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@crcwninferncs
PRINCESS VAELORA TARGARYEN.
intro . musings. threads. inspo. playlist. visage . connections.
LORD THORIAN KARSTARK
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SER SORYN CELTIGAR
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penned by fitz. twenty-seven. est. he/him. written dependently for @dragonfire-hq .
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Closed Starter for Soryn Celtigar ( @crcwninferncs )
"Soryn!" Helenys called out to her sister when she spotted her in the distance. She felt liked it had been quite some time since she had caught up with her, she wanted to check in on her and ask how her recovery was going. While Helenys had almost lost her life in the first battle, Soryn had almost suffered the same faith in the second battle, the one Helenys had not been able to be apart of. "I feel like it's getting harder to find you now a days." She sighed, looking her over. "How are you feeling?"
Soryn turned at the sound of her name, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she spotted Helenys. “Gods, have I been gone so long you’ve started missing me?” she teased, stepping closer with a swagger that only barely masked the stiffness in her movements. The wounds from battle still ached, but she wasn’t about to admit that—not when Helenys had nearly died in the first.
She rolled her shoulders as if to prove a point. “Feeling fantastic, actually. Nothing like getting stabbed a little to really wake you up in the morning.” Soryn gave her sister an exaggerated wink before eyeing her more seriously. “But I should be asking you the same, Hel. You look good—for someone who’s cheated death as well.” A beat passed before she softened slightly, lowering her voice. “How are you?”
Jaenara had been feeling off for a couple of weeks. She hadn't let it stop her from doing what she needed to do, her responsibilities had grown over the course of the war, but it hadn't been enjoyable. It was only that day that she'd stopped to consider what it could be.
And then it had struck her. Her moonblood had yet to arrive. A quick conversation with the maester and it was all but confirmed.
The realization had sent her reeling and she'd returned to her bedchamber late in the afternoon, dragged a chair over to a window, and gazed out at the sea. She'd watched the sun slowly float across the sky, and it was a little while after the moon had risen in its place that her husband announced his presence behind her.
She finally moved her eyes from the window and her eyebrows furrowed as she took the document and quickly read through it.
"... I see," she breathed, rolling it back up as the blood drained from her face.
She wasn't entirely surprised. Their eyes had reported to them the concerning developments as they'd occurred and it had only been a matter of time before Vaelora panicked and called for help.
It was the perfect in for what they'd discussed.
"I take it your opinion on the subject hasn't changed?"
Thorian studied Jaenara carefully, his gaze lingering on the pallor of her face, the way her fingers trembled ever so slightly as she rolled the parchment back up. She was composed, as she always was, but something was off.
“No, it hasn’t,” he replied evenly, stepping closer. “This is the moment we’ve been waiting for—our opportunity to shape our future instead of letting others dictate it.” His voice was firm, but there was a gentleness to it as well, an unspoken acknowledgment of the weight she carried.
He reached out, brushing his fingers against hers, a silent offer of reassurance. “Jaenara,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly as he studied her. “What is it? You seem... unsettled.”
His gaze flickered toward the window, where the moonlight cast a silver glow across her face. Something about the way she held herself, the way she hesitated—it unsettled him.
"your fingers are meant for the swords and the quill, vaelora!"
the truth was vaelora could be putting a crow in helaena's hair and she would still happily sit through it all. the braid was indeed uneven but what helaena enjoyed the most was feeling her sister, now queen of the seven kingdoms, rolling their fingers in between her locks. it soothed her, and she felt like home.
their targaryen and valyrian exceptionalism had not spared her the heartache of a bride leaving her home to be with her husband's. she loved emir and was eager to rule by his side, but the night before their sojourn to oldtown, helaena had sobbed into vaelora's dress and declared that she shall make lunarly visits despite knowing the impossibility of such act. guilt gnawed her her insides for leaving her sisters and brothers in the mess of their mother's making. vaelora had fought for all of them, and to think she had to leave them in such a critical moment was unbearable to helaena.
"you never have to thank me. i may be lady of oldtown now, but i am always your sister and a targaryen." she scutched her butt backward until she could lean back against their legs. her arms came up to wrap over vaelora's and they embraced. in this light and the mirror, they even looked like each other and sadly, their mother.
with the uprising of this heretics by the name of sulvan, both emir and helaena knew they could not sit idle by to let vaelora fend the capital all by themself. as defenders of the faith, their support was not simply needed it was crucial and compulsory. "and this sulvan heresiarch is proving to be more trouble than we initially thought."
helaena spoke with a little bite to her words. "he is... charismatic, i will give him that. even the septons in oldtown, though firm and steadfast in the legitimacy of their faith, sweat in their robes every now and then; some have more balls to express their anger and condemn the false prophet."
