Thereβs an island buried amidst sharp waves and stones, the silver mouth of the Sunset Sea, and from its depths, come only darkness and death, the cold bareness of winter.
Its people are bred hard and callous, iron and salt in their veins; ice and storm in their hearts. It is claimed that old magic thrums in their veins; that they can enter an animalβs mind and command it do their bidding, lure passing ships toΒ destructionΒ with false lights, and feed upon the flesh of men they capture amongst the wreckage during long winters. The days are grey and the nights black, except when lightning lights the sky above the peaks of their tower.
From it comes the lady Ayenna of House Farwynd, with winter in her heart and ice upon the dark silk of her black hair, she brings to mind a winter morning: sharp, untouchable, spiteful in her furious desire for the world entire, aloof; detached. Born daughter to ruling lordΒ Ygon Farwynd the Mad, she was brought into the world on the shores of the SIlver Mist, her mother strange and terrible and fair, so very outrageously fair: by the Gods, the fairest of them all, Lord Ygonβs only salt wife brought over from the Sunset Sea,Β flaming with old blood and secret magics, a powerful bloodmage and apostate priestess of the Great Other, hailing from Asshai (many tongues would later whisper the ladyΒ VexannaΒ had come from beyond the Shadow Lands, with bastard Valyrian blood in her veins, and malice in her heart- she had bewitched their lord and master of the Lonely light no doubt, for him to put aside rock wife and duty, and have neither mind nor eye for anything besidesΒ her).Β
Such love he bore Vexanna, it drove him half toΒ madness; Ayenna favoured by him despite the venom the lady Hirine, her fatherβs rock wife whispered in any ear that cared to listen; she, so very alike her mother and always at her side, flaming brighter than her even, a quiet, strange child, with strangely bright eyes and flame in her smile. Ayenna clung to her Lady Mother as shadow clings to body, and learned of her, in the the shadows, the old magic that pulsed in her veins; the lady Vexanna, so very beautiful, it stopped the breath, too often whispered, the only truth she meant to let into her heart was by her lips.Β
Yet soon, the madness overtook the Lord Ygon, and with it, a terrible, unnatural fever seized him; his sons and daughters, had been dying by such strange a fever too since the beginnings of that dreadful winter; and then, those whispers, became howls, became fury in the mouth of the Drowned God priest, poison and malice flung against the lady Vexanna and her child, accused of cursing their blood and land with ill intent. Half delirious with pain and grief, the lord Ygon, unable to take her life, banished her mother to exile beyond the Sunset Sea.
Ayenna, with mother gone, was left with nothing but the shadows she had left behind to drown their shared chambers, and dark, bitter fury rose in her heart like a flood, with every insult flung her Motherβs way, every abuse done her in the shadows. Her father did not take long to recover; and with him back to full health, another sort of madness overtook him, his heart forever seized by dark, coldΒ griefΒ and furious rage that nothing ever seemed to be able to soothe with Vexanna gone by his own hand. His love for AyennaΒ flamed, too brightly, but he could not bear to look upon her face, and treated her with such cruel, sharp detachment, it made her rage only grow, the only joy given to her, by the savage execution father ordered upon his priest that had shrieked venom and driven him to sendΒ his loveΒ away.Β
Before the Summer came, the lady Hirine was dead in her bed. That, too, gave her such joy that she did not bother hide. Her brothers hated her for it; so did her sister.Β
Later, she was sent to be fostered upon the island of Harlaw for a moon, where her lady aunt dwelt, and her lord father would not have to look upon a face that grieved him so; Ayenna went where she was told obediently;Β apathetically; nothing mattered but Motherβs truth and the Great One that would come to cleanse the world from allΒ falsehoods and bring with it the promised Long Night.Β
Ayenna cared for nothing but the power that burned coldly in her blood and the Fate mother had too often promised.
She dabbled in the shadows with her God, andΒ waited. Father tried to give her away for bride to the Volmarks, but the man she was meant to marry, vanished in the waves beyond the Shivering Sea; his ship never to be recovered.
Later, she was given for bride to the Drumms. Her betrothal lasted far too long with her lord too often far away to the seas, but once returned to the Iron Isles, a great feasting was held for them; her older sister, widowed and childless, plied him with rum and ales and took her betrothed to the bed that night, with ill intent and spiteful purpose, making sure the whole of the Lonely Light would know.
