riptide and rapture

The castle became a labyrinth as the nightmare unraveled, the idea of refuge losing all its meaning. Mind struggles in foolish attempts to strategize, met with laughter in glistening teeth, ready to bite at her carcass as soon as it falls. Fear takes the reins; numbness radiates from her wound, her other arm dragging a found shield – heavy, clumsy. She's slow to react as shadow lunges at her, taking the shape of familiar bear, berserk. Everything darkens except the spark of rage in his eyes. In an instant, the embers cool down, momentum slows, but her terror remains undimmed. It is instinct that has her bash the shield into his body with all the strength she can muster, pushing him off. "What is this? Are you my enemy, then? Have you always been?" The words tear out of her in confusion and fury – the question has gnawed at her long before tonight, long before the tournament, even, doubt taking root under the construct of his knightly conduct, compliant, now falling apart at the seams. It is she who stumbles forward then, drained, wound throbbing and shivers running deep in her bones. But unlike enemy, his hands offer support and tenderness to pain she can't admit to needing. "It makes no godsdamned sense," is all she can offer through the fog as she struggles not to slip away.

Drive to seek out kin moved Adrienne through the blur of senses and across the corridor, into sister's room. This room still intact, but she was certain now – it was no shelter. Wail turns groan, pain rising up her arm, Ysabella's care feels more like a stab anew. "Just... Wrap it tight, be quick about it... I–" Memory of attack surges over, right arm braced to take in the blade, left arm grasping at something heavy, the first 'thud' as its swing lands on his head, the second as bone slams into the floor. Memories feel like somebody else's, not hers. "I... I don't know...–" Or, rather, cannot bring herself to say it, no matter how justified. Shivers run through her as she grabs urgently at sister, pulling her towards the door with uninjured arm. "We leave, Ysabella, now."

Head tilts slightly, a tinge of amusement coloring her expression. The master of whispers spoke of the bindings of their system as if they existed anywhere other than the realm's perception of them – a story, molded largely by their actions as rulers. "Hierarchies are built on apparent loyalties, my liege. It is what they are, " she retorts, dispassionate. A scoff of disbelief is offered, then, wondering if it was self-absorption that molded her warped interpretation. "You twist much and presume even more – accuse me of attacking, as if you did not set out to wound first, with your sly mention of Lady Tarth. I care little for your friendship with him. What I take issue with is your disposition to strike when the knife is already in, by your friend's hand. I bleed before the whole kingdom, already. What do you hope to prove?"

Only his voice reached her as she walked ahead, stepping into the cold mantle of judge and critic, dosing her scrutiny. So tempting to believe he's captivated by topics close to her heart, but reason and pride remain cautionary voices too loud to ignore. What trust they had built over time now laid shattered. If she still clutched to the shards – bleeding fingers searching for something solid in the fragments, perhaps his translucent tone, his unpretentious words – she was reminded it was not her job to piece that trust back together.

As reserved as the lady Adrienne tried to be, Martyn cared not for how loud they were as they laughed, head thrown back, all too amused by her joke. "I reckon I could make it into a song! I shall take it as a challenge. I thank the gods for my brother every day... if I were to be responsible for our ledgers I would be forced to find around six maidens much smarter than me to help me make sense of it all." And thus, the premise of their song was given. "I'm of the opinion that we shouldn't feel so restrained from doing what our heart desires in fear of the gods' displeasure and inevitable wrath. I do like to think that they, like us, seek peace, and joy, and respect. But then again, I am not the pious type, as much as I'd like to be." He shrugged, quickly jumping to another topic of discussion, then another as if they had been on his mind the whole time. Because they have. "I promise I've become better at cyvasse since the last time we played. How are your dear sisters faring?"

A warmth reminiscent of childhood is stirred by his cackling reaction, and she permits herself to join in with a snort, at least. "Ah, so you shall never know the joys of well-rounded bookkeeping – the certainty every coin is accounted for, with surplus and margin for contretemps." Safety, fundamental drive and banner she upheld in the isolation of the mountains. The Lady Arryn sought her peace with contingency upon contingency, no amount ever being enough. A pause taken to consider his words – not certain she completely agreed. "The whims of a heart's desires can be dangerous," she counters, simply. A life in fear of the Gods' punishment may sound harsh, but one where all were servants to their impulses was far more terrifying. Immersed in carefully constructed civility, men lost sight of how vile their hearts could become. A pause is taken, the thought settling within her, but she soon focuses again, striving to keep up with them– "When the haze of wine has left me I'll challenge you to a match, Lord Martyn. And oh– they fare very well, I'm thankful to say." Glance descends upon him, more solemn, almost guilty– "How are your siblings faring, my lord? And yourself?"

He had played the game long enough to understand the tenets that bound Lady Arryn's strength – order re-instilled, reins retaken even as she stains them with blood from her wounds. A flawed narrative, improvised as a stand-in, where the solidity of ruling Lady and Lord steering the ship would have been much preferred. Even illusion of control that found echo in her counsellor's words was a comfort, when she had felt at the mercy of madness for so many days. Nevertheless, his question, and its implications – loyalty a comfort not taken for granted, but on its flip side, that eagerness for her husband's downfall – brought a sick twist to her stomach. Alas, the time for sorrow had passed, and would likely come again – he had, after all, dug his own grave. For now, she shut off emotion and attended to business. "What I need is twofold." This sharpness only reserved for the coldest of assessments, clear of sight and hard of heart. "Pathetic as this charade has proven to be, so far, it dreads me to think it could be worse, still – that I might be going through the trouble of mercy for a man who had no intention to respect his marriage in the first place. So... If there is any dirt... I need a shovel." She trusted he understood her – evidence of transgressions in the past, since his landing at the Eyrie, and eyes at Highgarden, for the future. "And I don't wish for him to stay comfortable in this sorrowful position for too long, Royce – so I need a stone in his shoe." This ask more bitter, petty, even – maybe seeking to repay hurt caused. Lord Varric could be counted on to enjoy the minutia from the ground, as she oversaw his punishment from above.

