DAYLIGHT.

lady dominique lannister, edits. the gems of the north.

Olynna had been in her night gown since the sun had began to go down, after a long bath that had relaxed her tense body and warmed her soul. undone she laid prompt up by one one arm, her free hand gently tapped her lips with careful fingers. her thoughts were in the dark corners of her memory, how she had asked for a distraction and they had more than delivered. the arryn could not stop replying the scene over and over. she does not hear the careful steps, nor the doors opening. it is not until she speaks that she snaps in her direction. "no, i am not, it seems our septa was right. we would grow badly accustomed to each other." a small smile creeps to her lips as she taps the other side of the bed.

❛ on the contrary, i dare say the gods would find it all rather amusing. ❜ amusement rose beneath her bosom and was subsequently expelled upon breath. of course, argella was not the most pious of devotees and so some may wish to contradict her statement, as was their right, but one need only glance upon the fates of many within westeros to fathom that those they worshipped had a twisted sense of humour. any amusement held within her features slipped at the mention of her father ; her countenance darkened, a frown firmly set upon her previously smirking lips. she did not respond to the statement , unable to trust her own tongue around those she scarcely knew, yet there is more she is eager to say but the likelihood of lynara being willing to provide any salacious tidbits to her musings seemed somewhat fanciful.

bewilderment, bordeline on offense, is plainly written on her features for a moment, before lynara remembers to school her face into pleasantness. "how so?" still, she queries. "i can think of nothing worse to bless a wedding than a murder." it was the most horrible omen she could think of, in fact, save only perhaps to the death of her spouse, which, despite the willing distance, she couldn't begin to consider. of course, self-centered as she is right now, she misses the dismissal of the king's pain by his own daughter — though when it is brought up again, lynara finds it difficult to remain only consternated. of course, it should be natural that a daughter would stay by her father's side.

Lale gives the other a gentle curtsy that her stacion demands, "lady lale yronwood, your hingness." she offers, with with sweets disposition, she did no expect the other to know her, she had always been better at blending in the masses than standing out in them. it had been a skill she had used in pass life. "you and the lady," she pauses rattling her mind for the name, "lady olynna? are quite close, am i right?" she offers with a smile, it was good the other lady had such a loyal friend. they were hard to come by. the ones that matter anyways. "i did not, this is my first time venturing outside of dorne you see." she gives the other a wary smile. "i never had much a need to go beyond the lands of my people. i came only to accompany my dear husband at the kings calling." she confesses. "but i have heard the tales of the lord, a good aid to the kingdom." and a sort of negative things, but there was no need to repeat those.

hushed  conversation  was  very  nearly  perceived  within  the  quiet  of  the  sept  ─  her  ears  twitched  with  an  effort  to  eavesdrop,  to  find  fault  in  innocent  whispers  ─  but  whoever  it  was  that  had  accompanied  the  owner  of  the  approaching  footsteps  seemed  to  have  been  sent  away  to  grant  them  a  moment  of  privacy.  ysilla  remained  uncertain  if  that  was  cause  for  apprehension  or  appreciation  until  warm  fabric  brushed  against  her  forearm  as  the  other  joined  her  in  genuflection,  the  smooth  northern  timbres  of  lynara  stark  easing  at  her  defenses  until  the  young  arryn  visibly  deflated,  shoulders  once  drawn  tight  around  the  ears  dropping  to  an  impolite  slouch  of  exhaustion.  in  the  back  of  her  mind,  ysilla  knew  that  neither  of  them  should  be  in  such  a  position,  especially  not  the  newly  married  princess  consort  of  the  crownlands  but  her  knees  remained  weak  still,  aching  on  the  cool marble  tiles  beneath  her. ❝  ...  did  it  help  ?  ❞  as  soft  as  the  wind,  her  voice  carried  through  the  empty  sept.  ❝  praying.  ❞  ysilla  had  never  found  much  purpose  in  prayer,  falling  out  of  her  beliefs  sometime  after  her  mother  had  passed,  but  having  been  raised  in  the  faith,  ritual  came  as  naturally  to  her  as  breathing  and  there  might  have  been  some  comfort  found  in  performing  the  rites  to  lay  her  father  to  rest  if  the  whole  matter  was  not  so  public.  ❝  he  will  never  rest  in  our  crypts  ...  the  space  beside  my  mother  will  forever  be  empty.  we  belong  in  the  mountains,  lynara,  just  as  much  as  you  starks  belong  in  the  north.  how  will  he  find  his  way  home  ?  ❞  she  understood,  of  course,  that  the  logistics  of  carrying  a  body  across  land  or  sea  at  such  a  distance  would  be  a  folly  but  realism  held  no  place  alongside  grief.   slowly,  her  hands  were  unfurled  from  the  tight  clench  ─  blood  rushed  back  to  her  palms,  pale  knuckles  regaining  color  as  she  clutched  onto  lynara's  hand  as  though  it  were  a  lifeline,  a  distraction.  ❝  i  wish  for  you  to  stay  ...  teach  me  one  of  your  northern  prayers,  if  you'd  be  so  kind.  my  father  will  need  both  the  new  and  old  gods  to  guide  him  in  the  afterlife.  ❞