The betrothal broke and her sister was given to the only man she had ever loved for wife, instead, with new life swelling her belly.
Apathetically, she did not fight it.Β
Now, too long left without husband and children, she has been betrothed to lord Aldric Harlaw of the Ten Towers ( @aldricharlaw ) and sent to meet him upon the Mainland where heβs been summoned by his older brother, Dramon.Β
She comes with selfish intent; the promise given her byΒ GodΒ and Mother, at long last nearing its fulfilment - or so she believes, glimpsing it in the gathering gloom that threatens to engulf the land.Β
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Men were in their cups as readily as they would soon be prowling the silk streets for any lady of the night who would take their gold dragons and lead them into their beds; an almost sickening sight for the Tarly lord. His father would have scoffed at the debauchery, pulled Wyllam aside and spat upon the so-called honor of those debasing themselves on the kingβs orders and the kingβs wealth. Wealth he only had because of the bountiful harvests of the Reach and the miners in the Westerlands, and the taxes imposed on all, his father would remind him. His father, however, wasnβt here and never would be again. He laid in the Tarly crypts now, along with every other Lord Tarly, next to the plot that would one day be Wyllamβs own final resting place.Β
It was a dark thought, so Wyllam drank to purge it from his mind, his eyes following the lords and ladies and serving girls and bastards as they sang and danced and made merry with their lavish jewels and audacious displays of wealth and influence. House Tarly needed no such displays, he knew. The Valyrian sword hanging at his hip was enough. He finished his wine, a dry, bitter red from somewhere in Dorne, and sighed, turning on his heel to trackdown a server and see if he could be brought honey wine from the Reach instead when the commotion began. A server rushing toward a screeching lord so quickly he did not see the lady in his path, his tray tipping as the wine atop it spilled to the vocal dismay of the surrounding lords. It was only his quick reaction that had his fingers curling around the ladyβs cup, only a small splash of wine falling onto the back of his hand and running toward his wrist, his other hand pulling her towards himself to save her from hitting the wall. As soon as she was settled on her feet he shot a seething glare at the serving boy, stopping his stuttering apologies in their track before he scurried off, his face as red as his wine stained shirt.Β
βThe boy should have been less focused on drunken fools and more focused on the path he was taking to them.β The Lord answered gruffly, his eyes finally landing on the lady as he clasped his hands behind his back politely. βThus you needn't thank me, my lady, though you should not be without an escort, with men so deep in their cups.β
Her hand slipped from his arm with a parting, faint squeeze of gratitude, swiftly recollecting her habitual poise, icily proud and perfectly presented. With a toss of her head, she tousled her long ebony curls, huffed, a sharp, faint sound, something between stifled laghter steeped in amusement and acknowledgement. Indeed; the hour was far too late, and men too far into their cups for high ladies and their handmaids to be prowling the halls without an escort.
A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, singing of their Good King's fierce valour ( how poetically amusing! ) and many great deeds with such fervor, it made her half believe it (she, too, had found herself in cups that she was not normally inclined to favour) but down at the end of the grand hall where now they stood, his voice could scarcely be heard above the furious roar of the fire blazing at the hearth, the clangor of pewter plates and cups overspilling with sour ales and fine wines brought from the land all over, and the low mutter of a hundred drunken conversations: men grunting through gritted teeth and howling in racuous laughter, attacking each dish and cup served to them like starving men and spitting jests at each other across the benches, their voices harsh and alien in her ears, full of boastful pride that made her lips, so very cold and sweet with lipstick, curl into a disdainful sneer.
Yet, daughter of Ygon Farwynd, with iron in her blood and pride her crowning glory, Ayenna had not yet been driven away by such displays that she was not entirely a stranger to. Sleep would not come soon to find her, either, she well knew; the moon tides had gotten into her blood, and she had much intrigue to witness what the night held in its shadows. β I am afraid my escort has abandoned me... And where I come, the men are seldom out of them. β a jest, her face exceedinly aloof and smooth, like still, dark waters. She drew the velvet cape draped over proud, shapely shoulders, tight around her and very languidly, idly, toyed with the devilline stone hang upon her slim throat. β you do not seem to much enjoy the feast yourself, either, my lord... Yet I suppose it's rather to my benefit, that something's kept you from your sleep. I would be loathe to ruin my new dress. β the glimmers of a faint smirk sparkled upon her mouth. Black-bright eyes shone in the firelight, now gleaming, dark obsidians. β again; my warmest thanks. you are much too kind. β
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Baela stood near one of the tables where plenty of drinks and food were in display. She had to admit, the Baratheons certainly knew how to throw a party, even though she would still rather be back at Blacktyde Castle. There was so much small talk one can handle and Baela has pretty much reached her limit. She knew that this was a good opportunity to try and find a betrothal for herself, but she had yet to come across anyone interesting. As she sipped on her wine, the familiar figure of Ayenna approached her and the ruling lady couldn't help the smile that spread across her lips. "Lady Ayenna, it's good to see you again." She greeted the other with a nod of her head. "Well, one would think that with the amount of failed betrothals between our families, the possibility of a new one would be completely discarded at this point." A small laugh left her lips as she titled her head to the side. "Congratulations on your betrothal though."