Vaelora let out a breath, something caught between a scoff and a laugh, her fingers threading once more through Helaena’s silken locks. “Swords and quills,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Perhaps. But I would trade them both for the certainty that you were never made to leave.”
Her hands stilled, resting atop Helaena’s shoulders as their sister leaned back against her legs. It was a rare thing, to be still. To be close. To be simply sisters again. The reflection before them—silver-haired, violet-eyed, the mirror image of their mother—was one Vaelora had learned to steel herself against. But here, in the warmth of Helaena’s embrace, she allowed herself the fleeting comfort of familiarity, of home.
“I know you had no choice,” she said after a moment, her voice softer, burdened not with anger, but the quiet ache of understanding. “And I do not fault you for it. Duty pulls us in cruel directions. You would not be a Targaryen princess if you did not feel the weight of it.”
Her fingers tightened, just briefly, over Helaena’s forearms. Then the moment passed, and her expression hardened at the mention of Sulvan.
“A heretic, a liar, a parasite feeding off the fears of the realm.” Vaelora’s voice was low, edged with something sharp. “Charisma can be a weapon as dangerous as any blade. If even Oldtown’s most pious tremble, then he is no mere nuisance—he is a plague.”
Her jaw clenched. She had spent the better part of her reign clawing back control from the chaos left in their mother’s wake, only for Sulvan’s false prophecy to spread like wildfire through the cracks. And now, even the Faith wavered.
She looked down at Helaena, gaze searching. “Tell me truly. Do you believe he is to take Oldtown? Does he have the support? I have heard rumors of the planned uprising.”
status: closed ft vaelora @crcwninferncs & jaenara location: the red keep, the small council chamber
jaenara took a deep breath, steadying her nerves in whatever small ways she could. every detail of her appearance, from the arrangement of her hair to the choice of her shoes, had been meticulously curated for this moment. she had rehearsed her words countless times during the voyage to king’s landing, preparing for every possible reaction.
as her name was announced by the queensguard, she smoothed her skirts once more. then the door swung open, revealing the new queen of the seven kingdoms.
with swift, measured steps, jaenara crossed the threshold, stopping only when she was close enough to lower herself into a respectful curtsy. her heart pounded, the weight of her family's future resting on this singular exchange.
“my queen,” she said, clasping her hands before her as she straightened. her pale eyes lifted to meet her cousin’s. “before the formal talks begin in the coming days, i wish to express my deepest gratitude for this private audience. i come to you not only as a servant of westeros but as your kin, with a heart that truly desires to make amends.”
Vaelora had not expected this.
Jaenara Velaryon had sailed into King’s Landing under a banner of diplomacy, yet her very blood carried the stain of treason. Her brother, Monterys, had declared himself rightful king—a challenge not just to Vaelora’s rule, but to the very foundations of their family, of Vaelora's seeking for peace. And yet, here Jaenara stood, not in defiance, but in supplication.
Vaelora studied her cousin in silence. The careful arrangement of her hair, the deliberate grace of her movements—Jaenara had planned this well. Every choice was a calculation. Every word, measured. It was admirable.
"I must admit," Vaelora said at last, her voice even, "this is not the audience I expected." She did not lean forward, did not soften, though there was curiosity in the tilt of her head, the way her violet eyes searched Jaenara’s gaze. "Your words are well chosen, but their weight is uncertain. Tell me, cousin—" The word came lightly, but there was an edge to it. "—what amends do you seek to make? You stand before me as my kin, but your brother stands against me as my enemy, a threat to the peace that I am so heartily pursuing. And that is not a division easily ignored."
Vaelora let the moment stretch, the air between them heavy with expectation. "Speak plainly," she said at last, her voice dropping to something softer, more dangerous.
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alson's eyes stayed on the page in her hand as vaelora spoke. there was too much running through her mind. a year ago her future seemed so different. she was just a knight of the queensguard, running between shadows and locked doors in a secret love with vaelora, doing her duty by day and breaking her oath by night. then maegor died and everything had changed. vaelora was heir, married away and alson's heart broken. she thought her future would be to stand by their side, shield them from harm until her final days despite how she felt. but now, her future was her own.
she was silent for quite awhile, even as vaelora moved closer to her. but finally she spoke. "all i have ever wanted was to be a stark, for my father to accept me and make me is true child. for my siblings to be able to speak of me without the title of snow hindering their words. when you and maegor appointed me to the guard, it made it easier. i was not a stark but you were my family." alson finally looked up at vaelora, their eyes looking into pools of violet. "i have loved you, even when i couldn't, when i shouldn't. i have only wanted to be by your side. and with this," her words hang in the air as she taps the paper. "you give me the things i have always wanted but take away another."
she wanted to accept. deep down, she knew she would. but it was a lot, after everything that has happened.