her heart is wrenched at the arryn's words; much as she had when her father wasted away, she knows little of how she can be of help. if anything, she can only commiserate, imagine how miserable her father would be if he had not found his eternal rest on the stark crypts, alongside all of the others of their house. "it is so very awful," at last, she says, squeezing ysilla's hand in heartfelt sorrow. "but it is so soon. the king shall not deny his greatest friend a return home… one day." a sutured, heavy body, with meat still rotting would be a difficulty — bones, however, may find easier travel. "i know little of how convincing i can be, but i shall speak with his majesty… that on the anniversary of this day, your father shall be home. and in the meanwhile… have you seen that his statue is commissioned, silla? i know it is of no replacement but…" none would ever be enough, not the only suitable one was lord melvan still breathing.

The lord goodbrother scratches his head at the sound of the familiar voice that he wishes he did not know, or that it simply it had not walked into the room. the lady hightower was not on top of his favorite list, and he was not foolish enough to think that he was on hers. if anything she managed to make him uneasy, that doll like eyes, angelic face, but every knowing smile. as if she could read right through someone with once over look. "neither did i, although i cannot say i am here for sentimentalism, lady hightower."

                 ❝   they   are   surely   not   for   the   faint   of   heart,   ❞    visella   agrees,   much   to   the   youngest   targaryen's   dismay.   rhaena,   as   headstrong   and   determined   as   her   eldest   sister   at   her   age,   begins   a   mumbling   compliant   against   the   conversation   at   hand.   boredom   had   plagued   rhaena's   opinions   of   king's   landing.   despite   haunting   the   gardens   and   having   her   own   roam   of   the   merchant   streets,   she   hadn't   been   allowed   to   experience   the   city   she   had   heard   so   many   tales   of   from   her   elder   siblings.   promise   of   an   escape   from   these   rooms,   of   something   fun,   had   her   violet   eyes   alight   with   wonder.   small   arms   wrapped   around   her   sister's   waist,   pleading   with   visella   to   agree   with   the   lady   hightower's   request.    ❝   surely   we   can   arrange   something.   but   you   must   finish   your   lessons   for   today.   ❞    rhaena,   near   bouncing   with   excitement,   placed   a   reciprocal   kiss   against   her   sister's   and   then   marilda's   cheeks,   disappearing   from   sight   as   she   returned   to   learning   the   history   of   westeros   in   peace.