Β ββ I suppose it wouldβ¦ I fear my lord brother has yet to overcome the pain of its loss.β the lady Farwynd alluded, the glimmers of a rather aloof, elusive smirk upon the soft arch of her mouth, which soon, too, parted in quiet, sharp laughter as fire-bright black eyes flitted over to where her younger brother, who sat exceedingly rigidly amidst the crowds on the benches, was staring openly and with a strange gleam in his eyes, at the lady Blacktyde to the raucous delight of the youths gathered around him, who urged him on with shoves and jeers. Ayenna felt only a little sorry for him. Β He must have drunk more wine than he had realized, for he neither bolted nor reacted to the teasing, nor to his sister sharp glance.
The sounds of music and song spilled through the grand hall, filling the air with breathless joy and laughter, and a soft, sweet draft poured through the half opened windows, stirring the fires burning at the two grand hearths to keep the many high lords and noble ladies, warm.
Languidly reaching over to the table so that she might refill Baela's glass, Ayenna deigned to smile brighter, still, that lovely, icy gleam in her eyes, bestowed now upon her old friend whom she had once called, a sister. She offered the cup to her, said, thank you, Baela, the black silks of her gown shimmering under the firelight, her hair a cascade of ebony curls under a jeweled net, flowing as she moved.
β and let it be my last one! I've grown dreadfully weary of it all. β she huffed, plainly only jesting; a jest the lady Baela would surely well understand; Ayenna had now been given for bride four times; one lost to the seas; one lost to the blade. One lost to her sister. The Lord Harlaw would not be taken from her. β and what of you, sister? β she returned, wanting to hear how she had fared not out of mere pleasantry, but genuinely having a care to listen.
βhow fortunate had he been to be away at sea all those years before, avoiding one betrothal arrangement after the next, until his father decided enough was enough; he wouldnβt end up childless and unwed like his uncle. though, following orders had never truly been his strong suit, when it came to his House he would do what he had to do without any opposition. even if that meant coming to Kingβs Landing to celebrate the name day of a Baratheon King he cared nothing about. for whatever reason they had believed it best for them to meet during said celebrations, so this was the first time they were to meet with the Lady Farwynd after their betrothal was made known to them. the first time his family had heard of the news, it was met by a cacophony of complaints by his good mother and youngest sister. Lord Harlaw would have none of it; quite frankly, it found Aldric agreeable; if it had been arranged, then they absolutely would not take their word back simply because the women of the family thought of it as such an iill-considered and rushed decision to make by their Lord. βI wonβt have the witchβs daughter in my home, who cursed the whole of Farwynd house!βΒ Lady Ariyana screamed before storming out of the room to let the men talk as her firstborn son practically commanded. though not particularly thrilled with the idea either, a thought that he kept to himself, it served a purpose as all unions do, and itβd better serve it well for what was in plans; knowing Lord Farwynd, the old man would surely not let such an opportunity pass.
Β the conversation between the two brothers came to a halt as the Lady of the hour was finally approached them. Aldric thought she looked rather beautiful draped in her raven silks, witch or not. though he found her unashamed approach rather amusingβand he would rather have that than a meek rock wife who would be too scared to even look at himβhis expression remained perfectly void of any hint of said amusement. hmmβ¦Β was what she got in response, paired with a momentary arch of an eyebrow. blue eyes studied her as she fixed his collar; it was true that she was of striking beauty, eyes black like tide in a moonless night at sea, coming in contrast to how fair her skin was. his eyes remained well on her as she proceeded to feel him up, unbothered by Drammonβs laughter in the back. his brotherβs amusement was more funny to him.