"they will not follow me. even if a piece of paper says it, they will not listen. perhaps i can persuade my sisters but my father will not listen." she knew it to be true and if vaelora legitimizes her behind his back, he will be more angry.
finally, she takes a deep breath and looks to her again. "i will do this, for you, my queen and my dear friend."
Vaelora’s expression did not shift as Alson spoke, but there was a weight behind their gaze—a quiet, unyielding understanding of all that had been lost, all that had been broken between them. They had known, of course, that this offer would not be a simple gift, nor a clean resolution to the past they shared. What was given with one hand was taken with the other. That was the way of the world. The way of the crown.
"You have always been a Stark in your heart," Vaelora murmured, voice softer now, meant only for Alson to hear. "No decree, no name, no father could decide that for you."
It was cruel, in a way, to offer her this. To give her the name she had longed for, the birthright she had bled for, while in the same breath, sealing the chasm that had long existed between them. It was a kindness, but it was also a finality. A quiet, unspoken acknowledgment that the lives they once imagined for themselves had unraveled beyond repair.
Vaelora studied her in the dim morning light, the memories between them hanging thick in the air—secrets whispered in dark corridors, stolen touches behind closed doors, oaths broken in the quiet hours of the night. It had been love, once. And then duty had made a ruin of it.
"They may not follow you now," Vaelora admitted, stepping closer, "but they will." Their voice did not waver, certainty threading through every word. "And even if they do not, even if your father turns his back, even if the North resists, you will still be what you have always been. You will be the liege of Winterfell, and no man will take that from you for as long as I breathe."
For a long moment, they simply looked at her, committing this to memory. When Alson finally spoke, when she gave her answer, Vaelora let out a slow, measured breath. There was no relief, not truly. They had known she would accept, just as they had known it would cost them both something.
Vaelora lifted their hand, hesitating only briefly before resting it atop hers, a ghost of the touch they once shared. "Then may the gods grant us both the strength to see it through." Their lips curved into something almost like a smile, but their eyes betrayed them. This was a victory, and yet, it felt like another loss.
Thorian had never been particularly close to his brothers. Though adopted at a young age, he had always felt like an outsider—different in both appearance and demeanor. Leaving for King's Landing at six-and-ten to serve as a Targaryen ward had only deepened the divide. The North had seen it as a betrayal, whispering of his disloyalty, while his own kin viewed him as the brother who abandoned them for dragons and politics. But Thorian had never sought to forsake his family—only to elevate them. Every decision he made, every calculated move, had been in service of House Karstark, ensuring their place in the ever-shifting game of power. Yet, ambition had left him isolated. Time and war had made him an estranged brother, a distant son. But war also had a way of showing a man what truly mattered. In the wreckage it left behind, Thorian had come to understand the value of bonds—those that could withstand ruin and bloodshed. His marriage to Jaenara had taught him that. And so, when the truce was called and Vaelora’s pardon freed Rickon from the war crimes Visenya had imposed upon him, Thorian had extended a hand to his youngest brother. Their correspondence over the past months had been a revelation. Rickon was sharp-witted, effortlessly funny, and possessed a quiet charm that could make him a great leader—if only he had the confidence to wield it. For the first time in years, Thorian felt the stirrings of something he had long thought lost—a true brotherhood. So, when he and Jaenara boarded her ship for King’s Landing to meet the Queen’s summons, Thorian had sent for Rickon as well. As the ship docked, his anticipation mounted, his gaze sweeping the crowd until he spotted a familiar figure on the pier. “Rickon!” Thorian called, his voice carrying over the bustle of the docks. Without hesitation, he quickened his pace, eager to close the distance between them. @prodixal
Thorian tightened his grip on the parchment as he stepped into the dimly lit chambers he shared with Jaenara. The weight of the past months clung to him like a storm that refused to break. They had spent their days piecing each other back together—mourning a king, mourning fathers, mourning the lives they had once envisioned for themselves. And yet, the tides of war did not stop for grief. Victory for the Velaryons felt like a dwindling dream, slipping further from their grasp with each passing day. Thorian had never doubted Jaenara’s right as a ruler, never wavered in his belief that she deserved more than what fate had handed her. But belief alone would not win them a future. And now, with Vaelora’s ascension—a queen who was proving to be far more merciful than her mother—Thorian could no longer ignore the shifting landscape of power. They had spoken of it in whispers, in the quiet of the night when no one else could hear. What future could they carve for themselves if they continued down this path? Could they afford to stake their lives on a cause that seemed more doomed by the day? These questions haunted him, refusing to be ignored any longer. And now, the parchment in his hands forced the matter to a head. He crossed the room, his jaw set, holding out the summons for Jaenara to take. “Vaelora is calling everyone to the Red Keep to discuss land and titles,” he said, his voice even, though his heart warred within him. “My love, we need to make a decision… a real one.” @rxdianced