a   sigh   slips   from   pink   -   painted   lips,   heeding   the   words   of   her   trusted   friend.   time   spent   in   king's   landing   had   allowed   for   festering   of   poor   thoughts.   of   wishing   mercy   had   the   wing   span   to   fly   high   above   the   red   keep.   of   making   a   meal   of   the   old   stag   who   inhabited   her   throne.   smile   crosses   briefly   sullen   expression   as   the   princess   lingers   too   long   on   the   thoughts   of   another   of   the   baratheon's   rule   falling   victim   to   his   own   karma.    ❝   thank   you,   marilda.   you   know   your   kind   words   always   bring   me   peace.   ❞    pause   holds   the   dragon's   tongue,   gaze   settling   on   marilda's   own   violet   hues.    ❝   for   the   few   things   my   beloved   mother   did   right,   you   are   the   best   of   them.   ❞    visella's   voice   nearly   betrays   her   ——   a   subject   she   chooses   to   avoid   for   sake   of   hiding   her   emotions.   to   confide   in   someone   who   had   always   been   like   family,   to   hear   her   comfort   in   continuing   to   aid   the   queen   who   believed   she   was   going   mad,   visella   was   grateful.   lord   and   lady   hightower   had   brought   peace,   eased   the   minds   of   the   eldest   three   siblings.   they   had   reignited   hope   that   was   squandered   beneath   the   sand   and   the   dust   in   pentos.   they   had   given   them   opportunity.   and   visella   would   be   indebted   to   them   for   as   long   as   she   may   live.    

visella   is   comforted   by   marilda's   jests,   cheeks   displaying   her   dimples   with   the   sheer   weight   of   her   smile.    ❝   i   believe   dark   hair   suits   me.   i   have   received   many   a   compliment   during   my   outings   in   the   city.   ❞

perhaps something that did bring softness in her was the mention of her former mistress. the queen daenera had been far too gentle, too understanding, willing to placate the pest she was, even with moderate success. "i would say that what she has done the best has been the four of you." a pause. "though i am hardly humble myself, so i will accept it." the eldest grins, for her own ego, but also so the joy may infect the princess' moods into not faltering. marilda recalls her own mother's death, the ache that it had left, and better yet, she recalls the queen's, and for both occasions, she hadn't been entasked with anything as perilous and worrisome as visella had been.

"i am gladdened you've been enjoying the dark hair. you shall need to get accustomed with it. for a fortnight longer, at least." that is a concern that lingers, though she measures it not to spill on her features in front of anyone but her husband — even visella. still, there is some there. "not many, not while inquiries are still being done. it is not as if people shall boast of proximity to the deceased when that could lead them to the noose. 'tis a moment of fragility for the usurper, certainly, and orys has never been one to be entirely reliable when his head is hot." it was for his offense that he had begun a rebellion, after all. "he is not used to think on his own, however. melvan has always wormed his way in there, so i wonder who shall find root in that vacancy next. uthor has been thinking, you see." though that line of thinking, too, was one with risks.

He feels secure in her arms, safe not that there is an issue with safety or a worry over his life despite the fact someone had slain a council member. Too much was coming to a head far too quickly; murder wrinkling finely fleshed out plans even as there were moving parts pending change and or confirmation of other players revealing their hand in the game. Half angered and half pestered by this turn of events there was a feeling of loose ends that caused him to feel adrift. Her arms pulled him back, rescuing him from a sea of thought. Reaching a hand upwards he attempted to brush a finger along her cheek. His touch would be tender if his wife allowed him the moment of tenderness. "Thank you wife for taking the initative to reach back out to cedric - cedric does need to be kept informed. We must consult with our princess to give her further details on your cousins so that they may blend more seamlessly. Names, dates, information only the cousins would know and have need to know that you have heard. If Orys the maddening stag intends to do what I would and that would be to interrogate the guests that had contact with the hand the dragonlings will need that assistance from us. I will write letters to our contact in essos on their behalf to have her majesty pen so if a handwriting sample is requested should things go further awry that they match." Uthor breathed well aware of those in his own house and those connected knowing some tragically were supporters of orys. Closing his eyes he took a deep breath again. "I do not want to seem imprudent and ask for the dead man's position but as one of the older members of the council and with as firm a support as the king believes I am if he asks - what answer should I give him. To refuse is understandable a man is killed at the foot of his bed. To accept though - I need your council my wife not that he has asked but if he should I need to prepare an answer. "