βthen youβd dislike Essos." Aldric stated it somewhat factually. looking at her from head to toe, being in no particular rush as he did so, before meeting her eyes once more.Β βyouβve never been far from the Iron Islands?β he questioned her statement: for having been in the sea, they have known sun and rain just as much as cold and snow. it was hard to imagine that an ironborn had never been on a ship for at least a moon or two.
βmm... How very fiendishly perceptive...β the lady Farwynd drawled, amusement plainly obvious in her voice; fiendishly handsome, too, went unuttered; there was something dark in him; something cold and sharp. Iron and steel. A rumsoaked, salt-rimed outrageous pirate, her lord brother had once cold him, son of his Fatherβ a joyless cunt. I could find no one better for you, the Lord Ygon had roared with laughter, and Yenna had said not one word, she had not once protested, had only apathetically accepted the proposal with a sly smile, had known it would come before it had. What is this brief mortal life if not the pursuit of legacy? And how best a woman can achieve that but by marriage bed and sons? Lord Ygon had said, and that too had been met only with a smile; laughter was later had when he had left her company.
Heβs all sour mead and swagger and stories, they sayβAldric Harlaw has a compass that points to your heartβs desire; Aldric Harlaw prowled the dark lands of Asshai and sailed into Old Valyria, when most men who had dared the Smoking Sea had never returned; Aldric Harlaw sold his soul to the Drowned God for a black-sailed barque, the Black Tide, the largest ship in all of the known world and the unknown. Aldric Harlaw, Ayenna thought now, was perfectly fascinating. And amusing!
βoh, I do dislike Essos... All that unnatural heat wreaks havoc on my complexion. I am made for rain and seastorms.β she indifferently handed her black lace parasol to her handmaid, and offered her hand to Aldric, expecting him to followβ a walk near the ocean, she decided, would do the salt in their blood good. β how could I not have? Must I remind you whose daughter I am? β she huffed, only plainly jesting; it was well known after all, the Lord Ygon Farwynd well loved his ship beyond anything in the world (he had only loved, the lady Vexanna more than it, and that, too was myth and legend now ) and sea to him meant freedom; his father had once promised to lead the ironborn to lands beyond the Sunset Sea where every man would be a king; the son had not shut his ears to it. β you have lived your whole life at sea, I am told. β her strides, despite her petite stature, were structured in their elegance β long brush strokes of an almost ethereal advance. She deigned to smile, and touched his arm exceedingly softly as she allowed him to take the lead; Ayenna glowed with a burning, wild loveliness, emphasized in every detail, although that icy veil ever draped over her, had not warmed under the sun. Heat rose from the hot stones, and the salt air came to them in slow drifts, somehow wrong. Blackwater Bay burned like a fire fanned by breath and not the wind: it was all white sand and seas burning beneath a midday sun. The Iron Islands were ever plunged in silver, dark mists, delicate tendrils of anemone and the iridescent shimmer of mussel shells, sunlight glimmering in rock pools. β It must be terribly dreadful for you to be summoned here, to this tomb...so far away from theΒ Drowned Godβs watery halls. How does my lord bear the grief of it? I can only hope I can somehow lessen the torment.β she teased slightly, smiled less frostily now, and although there was something dark and elusive in that smile, the lady Farwynd, even to her surprise, meant it all the same. This man that had been given to her by the Great Other and not mere mortal man, would be the destiny promised her too long ago now; he was fire bright and thrummed with violence, but when you looked into his eyes,Β the seaΒ was still there, cold and grey and cruel. He would bring the Darkness. He would bring the Storm.
Stood far away from the merry making by choice, finding herself in need of prayer to her one true God, the lady Farwynd gazes at the ocean sprawling down below the balcony near which she stands very still, her breath stilled to near motionlessness, transfixed, as the moonlight coils around her with all the grace of a mythical serpent and her dark eyes glow unnaturally, strangely deep and malefic as she strains her senses to see what Darkness has to offer, what whispers her God murmurs for any ear that cares to hear it.
She looks otherworldly, heralded by the moon and stars, draped in black and silver silks, her shoulders bare under the frothy lace of her sleeves, languidly leaning against the wall as she whispers something very softly under her breath, a summons to the Great Other, and the darkness that hangs over the world around her grants her with its dark secrets.