"You were always the better braider," Vaelora murmured with a quiet chuckle, though the attempt at lightheartedness barely masked the weight in their voice. Their fingers moved through Helaena’s silver locks, weaving the strands with far less skill than their sister once had. The braid was uneven, a poor imitation of the intricate styles Helaena had mastered in their youth, but it wasn’t the perfection of it that mattered. It was the act itself—a simple, fleeting moment between sisters amidst the chaos that had consumed their lives. Helaena’s return to the castle had been a balm to a wound Vaelora hadn’t realized was still bleeding. The months without her had been lonelier than they dared admit, her absence another fracture in a family already splintered beyond recognition. Even with their mother gone—a woman whose cruelty left scars on them all—the halls of the Red Keep felt emptier. Loss was still loss, no matter how complicated the grief. It had made Vaelora cling to what remained, holding their siblings closer than ever, as if sheer will alone could keep them together. Vaelora threaded their fingers through the silken strands one last time before meeting Helaena’s gaze in the mirror of her vanity. A quiet hum escaped them before they offered a soft, self-deprecating smile. "I did my best," they mused, tilting their head as if appraising their work. "Thankfully, my reign won’t be judged on my ability to braid hair." A small laugh passed their lips, but the levity was short-lived. A beat of silence settled between them before Vaelora squeezed Helaena’s shoulders, their grip firm yet gentle, grounding themselves in the warmth of her presence. "Thank you for coming back, Helaena," they whispered, their voice barely more than a breath. Vulnerability was a rare thing for Vaelora now, but if there was anyone they could allow themselves to be soft with, it was their sister. "It brings me great strength to have us all under the same roof again." They held Helaena’s gaze for a moment longer, memorizing the curve of her face, the serenity in her expression. They knew—deep in their bones, as sure as the tides—that these moments would not last. That war, duty, and fate would pull them apart again. And so, they lingered, committing every detail to memory. Because soon enough, moments like these—small, intimate, fleeting—would become nothing more than echoes of what once was. @fyrebrandd
Vaelora stood amidst the gardens, a rare reprieve from the suffocating walls of the council chamber. The scent of blooming jasmine clung to the air, carried by the soft breeze, and for a fleeting moment, they allowed themselves to breathe. Since the truce—and their mother’s fall—so much had changed. Though they had long acted as a shadow ruler behind her, stepping into power fully felt like drowning in an ocean that gave no mercy. Duty demanded them to rise with the sun and rest only when exhaustion seized them; sleep had become a luxury, one they had not tasted since the war began. This change of scenery was necessary, if only to remind them that the realm still held beauty despite all it had suffered. Today, they had called for Emir Hightower, their brother-in-law, to meet them here. His marriage to Princess Helaena had been one of the few joys Vaelora had witnessed in recent months—a union of quiet strength, a beacon of stability in uncertain times. Emir was a valiant man, one of honor and unwavering loyalty, who had served both his house and the Targaryens with distinction. What they intended to grant him today was not merely a gift but a well-earned reward. In their hands, Vaelora held a royal decree. With a single stroke of ink, House Hightower would be named the new defenders of the Reach, displacing House Tyrell, and lifting their status to a Great House amongst the realm. Lands, titles, and prestige would all fall under Emir’s banner. They planned to announce it at the emergency council, where they would address the growing unrest—the fractures within the realm, the rise of the religious zealots in the west. Yet this meeting held another purpose. They wished to name Emir as their Master of Laws. Another war loomed, not one fought with steel, but with faith and fear. The people needed to see that the holiest house stood against this heresy. They needed Emir to denounce the cult, to stand at Vaelora’s side when the realm’s future was decided. As Emir approached, they offered him a warm smile, though their posture remained regal, arms crossing before them in quiet authority. "Good morning, Lord Hightower. I appreciate you meeting me at such an early hour," Vaelora greeted, their voice measured yet warm. "I needed fewer ears awake for the conversation we are about to have." @crowndgods
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alson begins to open her mouth but vaelora quickly tells her that the state of the great houses was not the reason they were here. her eyebrows knotted over her forehead as vaelora places a parchment on the table and slides it over to her.
she hesitates for a moment before taking the paper and reading what has been written upon it. it was a royal decree to pardon alson from the queensguard. she didn't understand. vaelora's words were kind, speaking earning it but being dismissed from the guard was a dishonor. the only times in the past that it had been done was from treason or not protecting their king or in vaelora's case to become heir. has she done something to displease them? she has been nothing but supportive and respectful. she turned her back on her family. she had put her feelings behind her and tried to not let their history get in the way of their duty. six months of sitting by their side as they tried to put the realm back together. how could vaelora just push her away with the mark of a quill?
but then her eyes continue on down the page and she realizes what it actually was. vaelora wasn't just pardoning her from the guard, she was making her a stark, legitimizing her. the one thing alson has wanted since she was ten years old and had learned that she was jasper stark's bastard.
she would be alson stark.
