a well-fashioned ship crafted to weather any storm, and poetry in the sound of the waves calling them to the horizon. “be my guest. i am curious to see what your ink can conjure.” her inky black braids were thrown over one shoulder, returning to her work with the whetstone idly - so practiced she was by now, that it was not a task that took much of her attention.

OBSERVANT EYES DART FROM    features to paper slowly, dragging languid lines to sketch out the shape of her face, the length, and style of her hair. all her life she had idolized a type of woman   :   strong, lethal creatures that were still all fatal grace. things she wanted to be, but knew herself unable to do. she simply could not possess the kind of confidence these women had. " well, i certainly hope you like it. "  she murmured in response, small smile tickling her lips as her eyes studied the drawing as she mapped it out, focusing on the details of her face. when her eyes raise, they pay close attention to her. " i've enjoyed drawing since i was a child. i like to believe i'm quite good at it now. " then, they drop once more, and she continues.

a historical / fantasy / period / medieval friendly character survey.

reblog and bold your muses preference.

roses / cherry blossoms / orchids / tulips

winter / summer / autumn / spring

thunderstorms / sunshine / snow 

indoors / outdoors

meat / fruit / sweets

extravagance / traditionalism / minimalism

god fearing / non god fearing

cats / dogs / horses / birds

sunrise / sunset

day time / night time

fire / earth / water / wind 

reading / writing

rising early / sleeping late 

wine / ale / neither

fur / silk / satin / lace 

rubies / pearls / sapphires 

horse back / walking / carriages 

love / power

having company / being alone 

lakes / rivers / oceans 

knife / sword / bow / poison 

last points call  :  85 spent since then  :  -75, second character remainder  :  10

        his   gaze   breaks.     it   follows   her   own,   wondering   if   he’ll   catch   a   glimpse   of   a     brother     or   a     father,     too   startlingly   similar   to   her   own   features   to   mistake   them   for   anything   else,   but   he   doesn’t.   he   only   sees   the   masses   that   were   gathered   in   the   hall   as   her   eyes   trace   over   the   room.   he   keeps   his     thoughts     regarding   the   boys   of   winterfell   to   himself,   for   he   was   sure   they   wouldn’t   make   productive   comments.   he   was   looking   for   something   else   besides   his   crew   to   engage   with,   and   certainly   ill   remarks   about   northerners   would   send   the   northern   mouse   scurrying   away   from   the   sailor.

        ‘   it’s   important   to   see   the   world.   ’   it   wasn’t   an   ironborn’s   place   to     conquer,     but   rather   to   come   and   see   and,   of   course,     take     things   with   them   when   they   left.   he   had   seen   a   great   deal   of   the   outer   edges   of   the   world,   and   he   was   thankful   for   that.   ‘   at   the   very   least   it   shows   you   why   home   is   important.   ’   derran   brings   the   glass   of   wine   to   his   lips,   knocking   back   a   sizable   portion.   ‘   you   have   a   good   eye,   lady   winterfell.   i’m   a   ship   captain.   ’

THE URGE TO LEAVE   forever had never existed. Winterfell was her home, and she would trade it for nothing else. not warmth, not pretty colours, not the serenity of Dragonstone. but her heart hurt to know she could never see much outside of the world. when she died, she would have only a minimal set of memories about what it looked like, what existed outside of her small bubble of experience. if the war came and went and she still breathed, maybe she would look into running about the world until she felt ready to return home, until whatever wounds she'd no doubt have, healed. looking at the Captain before her now, it was clear that he had seen many, many things. people who did had that glint in their eye like they knew a little more than those who didn't.

         and   he   was   more   ironborn   than   most.     at   least,   that’s   how   derran   styled   himself.   a   child   born   of   the   waves   that   had   yet   to   be   reclaimed,     harder   and   stronger     than   those   without   salt   water   in   their   lungs.   his   family   —   his   father,   his   brother,   and   himself   —   were   living   history   and   the   chosen   warriors   of   the   drowned   god,   and   derran   would     act   accordingly,     honoring   both   his   heritage   and   his   deity   with   every   action.   if   that   meant   playing   a     villain     in   the   tales   of   greenlanders,   so   be   it.   often   times,   that   was   a   victory   for   the   ship   captain.   he   followed   to   the   empty   table,   placing   the   two   glasses   and   the   bottle   down   with   a     THUD     —   the   hardly   gentle   movements   of   a   lifelong   shipman.   

         ‘     derran   is   fine,     ’     he   corrects   her   treatment,   slowly   peeling   away   the   masks   between   them,   before   nodding.     ‘     decidedly   not     neighbors     then.   i   grew   up   on   old   wyk.     ’     if   someone   asked,   he   would   still   call   it   his   home,   and   one   day   it   would   be   his   seat,   but   for   now   most   of   his   time   was   spent   aboard   his   ship,     a   home   atop   the   waves.     he   uncorks   the   bottle,   and   begins   to   pour   the   dark   liquid   into   shares,   though   he   keeps   watching   her.   he’s   learned   there’s   something   unsettling   about   watching,   and   derran   was   not   opposed   to   being   just   that.     ‘     and   what   is   a   lady   of   winterfell   doing   at   a   war   summit     ?     i   was   under   the   impression   the   north   was     overly   protective    of   their   daughters.   ’

BETH HAD NEVER BEEN    one to enjoy being watched. lingering looks made her shift in her seat, and Derran seemed to be a fan of staring. his gaze is almost physical, weighing down on her shoulders. hot breath on the back of her neck urging her that something was off. she found herself fidgeting slightly, one hand rested beneath the tabletop, plucking at the soft grey skirts of her dress. the other tapped gentle fingers inaudibly against the cup of wine. "the only family I have left are at stake in the war." the words come easy, eyes drifting around the hall. "and I know the boys from Winterfell will do reckless things for the people around them. someone needs to be around to patch everyone up."