Entranced, almost, a furious, cold energy thrumming all around her, she inhales exceedingly slowly, black eyes narrowing, searching the seas, as her mind fills with visions, half dreams and memories, synapses flashing. The shadows part and as the veil of Darkness lifts she sees only death and grief. The sharp pang of winter, terrible and drowning. Blood filling the icy slopes of a mountain, rivers of it dripping like a flood that threatens to upend the world entire, and black-bright rain filling the land. Somewhere on those mountains, a wolf howls.
Ayenna gasps, blinks rapidly, heart racing. Somewhere near her, footfall heralds an unexpected arrival. Torn from her reverie, she pries her eyes open and exhales sharply, drawing the light velvet cape draped over her shoulders, tighter about her. Something bitter rises in her throat, but she does not let it consume her. She gathers herself, an icy veil of indifferent detachment swiftly cast over herself as she returns to the world around her. She's exceptionally lovely as she stands coldly up right, with something of both the dark cold ocean and velvet in her. Her eyes are dark and moist, her mouth glows, sweet with lipstick; her skin reflects the starlight. When she speaks, her voice, so very cold and melodious, does not betray neither the spike in her pulse, nor her annoyance at the disruption of her reverie.
β I was feasting my eyes upon the view, which you are now blocking.β she informs the unexpected wanderer elusively, her smooth voice trailing off as she remains with her back pressed against the wall and her dark eyes gleaming like shards of obsidian. When she moves, the strangely bright devilline stone upon her throat, shimmers amidst the shadows that envelope her. The gentle breeze whips raven-black curls into her face that she does not deign to pull away again.
a gathering of musicians slowly evoked a myriad of songs amongst that cramped tavern -- dressing it in high spirits as night grew darker. it wouldn't take long till those within it commenced dancing, as first in organized manner, then in a blissful mess aella yearned for. " it would be a waste to stand in misery while they dance... " green eyes laid upon muse's figure, a mischievous glint giving away one's intentions. " besides, it would be rude to deny a lady one dance " a delicate sip of wine gave the arryn a bit of courage to offer muse her hand. " please, i'm afraid i might die from boredom if we remain seated. "
Β She spent what little time she could with Aldric; and then, with him and Dramon deep in their cups, with her handmaid, draped in naught but black silk and lace for her gown; more shadow than woman; a black, lavishly adorned flowing dress with an excessively tightened belt round her slim waist; masses of raven black, wild curls cascading down her back like spun silk; black eyes, deep and bright as a fathomless lake. Shadow. Opaque, aloof, so very unimpressed with everything around her; calculating quietly, a storm thrumming under her icy skin. They shared a bottle of Dornish red, she and her lady, and though the lady Farwynd had once had a good head for spiced rum and sour ale βLonely Light's court and father's many feasts had demanded suchβshe now found herself quiet astonishingly warm and loose. The bard retired for some time (in need of refreshment) β but the songs and stories continued,Β the skalds and loremasters each doing their best to surpass one another.Β
Afterwards, as the stars began to shine brighter still, and more people flowed onto the floors to dance, Ayenna found herself stalking the edges of the room, seeking once more, distraction from her stormed thoughts,Β watching the night's unfoldings in quiet, dark scrutiny, and now, would she have made for the fortune teller sat in the shadows amongst the crowds, if only to amuse herself, when an unfamiliar voice commanded her attention;Β she blinked in some surprise at theΒ noble lady near her and her proffered hand, and perfectly accentuated, sharp brows drew together as she swiftly considered the proposal. Bemused, she indulged this curious little bird flown into the shadows of her world, the glimmers of a sharp, elusive smile upon her lips as she pointedly stared at her hand. ββ you should be fairly warned; I've only just began to find my legs, here. what southerners deign to call dancing, I am afraid, vastly differs from what I am used to. βΒ with a mysteriously dark, haughty huff, she reached for her hand.