"i-" they started, throat tightening with emotions. "i don't know what to say." she tries to wrap her mind around it. "you would make me a stark?"
“You need only say yes or no,” Vaelora assured her, their voice steady but gentle. They rose from their seat, crossing the space between them not as a sovereign but as a friend—one who knew the weight Alson carried, the battles she had fought long before the war had ever begun.
This was the Vaelora Alson had known best, the one who spoke not from duty but from something deeper, something truer. For all the power their crown had afforded them, this—righting a wrong that had shadowed Alson’s entire life—was one of the few things they could do that felt wholly just.
“A Stark,” Vaelora said softly, letting the name settle between them, as if speaking it aloud could rewrite history itself. “And the ruling liege.”
It was, above all, a restoration of what had been stolen from Alson. But beyond that, it was a calculated move—a necessary one. With Winterfell in her hands, the realm had a chance at unity, even if it felt like a fragile hope.
“I do hope you can convince your father and siblings to stand with us,” Vaelora admitted, their lips curving into a faint, wistful smile. “The kingdom needs them now more than ever.”
They would not beg. Alson’s loyalty had never been in question. But the weight of the moment lingered between them, heavy with all the things left unspoken—the burdens of duty, their once shared intimacy, the scars of war, and the quiet understanding that this choice, more than any blade or banner, could change everything.
when alson had received her summons to speak with vaelora, she thought nothing of it. there were many such summons in the six months since vaelora had taken their mother's seat on the iron throne. while it was still hard to be around them, alson had more pressing matters to focus on than her heart. lost family, lost friends, lost queen. much had happened in that war. she was happy to help vaelora and do her duty to the crown. it was what she knew how to do, it was second nature to her.
they stepped into the small council chamber and stopped before the table. their hands went to her belt as she looked at them. "of course, your grace," alson says with a bow of her head before taking a seat on the side of the table. not too close to her, a chair in between them, but close enough for their familiarity they had.
"the keep has been filling up with all those who have answered your summons, i have faith that our mission will come to fruition." she assumed that was what vaelora wanted to speak about, the politics of their positions.
Alson remarked that Vaelora’s summons of the great houses—regardless of their allegiances—would lead to a fruitful discussion. Vaelora had her doubts. The fractures in the realm ran deep, and peace felt more like a distant hope than an impending reality. Still, she held onto faith that some agreement could be reached.
But that was not why she had called Alson to the council chamber today.
“Your words are kind, Alson, but that is not the purpose of this meeting,” Vaelora said, sliding a parchment across the table toward her. “I have something to offer you—something you have more than earned.”
She gestured for Alson to read.
The parchment bore a royal decree, releasing Alson from the Queensguard and the oath that had bound her to a life without title, land, or marriage. After all the loss she had endured, this was what Vaelora could give her: freedom. A future of her own making. More than that, the decree named Alson as the ruling liege of Winterfell, restoring her as a true Stark.
“There is no one more deserving of this honor than you,” Vaelora said softly, a rare warmth in her tone. “It is the least I can do after all you have sacrificed. This will not only restore House Stark but ensure its pardon, binding our houses together once more.”
A small smile touched her lips. She hoped Alson would see this for what it was—not just duty, but gratitude.
