& THE MAIDEN. @courteley - Tumblr Blog

#𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐲 is a private compendium of characters as written by robin . please refrain from interacting if not part of the group . affiliated with cognatihq .

. 𝑙𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑑𝑒𝑓𝑛𝑒 𝑡𝑦𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑙 ; intro . tags .

. 𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑟ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑘 ; intro . tags .

#◞ ❛ 👑 ⋮ 𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐧 : 30. he + they.#dni

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where : the great hall . when : moments after . with : cerelle hill / @parthenopaed

" all of this because ... someone could not bear to lose a game. " wide eyed: she can hear the crack. she can see the boy, laying there. still. he is not, he has been removed -- along with lord caron. only the dark stain of his blood upon the grey stone remains. it doesn't feel real. there is something that feels like laughter building in her throat. no. not laughter. her eyes are watery, and her voice trembles. " ... men are so strange. "

#◞ ❛ 🏵️ ⋮ 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐲𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐥 : starter .#heh #ft : cerelle hill #parthenopaed

where : waiting for elanur, somewhere in winterfell . when : the morning before the hunt . with : lord aeron greyjoy / @drgnsfyre

" all i know is every time i hear the story, there is another blow added to it ... " the shape of the tale amuses her more than it alarms her. " by next week they shall say lord knott fought twenty men. "

#◞ ❛ 🏵️ ⋮ 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐲𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐥 : starter .#ft : aeron greyjoy #drgnsfyre

where : outside the great keep when : before the hunt with : open to everyone except targs

" ... and poor princess daera. imagine stepping between two quarreling lords and being so completely ignored. truly, it was almost cruel to watch. " a small sigh, soft against her cup: a mix between sympathy and disappointment. " i think i would simply die of humiliation. "

#◞ ❛ 🏵️ ⋮ 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐲𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐥 : starter .#well that was two lines but ... yah #short and sweet #cognati:open

lcgionhq

location: the winter market of wintertown

open to : ( 1/3)

the north was too damn cold for her liking. and the drab winter clothing she was forced to cover up herself with was doing absolutely no justice to her figure nor showing off her latest fashionable designs. it was only the second day and already alerie was desperately wishing for the days to fly by faster so she could go home. as her eyes glazed idly over the homely-looking wares on display at a stall, her mind already wondering what fool would pay for such pitiful products as this, a sudden fetid stench filled her nostrils. looking around for the source of the smell, whilst holding her delicate nose, she abruptly glanced down and let out a scream when she lifted her foot and saw a suspicious brown clump at the bottom of her boot. kicking the snow around her boot, her entire expression turned into horror as a pile of what looked it might be animal feces was in place, half hidden by the snow. "PLEASE TELL ME, THAT IS NOT WHAT I THINK IT IS??" she shrieked a little hysterically.

courteley

“ my lady, ” he said, courteous, measured. the horror on her face seemed wildly disproportionate to the crime committed against her boot. men, women and children had endured winters, famines, and plagues on these streets these past years, and had done so with considerably less fuss. a southron lady had apparently met her match in a patch of horse shit. he felt something dangerously close to amusement stir despite himself. “ one should watch where one walks ... especially at market. ”

his gaze dropped briefly to the trampled snow around her boot before returning to her face. around them, the market had already begun to move again. merchants returned to their shouting. buyers returned to haggling. no one seemed particularly affected by the offense committed against the lady.

“ you may have it scrubbed at the castle, ” he added, his gaze returned briefly to the slush, her boot, and then lifted again. a brief pause followed. “ ... preferably before it freezes solid. ”

#◞ ❛ 🐺 ⋮ 𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐤 : script .#ft : alerie redwyne #lcgionhq

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gildedscage

elanur doesn't much like being still. she isn't meant for these stuffy and luxurious rides — not the way defne is. this chitter chatter of hers is her reprieve and recreation, she knows, but gods. there is only so much of it she can take before her sister's precious chirping becomes a sedative of its own.

