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@insooth
multimuse writing blog associated with westerosliverp — written by carol. muses
lady paramount adrienne arryn of the vale — intro, threads, pinterest.
lady vereena 'vera' caron of nightsong — intro, threads, pinterest.

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@insooth * adrienne arryn
[...] Paranoia was planted like a seed that wrought a heavy hand, an instinctual battle drive he's known since he first learned how to wield a sword. Tonight, the scent of violence mixed with the heady bloom of flowers made him sick, clambering inside for a moment's reprieve that was shattered like the sound of iron against iron, a different storm brewing inside. And he's called to act. For how long he'd been wandering was too long to have known, but tonight, here he stood. Ear perks, and he swings the brunt of his arm around in a pirouette - eyes widened at sight of tresses, of features ingrained into memory like prayer. Barely misses her as he adjusts, throwing his weight forward instead to direct the blow away to stumble into her. " Fuck fuck fuck " he curses at himself, doesn't stay on her for long when he scrambles up onto his knees beside her. Weapon discarded, his hands gentle on her as frenzied eyes survey the damage, " Stay with me… Gods, stay with me… Please. " quiet pleas, mind racing as her state is taken in with shock. He fears the worst.
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.
" the wound is deep , " ysabela muttered to herself , bloodied hands pressing down on the cut with urgency as she wrapped it in the nearest cloth she could find . her breath hitched as she finally looked up, panic flickering in her eyes . " we need a maester . i — i can't stitch this , it is beyond my expertise . w — what . . . h — how did this happen?" she did not dare venture far from her chambers when the storm began , yet the sounds of chaos from outside echoed through the stone walls , filling her with a growing sense of dread .
𝗰𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗿 : @proelium , @morewoe , @sacrificeds + 0 / 2 more replies.
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."
from @vi0light: "but living to please others? i imagine it can be wearying at times."
"To 'please'?" Eyes narrow slightly in thought, weighing the words with a touch of skepticism. "A foolish notion – catering only to egos and the lowliest of impulses. But living to serve – that is a different matter."
from amos tully (@morewoe) – : "what is clear is we are woefully unprepared to navigate this lion’s den."
Her quiet laughter came at an odd pace, eyes weighed down with concern that didn’t match his lightness in the self-deprecating jest. "The words of our houses may be to blame for that – living by honor is yet to be the end of us."

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from @cursebrcken – : "i believe in second chances, i don’t believe in third chances."
A conceding nod, solemn in the very public knowing of her marital predicament, both punishment and chance offered for redemption, if there was a will for it. "Where there is doubt, the second chance should be enough to bring to light where one's heart–or... intentions–" she corrects, quickly– "lie. A third one... That could only be fueled by a fool's wishful thinking."
they do not falter, faux smile stays plastered on her brown flesh but hues are steel - deathly like valyrian counterpart. boredly, they listen to the monologue of the falcon, tongue passing over row of upper shark teeth, less than impressed. " yes, i am sure that lifetime of dedication of yours to your people is the exact reason they are so faithful to you ⸺ it could hardly be how our system is built, hierarchy could never be the foundation of those loyalties. " fingers dust away imaginary piece of fluff from shoulder as they stay demure - mindful off mine field they're in. " insecure indeed, you were quite attacking toward someone who considers your lord husband nothing more than a friend. no need to wish me luck, i'm quite used to getting what i want - a trait i seem to share with every member of house targaryen. "
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?"
[...] Antony’s lips curled into a small, victorious smile as he closed the book in his hand, the leather cover snapping shut with an audible thud. It mattered little about the underlying tone that coloured every word from his wife when her attentions turned back on him, that alone eclipsed all oversight. He's quick to fall into step beside her, keeping pace as she leads the way. The space between them stretches in terse silence and on his best behaviour, he continued, voice lower, more thoughtful. "I don’t claim any newfound piety. I’m not a man prone to such... fast and easy transformations. " His gaze flickered to hers, intent. "But if I can't know you, then I can know more of you in what you hold dear—even if I don't share it. "
His steps slowed, and he turned to face her more fully, a touch of sincerity creeping into his voice. " I've always seen it as a tool. One you can wield to strengthen your position—or as a compass. It can inspire loyalty. Or fear. " He paused, letting the words linger. " I'm ... not as familiar with the Weirwood groves back home, but the principle is the same. I think. " He winces at his lack of knowledge on the topic which concerned The North, but at the same time, that wasn't quite home, was it?
He met her gaze, his expression softening slightly, emotion giving way to the mask barely upkept in her presence after ... everything. " So, no grand revelation or calling. Just... a man trying to make sense of the chaos around him. Surely, even you can appreciate that ? "
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.
"'Making sense of chaos' – right out of a sermon, that one," a faint roll of eyes, lukewarm as they meet his umbers again. "I doubt that is how chaos works, though – no sense to be made out of it. I would not linger in it. You'll be the madman, thinking to see shapes in clouds." Gaze softens sightly – sorrow slipping stubbornly through the cracks again at the sight of his turmoil, evident beneath the act. "I... I always thought chaos is what things unravel into when left unattended. A confluence of neglect." Opting to place care, instead, meticulous work into the upkeep of all that kept them from drowning in its depths, no matter how draining. "Some people thrive in it. I do not... So before turning to scripture, do make sure sense is truly what you want. Lately, I'm not so sure." Voice shaken with fear for the answer, but resentment grew tired of the whims of a man who did not seem to understand his duty, far too old to not know himself. "Faith can have this power, too, of bringing your truth to light, if you look inward through eyes that are... Fair, and merciful, like the Gods'. It's a charming performance, the Star at your hands –" she nods at the book "– but the Gods are far more likely to speak to you in your own voice."
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?"
certainly she displayed more strength and restraint than he would in a moment like this, but he supposed, that was the reason she was arryn, and his strengths were elsewhere. cunning, suggestive, and slithering beneath the silk, as it were, techniques which were not exercised by her lord husband and by those in his inner circle. who had encouraged him to act like this? where were his advisors? ah, that was no matter. varric would be part of the hands which swiped the carnage from the ground, as was his civic moon - gazed duty. “i have no doubts of that. even that which seems to be out of your control is resolutely in your hands.” and so it would continue, as paramount. iron to shield her as helmsman and door. “how soon? if it is something you're in need of me for, to flavour this brew further, you'd only need utter a word to me, lady paramount, and it would be done within the week.” fine - tuned balance of not allowing personal motives to override duties, nor let the wheat grow through the stones of the wall, nor rub salt within open wound.
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.