The past six months had been relentless. Since their mother’s passing, the fragile truce, and the worsening famine among the smallfolk, Vaelora had scarcely found a moment to breathe, let alone entertain anything beyond the weight of their duties. Holding the realm together in the midst of war had become an unending battle of its own. Though the conflict remained at a stalemate, it loomed ever-present, a storm on the horizon. The growing unrest surrounding Sulvan’s cult only added to the chaos, demanding their time between endless meetings and exhausting journeys across the realm—negotiating trade routes, searching for ways to ease the famine with what little resources remained. Yet today’s meeting had been meticulously planned, set in motion weeks ago. Vaelora had summoned Alson to the small council chamber, ensuring they would speak in private. Seated at the head of the table, a handful of parchments laid neatly before them. At the sight of Alson, Vaelora offered a warm smile. “Alson,” they called from their seat, gesturing for the commander to join them. “Thank you for coming. Please, sit.” @trcshcans
THE TRIP WAS ONE THAT CERSHA WAS RELUCTANT TO TAKE . not that she would voice such things , especially not now as vaelora was mending from battle , as the realm was in such a fragile state ; as a usurpation was at their door . but perhaps because of all these things cersha was reluctant . this was a crucial time to be away from court . one that she would be kept well informed with of course ( whispers were fortunately reliable ) , but a crucial time nonetheless . and to be so removed from it felt like a voluntary severing that cersha found difficulty to resonate with . and yet this is what vaelora needed . what they asked for . cersha tried to remind herself of that . that in being here she was perhaps performing her duties as a wife . such a thought does little to sooth her frayed nerves . and yet she does not allow such friction to show . can't do so . she does not know what vaelora sees but she tries to keep control of it all the same . so it is with a sweetness that she smiles , an elegance even as some part of her internally is startled at the unexpected touch . vaelora seems to have no such reservations . it comes as easily to them as perhaps breathing and cersha has to briefly wonder at it . for the first time in a long time cersha has to ponder sincerity . for if vaelora does see why would this treatment be the reaction . her mind twists itself with it . and yet it is with a purposeful warmth of fondness in her eyes that cersha allows her gaze to meet vaelora's over her shoulder . " it does indeed please me ." cersha replies warmly , her eyes crinkling with the smile she gives them . and there is indeed a thread of truth in the words . the opulence of braavos around them truly is beautiful . vaelora has done well by all accounts and cersha perhaps should be pleased with the results . and in some ways she is . there is a certain pride that she has married well , that vaelora has the powerful and influence to do such a thing . and yet cersha cannot quite bring herself to enjoy it . perhaps it is her failing . happiness has never come easily to her . how could it , when there were more pressing matters at hand than something as fleeting as joy ? she has truly never understood how people did it . how one could surrender in such a way . how vaelora could . and yet she can acknowledge that it is good to see them doing so . that perhaps that is the purpose of this in truth . she pats a hand to the pair their have joint over her stomach , and the gesture is purposefully affectionate . " it is truly very beautiful ." cersha nods as she brings a hand to vaelora's jaw , " the movement soft as she says , " you have perhaps spoiled us both ." an arch of her brow before she gestures the room with her chin . " that is of course , if this is also to your liking ?"
The golden hues of the setting sun bathed the balcony in warm light as Vaelora pulled Cersha forward, their grip firm yet gentle. "Only the best for my wife," they murmured, a soft smile curving their lips. The scent of salt filled the air as they stepped outside, the vast waters of Braavos stretching endlessly beneath them. Across the bay, the city thrived—ships gliding in and out of the harbor, their sails catching the wind, while distant voices carried over the waves, blending into the rhythmic crashing of the tide. It was a rare moment of peace, a world away from war.
For the first time in what felt like ages, Vaelora allowed themself to breathe. They had not heard of Velaryon movements in weeks, but the silence unsettled them. No matter. Not here, not now. King’s Landing was but a short flight away should duty call them back sooner than expected. But tonight, there was only this—Cersha, the sea, and a fleeting respite from the weight of the crown.
They turned toward Cersha, their gaze softening. "I've arranged for us to dine on Braavosi delicacies tonight, paired with the finest wine they had to offer. Tomorrow, we'll explore the markets—I want you to have new dresses, jewels, anything you desire. Fret not, it is from my own savings. And especially new things for the baby," they added, voice laced with certainty.
Vaelora did not know, not truly. But dragonsblood ran deep in their veins, and they believed in it more than anything.
They brushed a stray lock of hair from Cersha’s face, their touch lingering. "Does this please you, my lioness?" Their voice dipped into something softer, reverent. "Will you tell me if you are too tired? I wish for you to rest as well."
Silence is deafening, and he is looking around calm and steady. At the first sight of movement, the arrow flies out his hand into the chest of a man breaking free of the trees. He's quick to reach for a new arrow, meeting the shoulder of another man now rushing to his left. Yet the shot does not keep him down, and instead it gives time for the rest of the ambush to follow behind. His mind starts ringing, calculating the possibilities that might yet transpire. And without a thought or his eyes averting, he drops the bow to unsheathe his sword and cuts the hand clean off the man now behind him. The man screams as he backs away, and Rickon pulls Daenya back closer to himself as his eyes shift once more to the remaining eight that approached more slowly, more patiently. They were surrounded, and there was nowhere for her to run. "Remember how Alec and I used to trick Ser Umber as kids?" his brows rise, reminding her of a way his brother would distract their master of arms, as Rickon slipped right by him, or underneath him, to hit him from the back. Umber hated the trick, 'there is no honour in killing a man from behind' he would say. And yet now it is all he could think of. The only trick up his sleeve. "You're quick -- you got this." he eyes out the weakest link, he could take two men down, distract the one in the middle just enough for her to slip away. And the rest was up to the gods. She would not be dying, nor he taken, not today. "When you slip by him, you run." he says, eyes focused on the circle formed around them, getting closer and closer still. And yet he will let his eyes find her, strict and full of conviction. "You run."