Quill hand pauses mid-sentence as her ears tune to sister's voice. Letters of lesser consequence had begun to pile up over the last few turbulent days, providing the perfect distraction from sleep that remained stubborn to come. "Nonsense, please join me," she urges her in, gesturing towards settee, only a moment taken to pen closing thoughts before the quill is laid to rest. "How are you, sister? And don't think I forgot – I've yet to hear a report on your impressions from the ball"

An involuntary quirk of the eyebrow, as her imagination runs rampant picturing what entertainment they might have commandeered under the court's noses. A sudden, warm longing for debauchery strikes her, disguised as regret for having missed the whole affair. But Lord Stark's question cuts through that train of thought– 'was she fond of balls'? Seriously? Caught decidedly off-guard by his boldness, laughter bubbles up in a light, knowing melody. When she recomposes herself, a remnant of amusement lingers in her smile. "Very much, you cheeky creature. I love to dance – being swept away in movement with the right music and company can be a wondrous pleasure. I do wish I'd made it, last night. Maybe there would have been enough graceful lieges such as yourself to help me find entertainment amidst such rigid rules." Her gaze drops to the bloom at her hand – nimble fingers spin the stem around, back and forth, golden petals scintillating in the twirl. Only the lingering smile betrays her serious tone– "How would you say the Starks' balls compare to the Tyrells'? I'd guess not as grand, but considerably looser?"

"'Ray of sunshine'? No, I'm afraid not. I am more like the mountain over which my family's legacy is built – cold, and hard, perhaps, but unfaltering. What loyalties I attract are born from that solidity, trust built and upheld through a lifetime of dedication to my people. And for that privilege, I do feel immensely blessed." Falcon's glance cut through the hawk's strikes, animosities stirred for no reason at all, a burn rising up Adrienne's neck in tempered discomfort. "'Insecure'…" Her scoff is part fuming laughter, head shaking in disbelief that the Spymaster lowers herself to throw such little jabs, as if they were trifling maiden girls. The weight of the years pressed too heavily on her for pretense, but words are spit with cutting edge. "Sure, my liege, perhaps. But, when push comes to shove, I find my peace in not letting my turmoils rule my choices. What falters will show itself in time." And at mention of her preferences– then, she does smile. "Would you, now? Well, good luck with that. I remain at your service, as always, should Her Grace wish to hear from the Vale of Arryn."

Impulse of annoyance, as bloom is plucked from her hands, quells as the gold dusts onto her skin – sun-flaked sunbeam, coyness and light cannot inspire ill-thoughts. "As opposed to dancing with whomever you so wish to dance with. A few good dissidents with a hint of nerve, and–" a suggestive shrug: the carefully curated plan would fall apart, as strays sought to regroup with their own preferred partners. Knowing glance in lock of violets – "You know it's not just a dance." 'Just dancing' was the wordless communion at late hours, seeking only freedom to lose oneself in rhythm. This here was a game – and while Vera relished the position of player, it seemed the ones making moves were in higher positions of power. If there was one notion that she loathed, it was that of being made a pawn. "But, yes – there's enough beauty to go around that even impositions can turn into sweet thrills to chase. Did you enjoy yourself, Lady Laina?"

Reciprocal smile turns to stone cold glare, unreceptive to the spymaster's provocation even as her heart pounds loudly in response to it. "Go quickly see a maester, if your mind is playing tricks on you, Lady Fowler. But you're fortunate to cross my path, as any business you might have with Lord Arryn, you can conduct with me, in his absence." Professional demeanor for professional matters is all she can offer her. "I'm all ears."

Adrienne finally found focus under the warmth of the sept's candles – nightly prayers of yestereve had dissipated into dust as soon as thoughts turned to him, a vision of utter ravage and resignation and faltering breath before the sentence she had condemned him to. But at the sept, she had finally found the words that had eluded her thus far–

"Far be it from me to soil the innocent ears of the perfectly mannerly youth of the court." Their hands came up in surrender, though the smirk on their face said otherwise of the manner of their words. Not that they were out to ruin anyone, no. Though that sounded like a fun couple of days. No, they just weren't so sure about the innocence of said youth. The mention of a second Crimson Rain, though perhaps an event not often talked about among the other nobles, had Martyn humming contemplatively. "I wonder how that would work, what with my faith being closer to the old gods than the new. Well... we'd better not think about it too much, lest we invite someone's wrath. I only hope that the gods understand, I mean no offense by my actions. I only seek entertainment." He spoke out loud, as if the gods themselves were around them, listening in. And perhaps they were. "I suppose you're right. What I'm taking from this knowledge, however, is that one simply must be on good terms with all bards and maesters. If they like you, they shall not write ill about you."

Adrienne tilted her head slightly, pondering the title and how best to… unsoil it – alas, she was not gifted in the art of comedy. "I suppose it's never the 'six maidens balancing the ledgers' that make it to the songs, is it?" She mused with a tiny, reserved smirk. Still, if anyone at court could turn their ordinary duties into an entertaining tune, Lord Martyn seemed the most fitting candidate. "I have lately found myself presuming Them plenty offended – old and new alike – to take issue with indulgences of lesser magnitude. I pray your entertainment also falls on such a category." Permissiveness ought to be tempered when it came to her own habits – the thought punctuated by another sip from her arbor red – but she offered them the benefit of the doubt. "For all of it, the bards and maesters, too, shall hold us all accountable, in the end, along with the Gods."