resigned to her fate, it's all elanur can do to gaze out of their small window and at this frigid world surrounding them. she thinks of the frigid reception they're sure to encounter once they've arrived and the just - barely veiled contempt that is like to follow and last throughout the entirety of this dreaded week. the concept makes her stomach churn, worry etching itself onto her face. how were they to possibly win over a people who blamed their misfortune on them and not their own gods who had punished them so?

desperate for relief, her mind drifts as it often does towards one most special sailor — one who holds the ocean in his eyes and her heart in his hands — but that reverie is cut short by defne's outburst. she perks up at the sound of her name, eyes wide when they shoot to her, almost as if she's been caught. "i am too!" she spits back, mind racing to catch up and put together all the bits and pieces she's been only half - listening to. something about a lady vance, a nameless paramour, and a hopeless dream, right? "gods," elanur sits up from where she'd been slouching and gives her head a shake. "it's all so pitiful."

but then, something flashes across her face and brings her back to life: a kind of mischief, most like. her eyes narrow ever so slightly as a smirk forms on her lips. if the man disappeared... "you know, i'll bet it was a raider." she'll have to ask aeron. he likes gossip just about as much as defne does. "what say you?"

courteley

“ well — ” the wheelhouse jolts hard over a rut and she has to catch herself against the cushion. green velvet, still soft, though it feels colder with every mile north. the wood creaks around them, and somewhere a nail gives a small, sharp complaint. “ if he was an ironborn raider ... i suppose she ought to be grateful he disappeared before he stole her silver and sailed away with her sister and her favorite horse in tow. ”

“ ... will your betrothed be in attendance? ” she asks next. watching elanur as she says it. careful. sweet. “ betrothed. ” she repeats it at once, she cannot help herself. the corner of her mouth lilting upwards into a smile. teasing. “ gods, i do like that word. it makes you sound so ... official. ”

“ i doubt the northmen are terribly fond of him. ” another bump in the road, and she shifts easily with it, unbothered, only smoothing her sleeve where it creases again at once. “ of his people ... the ironborn, i mean. ”

“ then again ... ” she says, almost thoughtfully, “ i do not think they would be very fond of us either, are they? ”

#◞ ❛ 🏵️ ⋮ 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐲𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐥 : script .#ft : elanur tyrell #gildedscage #and we move ... without ze gifs

where : second tyrell wheelhouse , the king's road when : half a day's ride from winterfell with : lady elanur tyrell / @gildedscage

the road north grew worse with every cold mile. as if the land itself were losing interest in being crossed. the wheelhouse rattled over old ruts and frozen mud, and even the horses seemed to walk with less patience than they did in the reach.

" and lady vance's cousin, people say she's been lying about being with child for over a year... a year, elanur — they say she keeps changing the moon she's due in so no one notices. "

her sister did not look at her, defne watched her for a moment, waiting, and when no answer came she went on anyway. her voice was bright, as it always was when she had something to say and no one to interrupt her.

she did not mind the travel as much as she thought she might have. there were always people on the road: septas, merchants, knights with tired faces, ladies traveling between keeps — they told her things without seeming to mean to, little pieces of gossip and half-finished scandals that she could keep.

by the time they had reached the north, she had heard so many stories that she no longer remembered which ones had remained as they were in earnest and which ones she had made better in telling.

" some say that she had a lover once. a noble bastard, or an ironborn raider, or something of the kind — regardless, they say one day he just ... disappeared. just like that. " she made a small motion with her hand. " and so she began saying she was with child because, truly, no one else will marry her if she is ... and she thinks that if he hears about it, he might come back for it. "

no reaction: nothing. elanur tyrell sat very still in the corner of the wheelhouse. her face turned to the narrow window. the glass was filmed with cold. beyond the carriage window and into the barren northern landscapes, a long dull sweep of grey and brown could not look more unremarkable. yet her own sister would rather give it her whole attention. " by the gods, elanur, you're not even listening to me ! "