@crcwninferncs
REPLY FOR: rickon & soryn @crcwninferncs !
IT ALL QUICKLY BECOMES A BLUR . she is dodging and she is twisting a knife . she is backing away and she is lunging . she slashes the blade over the length of a man's arm as she dodges a blow and his scream rings in her ears . she slices at the side of a man's throat and the blood comes more quickly than she would expect . he recovers more quickly too . daeny's hands tighten around the blade . her jaw clenches tight . it is only as rickon pulls her back , as a man loses a hand , that the world seems to slow down enough for daeny to truly hear it . and what she hears is childhood stories of ser umber . daeny doesn't even have a moment to be bewildered as she stands firm with her knife . it just a moment of understanding followed by a second moment of stark realization as rickon continues . daeny somehow finds at least a split second to be horrified . " i cannot leave you ." the very idea seems somehow impossible . to leave rickon behind here while she runs to safety ? with eight men and only one of him ? daeny's jaw clenches tight . " i will not leave you ." it is all well and good to say , and to do it is another problem entirely . daeny has to wonder briefly if she would even see warnings of her own death . if those dreams would even come to her . her hands tighten around the hilt of the blade . " we shall trick ser umber and we will stay together ." daenya says with a stubbornness as she meets rickon's gaze in turn . perhaps the distraction will be enough for one man to fall , or two if they are lucky . three if they are struck by a miracle . daeny brings her eyes back to the men surrounding them with a fierce addition of , " i will not leave you to die ."
Soryn and her knights had spent days tracking Princess Daenya and her so-called captor, Rickon Karstark. In truth, Soryn doubted Daenya was being held against her will—but facts didn’t matter. Appearances did. And the reality was damning: Daenya had vanished alongside a Karstark, a boy whose entire family had declared for the Velaryons. By blood alone, he was a traitor to the crown.
Sorry, pal. Soryn thought dryly as they galloped through the dense woods, the road stretching endlessly before them.
Then—shouting. The unmistakable clash of steel.
An ambush. But who was fighting whom? There was no time to wonder. Soryn dug her heels into her horse’s sides, urging it into a full sprint. The Queensguard followed without hesitation, their armor gleaming in the flickering light between the trees. As they broke through the clearing, the chaos unfolded before her—Rickon and Daenya, locked in battle against a group of armed assailants.
"DAENY, MOVE!" Soryn roared. Her horse surged forward, leaping over one of the attackers, hooves kicking up dirt and debris. The Queensguard wasted no time, cutting through their foes with practiced efficiency, cutting half of them down in mere moments.
Soryn swung herself off her horse, boots hitting the ground hard as she moved between Daenya and the fray. "Get behind me," she ordered, sword already raised. Around them, her men were locked in their own battles, steel flashing and blood spraying into the dirt.
She barely spared Rickon a glance before smirking, pointing her blade toward the two men barreling toward them. "Hey, kidnapper," she quipped, "think you can handle that one?"
A sharp grin. "Better move quick, or you'll lose your head in record time."
Soryn chuckled as a six-foot-something brute charged toward her and Daenya, his sword raised like a reaper’s scythe. "Gods, your mother is definitely upping my pension for this," she quipped to the princess, a teasing lilt to her voice.
The man’s blade came down fast, but Soryn was faster. She caught the strike with her own sword, steel ringing against steel. "C’mon, big boy," she taunted, pushing back against his weight. "This is the most fun I’ve had this whole trip."
Then, without warning, she leapt—catching him off guard as she brought her sword crashing down onto his skull. He crumpled instantly, a dead weight hitting the forest floor with a dull thud.
As the battle around them quieted, Soryn surveyed the scene. Bodies littered the forest floor, the remnants of the ambush left bleeding in the dirt. She sheathed her sword with a satisfied nod, planting her hands on her hips. "Well, that was fun, right?" she asked, glancing around at her companions.
A silent beat passed.
Then Soryn snapped her fingers, a look of mock realization flashing across her face. "I knew I was forgetting something!"
She turned to Rickon, grinning. "Hey, kidnapper, I kinda need your head," she said, tone almost apologetic. "You know… for my aunt. No hard feelings, right?"
With an easy chuckle, she drew her sword once more.