       he  watches  her  falter .      there’s  water  churning  inside  her  skull  deciding  which  route  to  take,  and  he  stand  there  patiently,  curious  to  see  where  the  waves  would  take  her.  derran  isn’t  quite  sure  what  his  intentions  are ;    truly,  she  was  just  the  wrong  person  in  the  wrong  place  when  he  was  seeking  something  to  do,  a  distraction  from  the  general  scene  within  the  hall.  he  had  heard  the  stories  his  men  would  tell  tonight,  with  stolen  greenlander  wine  on  their  breath,  a  thousand  times  over,  and  watching  a  northerner  struggle  to  be  polite  with  him  would  be  much  more  interesting.

         ‘     need,     want     —     given  that  the  dead  are  walking,  there’s  probably  little  worth  in  debating  the  semantics  of  a  glass.    ’      he  let  the  bottle  fall  to  his  side,  a  firm  grip  around  its  neck  holding  it  secure.    ‘    are  we  neighbors,  my  lady    ?      you’ll  have  to  tell  me  where  you’re  from,  but  we  can  do  that  once  we’ve  found  a  table  that  isn’t  already  taken  by  the    preemptive  mourners.    ’     if  he’s  managed  to  hide  the  callous  of  his  soul  thus  far,  the  way  he  speaks  those  words  reveals  he  has  felt  little  sympathy  in  his  lifetime ;    he’s  dismissive  of  their  pain.     ‘     entertainment  does  sound  needed.   ’

BEING POLITE DID NOT    mean someone was a kind person. the man smiled and manipulated his accent in a courteous manner, and for those who were less wary, already slipped into intoxications warmth, it would seem kind. but Beth was more paranoid than that, more nervous. skittish as a mouse when it came to being around those that she didn't know. she'd loved to read and filled many of her days with the words of people outside of Winterfell, people who were great and cruel. despite everyone's love for a good hero, the villains are the ones written most about. too many potential horrors hidden behind charming smiles, there wasn't a doubt in her blood that the unknown sailor before her was as cruel and unforgiving as the sea itself. from what she knew, all Ironborn were.

        the  dead  walk  again .      or  so  the  night’s  watch  had  said.  derran  would  not  discount  that  for  it’s  face,  likely  more    open  minded    about  the  blurred  lines  between  living  and  eternal  rest  than  most.  however,  he  didn’t  seem  to  share  the  same  concern  that  so  many  greenlanders  were  expressing.  he  stood  in  the  main  hall  of  dragonstone  for  a  moment  longer,  before  deciding  he  was    sick    of  watching  what  he  considered  immoderate  displays  of  emotion.  a  deep  sigh,  and  then  he  turns  to  go.

         his  destination  was  intended  to  be  his  ship,  the  thunderer  waiting  on  the  shores  was  a  piece  of  home  he  took  with  him.  however,  he  decided  a  bottle  of  wine  would  not  be  missed  in  the  chaos.  yet,  when  he  reached  the  collection  that  had  been  present  in  the  hall,  he  found  that  he  was  not  the  only  one  who  had  the  idea ;  he  chuckled  at  the  idea  of  so  many  northmen  needing  to  turn  to  the  bottle  to  ease  their  souls,    weaker    than  they  would  ever  admit.  there  was  only  one  bottle  left  on  the  table,  and  he  was  taking  it  for  himself  when  he  locked  eyes  with  a  woman  near  the  table.

        a  somewhat  forced  smile     (   or  perhaps  it  wasn’t  forced,  but  simply  too  shark - like  in  appearance  to  feel  kind  )      finds  its  way  to  his  features.    ‘    i  won’t  be  drinking  the  whole  thing,  and  perhaps  you  need  it  more    ?     ’      his  voice  raises,  making  his  words  a  question.     ‘     i’m  not  opposed  to  sharing  a  bottle  since  it  is,    ’     and  his  voice  changes  here,  slightly  mocking  the  overblown  emotion  he  had  seen  earlier,     ‘     the  end  of  the  world.    ’               @casselisims​

IT WASN’T A FREQUENT   sight, Beth Cassel overindulging in wine or ale of any kind. she had her fun, but it was just meant to be fun. but in light of recent news, she'd decided it was as good of time as any to have a drink, or maybe two. where things lead from there, she wasn't overly concerned about. ready to soak up momentary peace while she could until all focus shifted to planning their attack, planning on how to survive the night. until then, she supposed it wouldn't hurt to let herself live a little. experience a bit of what it had to offer just in case the worst did happen. if she fell in the days to come, she wanted to have blissful memories to leave with. the last bottle of many sat on the table, just waiting for someone to stake claim. Beth had never been one to be fond of taking the last of things, worrying over those who might need it more; others be damned, she needed a drink.

careful steps carried her up to the table only for another to take the bottle. glass eyes meet saltwater mirrors, the smell of the sea almost smothering coming off him. definitely a sailor, and if there had been one thing that her father told her about sailors, it was that they needed their wine by the gallons. naive heart wants to believe the pointed smile was an attempt at being polite or welcoming, but it's just another pretty threat: a dagger hanging over her head. would it be more dangerous to accept or to decline? saying no could come off as impolite or rude. which, depending on who she was dealing with, could be worse a fate than whatever the war had in store for her. she knew that they were all meant to be on the same side now, but she couldn't drown the paranoia that whispered terrible things down her spine when she let herself be in the presence of those who had no time for insignificant things, like her.