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Languidly, the lady Farwyndβ so very cold and aloof, dappled in fine silks and gleaming dark obsidians at her ears and round her slim throatβ she made her way through the bright halls brimming with firelight and torches blazing high all around them, the whole of the Keep pulsing with life: throngs of noble folk gathered around the hearth, chattering endlessly over their cups, laughter filling the air as well as the smell of incense, the grand hall where the feast was given, alive with light and voices raised in song and merry making. The lady Farwynd, more shadow than woman in her lavishly adorned black gown, kept her distance from the colourful crowds, wordlessly watching, chatting only with those that came to greet her first, unassuming, detached, aloof. She lifted the glass cradled in her left hand (gloved in black lace) to her mouth and drank, dark, gleaming eyes flaming brightly as candlelight spilled over her where she stood near the window. Far across the city, bells began to ring. Apathetically, Ayenna glanced up, listening, wondering what the ringing meant this time, what joys or sorrows they meant to summon upon their Good King's land. The thought made her want to snort in bemused disdain, but she did not. Slowly, she turned around instead, meaning to refill her glass as pageboys carrying trays laden with sweet wines and sour ales bustled all around her, and she would have done just that if not for the sudden intrusion upon her personal space; some unfortunate accident, no doubt, that granted her with an unexpected turn of events: gasping, she felt a man stumble wildly and push her violently towards the table, his tray toppling over, promising sure disaster, but just as abruptly, once more she felt someone else now descend upon them like thunder crackling across the skies, swift and breathless, expertly catching the glass of wine before it could be completely spilled all over her, his other hand swiftly seizing her by the waist, sparing her a painful collision with the nearest wall towards which the servant had pushed her in their haste.
Shock-stricken, Yenna gasped and palmed at her chest, which now rose and fell with quick, sharp breaths as she tried to regain her self-composure, and a look of utter disbelief was bestowed upon him as she turned around to thank her rescuer, clearly uninterested in the servant's frantic apologies. Strangely bright, lovely eyes flashed, and she pulled her dark curls from her cheek, said, regaining her proud, perfectly structured poise. β God. Were it not for you, I would have no doubt lost my balance. And my wine...β she huffed, and shining, dark eyes illuminated her entire face with a radiant luster as long eyelashes black as soot threw shadows over the pallor of her skin, β β you have my thanks, Ser. β she readily thanked the lord stood now before her.
Enveloped in black silks bejeweled with gleaming dark obsidians and clusters of onyx threaded through her skirts, the frothy, lacy, sheer black bell sleeves of her gown allowing generous glimpses at the delicate slopes of her shoulders and throat (upon which a choker made of silver and devillines gathered at the shores of Lonely Light, shone), the lady Ayenna of Farwynd (exceedingly aloof, opaque, half detached from everything around her) glowed with a fierce yet menacing beauty. Firelight spat and spilled over the floors from the torches hung upon the walls of the hall where the grand feast was given, and all around them was all heat and firelight, the raucous laughter of the nobles swarming the castle filling the air; it was all sequins flashing in a ballroom and necks laden with gold and silver, pearls and emeralds (excessive displays of decadence and lavish wealth), the slow sighing of the curtains in the breeze that was flowing into the hall from the half-opened windows, the high vaulted ceilings swathed in moonlight, a voice like a bell in the night singing of the good King's glory, spoons tinkling against the platters as the feast progressed and the food was served, and chandeliers sparkling. The whole of the court, pulsing with life.Β Yet, Ayenna remained, like untouched still waters, unbothered, unimpressed, unreachable, cold and ravishingly lovely.
Watching Aldric engage with a glass of Southern wine was an interesting spectacle, she soon discovered. It was difficult to say how much he drank, how much his brother, too, had been drinking since first the feast had begun. For once, Ayenna was not counting. The lady Farwynd herself was drinking quite heavily, abandoning her habitual abstinence from wines and ales, but the wine only seemed to make her more beautiful; a deep flush bore under the pallor of her skin, and her dark eyes had a bright, feverish heat to them as she looked down over the hall. She chatted casually with those within the immediate vicinity of their table, selectively rationing her attentions where she wanted. That was how she saw an old friend approach, out of the corners of her eyes. The conversation between her and one of the Harlaw thralls had drawn to a close, allowing Yenna to offer the lady Blacktyde her full attention. There was the beginnings of a slow half-smile, postured by the soft arch of her mouth as she approached her at the table, reaching for another glass of wine. β Lady Baela Blacktyde... β she greeted her smoothly, and for once that perpetually icy smirk that too often threaded itself to deep red lips, was replaced with a simpler, more genuine smile. β a dangerous thing for us to meet! some betrothal proposal is no doubt sure to follow and I am afraid I will be tempted to accept it, despite being promised to another. β she drawled, a jest; but then, a soft one. It was a pleasure to look on her again, a familiar face amidst so many strangers.