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The war had stilled, if only for the moment. The eerie quietness that enveloped the keep felt almost unnatural, a stark contrast to the chaos and cries that had echoed through its halls just weeks before. Vaelora found her duties easing as her mother, reinvigorated by their recent victory, began to take a more active role in court and command. One restless night, the princess had turned to her wife with an idea—a brief escape to Braavos. The weight of war and its lingering tragedies pressed heavily upon the keep, casting a shadow over even the most joyous moments. Vaelora had suggested the trip not just as a reprieve, but as a chance to breathe again, to remember themselves beyond the roles they played in battle and court. Convincing Cersha had been easier than expected. Perhaps her wife, ever perceptive, had sensed how much they both needed this. And so, the arrangements had been made. A raven had flown to Braavos to prepare for their arrival, ensuring a suite on one of the private islands where the sea and its solitude could embrace them. The flight had been a serene journey, the skies stretching endlessly, unmarred by the smoke of war. Stormfyre, Vaelora’s proud companion, soared with measured grace, as if sensing the preciousness of her cargo. Vaelora held Cersha tightly throughout the journey, the wind carrying them forward but silencing any words. Still, the closeness was enough—a quiet reassurance that even here, amidst the clouds, they were together. Their arrival at the sea-kissed castle was met with a grandeur Vaelora had not entirely anticipated. The Sealord’s servants greeted them with impeccable hospitality, their bows deep and their words dripping with deference. It was not Vaelora’s first visit to Braavos, and she suspected the warmth of their welcome had as much to do with her purse as her presence. When they finally reached their chambers, even Vaelora was taken aback. Though smaller than the sprawling quarters they shared in King’s Landing, the room radiated an opulence that Braavos was famed for. The walls were adorned with intricate murals of sea battles and merchant ships, the gold filigree catching the flicker of candlelight. Beyond the grand bed, double doors led to a balcony that stretched over the water, the sound of waves lapping at the shore creating a soothing melody. Vaelora approached Cersha from behind, a warm smile curving her lips. Wrapping her arms gently around her wife’s midsection, she rested her chin on Cersha’s shoulder, her voice low and tender. “The Sealord promised our stay would be nothing short of grand, but even I did not expect this,” she murmured, her gaze drifting over the room before settling on the tranquil expanse of the sea. “Does it please you, my love?” Her tone carried a quiet hum, as if the answer truly mattered more than anything else. @ironlamb
Status: Closed ft. Thorian @crcwninferncs & Jaenara Location: Driftmark; Cliffs
A soft, misty rain fell as Jaenara watched the sun rise behind a veil of gray clouds. Her legs dangled over the cliff’s edge, where frothy waves pounded relentlessly against the jagged rocks below. In the distance, Dreggon lay peacefully nestled among the sea-slick stones that jutted from the water.
Sleep had evaded her, her thoughts spiraling from one torment to the next: her brother’s lifeless body laid out on a cold slab, her sister’s anguished sobs muffled in her arms, the war council’s rage-filled deliberations, the bloodstained, fiery sea at Rook’s Rest, and the dying sailors gasping for breath aboard her ship. Each memory clawed at her until she felt ill. When the stars began to fade, she had thrown on a dress and cloak, fleeing to the one place that had always offered solace.
She had no sense of how much time had passed aside from the small slivers of morning light that managed to slip through the rainclouds, lost as she was in the tempest of her thoughts. But she wasn’t so far gone that she failed to hear the squelch of wet footsteps behind her. In an instant, the cliff’s edge no longer felt like a sanctuary but a perilous threat. She leapt to her feet, spinning away from the drop, her knife already in hand.
Her breath caught as she found herself face-to-face with Thorian.
“Oh,” she exhaled, her relief pouring out in a shaky sigh. “You startled me. Why didn’t you announce yourself?”
Thorian stood still against the misty rain, his dark cloak heavy with moisture but his expression calm, as though the storm both outside and within her could not unsettle him. He offered no apology for his silent approach, his gaze steady on her, reading the tension that rippled beneath her relief.
"I didn't wish to disturb you," he said simply, his voice low and quiet, meant for her ears alone amidst the roar of the sea. "You looked like you were fighting something—and I thought it best not to interrupt."
He glanced past her to the churning waves below, the sharp rocks glistening like teeth in the gray morning light. His brow furrowed slightly, a shadow passing over his features before his gaze returned to her. "But seeing you so close to the edge, I realized it wasn't a battle you should face alone."
He stepped closer, his movements deliberate, giving her time to lower her blade and catch her breath. The wind carried the faint scent of salt and rain between them, and when he spoke again, his tone was softer. "You've had the weight of worlds on your shoulders, Jaenara. Grief, loss, war—each one a tide threatening to pull you under. No one would blame you for wanting to steal a moment for yourself here."
His eyes searched hers, not with pity but with understanding. "But even sanctuary can become peril when the storm follows you. Let me share the burden, if only for a while. You don’t need to carry it all alone, my love."