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" did i come at a bad time ? " quietly slipping through the small crack of her eldest sister's door . " i'm sorry , i should have given a notice . i could come back in the morning . "
closed starter — for adrienne arryn ( @insooth )
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"
For so much to have happened in just one night and having been the orchestrator of some events, Martyn still felt quite out of the loop for many things that have transpired during the ball. Even without the haze of alcohol in their mind, unlike for most other courtiers, they found it difficult to piece everything together perfectly. Nonetheless, whether it was to the favor of her grace the queen or the ruling lady, Martyn was glad to have elected to enjoy the ball to its fullest extent, even if it didn't mean playing completely by the rules. Thankfully enough, he knew to do things that could get him in trouble away from prying eyes.
There was a quick smile on his face as he watched the wince of the lady of Nightsong as a reaction to the scent of the flower, unable to, nor feeling like holding himself back from letting a breathy chuckle escape him. "I danced enough, yes. Though I found entertainment in another manner as well. I'm saddened that we did not have the pleasure of your company last night. Are you fond of balls, my lady?"
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?"
" well, you sure are a ray of sunshine, my lady. i can certainly see what attracts all these men to you. certainly not that title of yours, must be hard to be born within a great house, i'm sure you feel very blessed. " more than passive aggressive but master of whisperers finish sentences with smile, opposite of the dark - haired femme in front of them. " i'd rather not conduct my business with you as i would with him, if you don't mind. " letters filled with secrets held tighter against chest, praying writing that would be unfavorable for other slips. " ⸻ are you always this insecure ? " priya asks suddenly, crown held upright as frame stretches out.
"'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."
[...] Recognition of the blooms hand painted, dusted in gold which gleamed in sun - it was quite pretty in the light, she notes with head canted in admiration. Violet hues blinking in surprise at the inquiry posed, a glimmer of something akin to confusion settling across features. " As opposed to what exactly? " The court was divided in mood, and in what she also viewed as a chain to some web crafted for Tyrell's games. But, " Idling in the crowd is hardly fun, " cherub nose wrinkles at the thought, and curiousity drives her to pluck at the stem for herself to have, tracing a finger atop its waxy petal; gold coat flaking onto skin. " Especially in one so beautifully made. " And to think, her actions would reflect onto siblings who did their part, just as she; if only to not draw any ire to House and family, a jewel far too precious to not consider. Laina Dayne didn't mind playing these games; better to be prettily crafted, rather than inspire craftily made notions. Guileless cadence, girlish veracity: " It's just a dance. "
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?"
stack of letters caught between arm and stomach, kind smile dances on their warm features as head moves down in nod at the ruling lady arryn. tilting cranium, optics blazing green fields as words leave mouth, " have you seen your lord husband around ? or did my mind trick me and he was actually speaking to lady rhaenys ? "
𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗋 . . . 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 @insooth
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."

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@insooth * adrienne arryn
[...] To say his appearance here was intentional was an overstatement, for what else would a bear so stubborn do when stripped of everything ⸻ turn to the Seven for guidance. In his hands is a copy taken from some maester he had passed, and conveying his own ignorance of the text and its teachings, he hadn't expected to find it interesting and pass the time the way it had; all instinctual motive eclipsing his actual reason to his wife, for he knew better than to leave and never hear from her again, given her nature. " Lady Arryn, " his stomach flips, and his gaze can only withstand the falcon for so long before returning gaze back to the ink on parchment, " they say faith is better with milk and honey. Join me in breaking our fast? "
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–
Mother – you know he carries a soul far too restless. Soothe it with your mercy, and grace it with your kindness. May his choices bring him the peace he deserves, whatever that might be; Father – I know you shall judge him fairly, but before you do, ask the Warrior to embolden him with the courage of a thousand bears, so he can find it in him to stand honorably in your light; Crone – you know of his folly, so guide him to a path befitting of the life he deserves and dreams of, whatever that might be; May he feel the weight of his actions – this I ask not in petty revenge, but because you might still find him worthy of soaring. If he can't feel the weight, how could he tell the difference? And may his dignity be fortified, in your name, and mine, and his.
This said only in thought, and yet heard with sharp clarity against faint noise of placated thoughts. And when she opened her eyes, there he was. Adrienne observed him, puzzled at the vision of a bear with scripture at hand– in fact, faintly amused. "Lord Arryn," skeptical tone is softened by curiosity. "The timing of your calling to the faith is an interesting thing, indeed." Not-so-veiled accusation of manipulation through fleeting gestures, but at the very least she had to see where he planned to go with it. "Sure," she concedes, taking the lead in the stroll, keeping distance as they moved. "Do elucidate me on your learnings."
"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."