Two days after her arrival to the capital, the skies ceased to weep that dreadful, hot rain and the sun came out, fire-bright and flaming. The air steamed with a cloying, dry heat she could scarce tolerate and the lady Farwynd, normally, so very calm and still like dark, cold waters, was forced to give up her thick furs and velvets for light silk and satin more suitable for such unbearable a heat. Apathetically, she dressed herself in black silks, a gown lavishly adorned with gleaming dark obsidians, laughing that haughty, dispassionate laughter when her handmaid said she should do well to dress in colours, her lord and master might take insult in her going to him in funeral shrouds. Apathetically, she deliberately made the lord Harlaws wait as she sat at her vanity and combed long, dark curls which gleamed like pearls under the glare of the sun, fashioning them into an intricate display which she adorned with a silver hairnet. Upon her slim throat, a necklace made of silver and devilline stones, glistened.
At long last and when the sun had sunk lower into the horizon, she went to meet him down at the shores of Blackwater Bay, with something strange and impatient gripping her heart, so very often frost-cold and dispassionate. Ayenna, rustling her long, black dress, came flowing down the stairs to the ocean, outrageously beautiful and dark like a seastorm, approached, took him by the chin and quite off-handedly lifted his head, turning it right and left, measuring him with a startingly bright gaze. She hummed softly, her face blank and devoid of emotion; he was very handsome, she thought; it took the breath away, how handsome he was; imposing, like thunder. Immediately, the lady Farwynd liked him. She, herself, glowed with a conscious, even demonstrative loveliness, emphasised and accentuated in every detail. Her raven-black locks cascading down her shoulders under her hairnet (it had once been, her mother's ) shone, reflected the light like the feathers of a raven, curling and undulating with every move.
She had bright, drowning eyes. Eyes with teeth. Gleaming dark obsidian. The days to come were in those eyes, deep as fathomless lakes, the days gone by. And beneath that fierceness, that icy veil, something ancient and tender as rain. She brought to mind something otherworldly, opaque; underwater fire or sunken obsidians.
β I had somehow fancied that you would be taller. β the lady Farwynd drawled very slowly, a lilt in her voice. Her hands, gloved in black satin, slipped from his jaw to his shoulders, unashamedly feeling at the hard muscle that rippled under the leather of his jacket; she felt along his arms, measuring him, then fixed his collar with swift, sharp, practised movements, her eyes never leaving his. Somewhere at his back, Dramon, snickered, amused by the display. Her mouth, deigned to curl into a faint smile, then, and once she had thoroughly felt at his biceps and forearms, as though about to buy a ship, or war horse, she allowed her hands to drop back at her sides, black fire burning in her gaze. β you have not changed much, my lord. Still, so very striking, much like your lord Father... I am sorry to have kept you waiting!β she said then, abruptly changing the course of the conversation, the glimmers of a warmer expression at long last flickering across that haughty, cold face, β This heat does not agree with me well, I fear. β
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The morning air was thick with the stinks of smoke and wet, cloying sweat; with sour wine and the foaming brine of the ocean below. Kingβs Landing she had too often now heard, alwaysΒ stank; a pit of mud and red, dry stone, of white heat and little rainβ once, the lord Farwynd, had said, half in jest, that one could smell the treachery too, if oneβs nose was in its place and not stuck too high up in the air to do the work it's meant to doβa pit of joyless bastards, he had spat the wordsβcold venom fillng his mouth, his voice, iron and thunder.
Stood atop one of the many stone balconies overlooking Blackwater Bay, now, Ayenna breathed in the scents of bitter mead, bread baking, rotting fish andΒ nightsoil, of smoke and sweat and horse-piss and twisted her lips in an expression of pure, unbridled disdain, feeling her stomach churn for the stink, the noise, too, by theΒ Gods, all that noiseβshe knew not how any one could stand to make their home here. She, an ironborn, had known only cool and fragrant places, the ice-cold, unfreezable brine of the ocean.Β The scent of wisteria mixed with the sea as she moved, tossing wild, outrageously long black curls off perfectly poised shoulders, a silver pendant ladden with sparkling devilline stones, gleaming amidst the silks of her black blouse, flaming with reflections of the sunlight sluicing over her.