#◞ ❛ 🏵️ ⋮ 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐲𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐥 : starter .#ft : elanur tyrell #gildedscage #im so sorry #defne “yappy” tyrell

where : central square , wintertown when : first day, the procession with : lady gilliane stark / @parthenopaed

the cloth came down to a scattering of applause . torrhen stared. the statue towered over the winter town, pale creamy stone. too fine. too expensive. too southern. one could tell it did not belong against the grey of the wintertown, and the walls of winterfell. even though whomstever had carved it had been skilled enough. the fur cloak looked almost real enough to warm a man. the sword was handsome. the face was handsome too. that was the problem.

his grandfather had never been handsome. cregan stark had posessed a long face lined with age, weather, and stubbornness. he had looked like the north. this man looked as though he belonged in a song.

around him, a group of southeners smiled politely as he felt his mouth flatten. " it doesn't look like him. " he said to gilly, standing beside him with her children, and karlon on the other side. not taking his eyes off the stone. the statue gazed nobly towards the horizon. with a certain softness in his features, as though reminiscing, or contemplating wisdom. nothing of the sharp-tongued wolf that had demanded ravens be sent south every day during the winter. nothing of the man who had often complained that half the realm had been born fools.

" they've made him look ... pleasant. " his voice low, as to not be overheard. for a moment, he wonders if the sculptor had ever seen cregan stark at all. it was the eyes that bothered him the most. they were calm eyes. gentle eyes. soft. torrhen let a quiet hybrid of a breath and incredulous laughter through his nose. " gods ... he would have hated it. "

#◞ ❛ 🐺 ⋮ 𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐤 : starter .#ft : gilliane stark #parthenopaed #let me know if i should change anything !#cognati:event1

the king welcomes defne of house tyrell of highgarden ! all of court has heard that they are + audacious and + charismatic, but whispers claim that they are also - stubborn and - manipulative when no one is looking … how much of that is true, we will soon find out. asking around, we are told that they remind people of a spoiled daughter of springtime’s excess: soft brown curls framing a sharpened gaze, the scent of jasmine and rosemary, green silks trimmed with myrish lace slipping off sun - kissed shoulders ─ that should give the bards something to sing about !

#◞ ❛ 🏵️ ⋮ 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐲𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐥 : intro .#cognati:intro #cognati.intro

the king welcomes lord torrhen of house stark ! all of court has heard that they are + perceptive and + steadfast, but whispers claim that they are also - blunt and - resentful when no one is looking … how much of that is true, we will soon find out. asking around, we are told that they remind people of controlled irritation rather than visible anger, snowflakes landing upon dark hair, the scent of cedar and smoke, a dull silver direwolf brooch over a black wool doublet. ─ that should give the bards something to sing about !

winterfell remembers him first as a boy who was happy in the uncomplicated way children are happy when they have not yet been asked to understand what they are missing. he had no mother he could remember, only the careful way her absence was spoken around him, and he grew close to his father in the space that remained. that begins to shift in late childhood, when he starts to look outward in a different way. he drifts quietly from the centre of winterfell towards the idea of something else: towards the south, towards the stories of his mother’s people, towards courts he has only heard of, where lords and ladies sound through song better than they are in real life, where knighthood means something pure and certain. nothing dramatic marks the change, only distance forming in him, a boy learning to dream of elsewhere. his father’s death breaks that imagining. torrhen is barely fifteen when the war takes him, and what remains is not grief he knows how to name, but the unromantic clarity that life does not behave like the stories he had been building inside himself. it simply continues, and you are required to continue with it. then winter comes properly, and with it the second lesson. the south he had once turned toward does not exist. it does not arrive as salvation or order, but as distance. taxes. delay. indifference that does not need to explain itself. people in the north starve and die, and the language of honour and knighthood starts to feel thin and strained in retrospect, almost embarrassing in its simplicity. whatever softness remained in his belief in it does not last. by the time his grandfather dies, something in him has already settled into recognition. not cruelty, but refusal to be moved by what is said when it does not match what has happened. it is not loud. it simply stays. when the ravens come announcing that the southern houses are on their journey north for the funeral, torrhen does not react at once. it takes him a moment to understand what has been set in motion again: they are coming. that they have chosen now. that it is being framed as respect, as if the winter had not already decided the shape of things.

#◞ ❛ 🐺 ⋮ 𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐤 : intro .#cognati.intro

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