β βit suits, somehow. That the capital of Seven Kingdoms should reek like the dead.β she huffed, her voice exceedingly cold and sharp, her dark brow creasing faintly as she gazed down upon the Sept, its massive dome and towers terribly bright under the sunlight, so bright it hurt her eyes, laughing very quietly and sharply as worshippers filed in and out of it in search of misplaced purpose, of a sliver of mercy or joy to cling to amidst the many sorrows of a life lived in the shadows of mock promises made them by both ruler and God; how pathetic! She almost felt pity for them; but the time to stir the course of Fate would soon come... β βand now their good SeptonΒ will give voice to the will of their gods and all will be well!β she drawled elusively, a dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness, despite being dappled in all that blazing, white heat; the sharp tang of the sea came to her in long slow drifts as she turned her head to the side, and strangely bright eyes flashed, her attentions suddenly commandeeredΒ by an unexpected arrival somewhere near her.
OPEN STARTER : featuring cyra tully in the red keep gardens.
her attention is lost on present company, nodding along to words she doesn't seem to hear. the lady tully knows her weakness is clear during small talk, unable to pretend to seem interested. someone walks by and she spots them out of her peripheral vision, jumping up from her seat to take interest in something else. " it was lovely to speak with you, my lord, but i forgot i have prior arrangements... " said in passing to her company, now focused on who she's latched onto for rescuing, " come, let us walk. are you enjoying the excitement ? "
The gardens are ladden with summer fruit and flowers, rivers of geraniums, cycads, and waterlilies flowing all the way from the keep to the stone balconies overlooking Blackwater Bay. All day has been given to celebrations, and many have been the bards and dancers and other such entertainments the Crown has called to court for everyone attending the many celebrations held in the King's name to enjoy. Yet Yenna has found very little joy in it. The air outside is fiendishly hot, wet with the promise of summer rain; the piney scent of the gardens, does not agree with her, who's known only cool and fragrant places, only brightness that is cold and distant as the stars. Lonely Light's cold and thrums with the blood of the ocean, the pulse of the storm that swarms its shores; it is a pirate ship, dark and ominous, its silver anchors made of shark teeth and iron, glinting upon the seas; it is its crew, mouths filled with raucous laughter, the hot laughing rum; it is the devilline that glows black-blue beneath the waters, it is the dead things they bury in the sand, the sea air bloated with its own salt, tangling in the tideβs green fall.
She's irritable and vexed by the horrendous heat, the hot, thick air, cloying to the point of nausea; all of her is brushed with sunlight, so much glare she seems to singe with every step she takes, despite the dark shelter of her lace parasol; the entertainments, too, mean nothing to her, such grand displays of absolute, extravagant power, that more bemuse her than impress her, her who is always, so exceptionally aloof and detached, and neither smiles nor frowns, her face a flawless display of powerful perfection. Either way, neither her ire nor her frustration is readily expressed; no; the lady Farwynd is not generally inclined to react to sentiments of that kind.
Apathetically, she strolls through the gardens with her handmaid at her side, whispering their secrets as they weave their way through the throngs of nobles scattered all around the palace grounds, enjoying the King's good hospitality (the decadent exhibit of powerful superiority; how amusing!). Swathed crown to foot in black silk, the only colour on her the devilline stone that gleams like shards of sea-glass upon her slim throat, she brings to mind a Winter morning: cold and lovely in its icy frostiness, the silver mists that veil its sharpness. They stop at an alcove, sheltering themselves from the sun under its shadows, and speak very calmly, slowly, for a long time, before her handmaid takes her leave, her gait unassumingly soft and delicate. Yenna does not watch her walk away; she watches the birds that swarm the ponds, instead, glittering under the sunlight, slowly fans herself as she walks near the waters now, until her attentions are abruptly commandeered, and she is swiftly reacting to the unexpected company, not an ounce of surprise betraying her amusement as she airily offers what this noble lady seems to yearn for.
Ayenna elegantly links her arm through hers and casts a startingly bright glance at the man that had been pestering her. She laughs, sharply. She has eyes like gleaming black obsidians. Beautiful, drowning eyes. And a smile rehearsed to utter perfection. β β indeed! yet I am famished; and what heat! One can scarcely breathe for it! Will you not come with me to the keep? I am in dire need of refreshment!β she drawls cooly, her voice exceedingly cold and melodious, watching as the man pulls his hand away, deflated. β βcome on then, or I shall faint... my lord.β she does not even spare him a glance as she begins to walk the both of them away from him.
