affiliation

"You are fortunate indeed, princess; I have none," she said meaninglessly, watching her closely. Do you think to own this place, you who have never set foot in it? Valuable, perhaps, to to discover whether this was merely the misplaced confidence of the hopeful, or there was some secret knowledge held within her that would make it true.

"Well," she said, smiling wanly. "If that is so... I have the good fortune to be the first to welcome you here for good. It is always so wonderful to have more company at court. The Red Keep is a daunting place when empty. My own plans are not my own: I go where my lord father is. As long as he remains here, this is where I will be," she said, the picture of a good daughter. But even in saying it, dread pricked its way up her spine, and Shiera bit her tongue. The Gods listen, she imagined the High Septon saying. Do not listen now, she bid them, so as to make it untrue.

There is nary a doubt about it; Davos has been avoiding the entire wing of the keep where the sick lie dying. He knows it is poison, now, but he cannot stomach the idea of men of women lying upon beds of white, sweat trickling down their foreheads to their necks, raspy voices stuttering upon heaving coughs, the smell of....of pestilence, as it were. The picture his mind's eye paints is based upon not the current reality, but the one he had stumbled into moons ago, unable to do anything but hold two bundles of pure desolation, one in each arm, days before-

Anyways. He is not needed by the sick. There is only one individual who takes residence among them who is of any importance to him. He takes a seat on an old, rickety wooden chair by her bed. The sun streams in from the glass windows, opened to let the bad air out. Her sickly form is, well, sickening, but he tries to hide the swoop of his stomach with the hint of a smile, "Even in your sickbed, your eyes sparkle in the sun, Lady Co-" A pause. A grave mistake, in that it adds another memory to his already miserable state. "Lady Baratheon." He puts a hand along her side, upon the bed; available, should she wish to take it. She used to take it many times when he was a boy essentially under her care, her late husband's squire. "You have given the entire realm quite the fright." An exaggeration, but who will look into it? "I beg you to tell me: the antidote has worked well?"

The question was then: who stood to gain from that chaos?

She had seen plenty of fingers pointed in the last week, each more dubious than the last. She could dismiss almost all without a thought. Justice would serve her purposes well, but the appearance of it would serve just as well. Ultimately, Maelora cared far more for the consequences than the perpetrator. "You wound me, Your Grace, to take my inquiries with such malice. I have no enmity with your wife and daughter," she laughed, leaning upon the balustrade once more. Nor no care what you think of me now. Yet it was a laughable notion. What would Hira Royce or—whatever the daughter was named—have to do with her? Neither changed a jot about their circumstances, unless they plunged the princess into a chasm of grief so deep she resiled herself to Dragonstone.

Small chance of it. Yet she had heard those rumours as well, of Targaryens and Redwynes and Lannisters having poisoned their own. The mindless fear plagued the Red Keep worse than the effect of any poison. Perhaps those that said it ought to be checked themselves for hallucinations. "Without illness, but not untouched. My son's betrothed lies retching in a bed somewhere—a Redwyne, as the Gods would have it. Morn and night I tell him to pray for her recovery, and ignore the fingers pointing to us. Do you doubt me? I would have chosen my targets with more care if outright murder was to be my method. Should I ask of what wine you drank?" 

"My lady," began Lord Strong, hastening a touch to match stride with the woman. "A word."

Lady Maelora Celtigar was an impressive woman -- from her astonishing height to her imperious resolve to her surfeit of ruling pluck, nothing in her suggested a woman to be taken advantage of, but rather, one to be revered. Whatever might come of the Kingsmoot -- and, in truth, Balon did not countenance the chances of any House neither Targaryen nor Paramount -- there was this truth, at least: Maelora Celtigar carried herself like a queen.

Day was quick retreating, its limpid skies shining the same amethyst-plum of a deep bruise. All the world had been laid low, it seemed, with the affliction hanging over King's Landing like a wrathful dragon. Balon, however, had other notions as he hastened across the corridor to meet her.

He'd been eager to meet with her since the start. This matter of the pestilence, its fetid green hand spreading a pall over the proceedings, was only a hiccup. He had no intention of abandoning his task.

"I am glad of this opportunity, at long last. Would my lady consent to a stroll? I hope to speak to you regarding the matter of the canal, and trade. I believe, whatever else may come, it will still benefit us both, and gods willing all touched by it, a very great deal. It may even benefit my lady's standing in terms of..." he licked his lips. "Certain hopes, if it can be brought to fruition in a timely manner."

Maelora enjoyed exchange, and had ample ability to give gifts that few would forget.

"Lord Balon," she greeted, smiling broadly. "A stroll sounds quite pleasant. Yes, I had been hoping to speak before this matter threw all of the city into disarray. Tell me more about this canal of yours; what are your hopes? What I remember of your initial idea was rather ambitious—not a criticism. I admire ambition, and House Strong could do much, positioned as you are."

Harrenhal had a treacherous history, and it was only natural for the Strongs, so recently elevated to a seat so large, would wish to leave their mark for good. She would be pleased to have that mark bear her imprints as well—though there was yet the question of viability. If he thought her a heedless seeker, who would tie herself to any cause for a castle built on feathers, he would find himself with nothing in hand very soon. Fruition was a distant prospect: her certain hopes must take priority.

                                    addam  lounged  on  the  chair  for  a  couple  of  hours  until  shiera  actually  woke  up,  long  legs  crossed  beside  her  bed  and  distant  stare  fixed  on  the  stone  walls;  all  to  avoid  looking  at  his  sister  recovering.  she  was  a  pitiful  thing  in  her  bed,  and  a  sentiment  so  alike  concern  bloomed  in  him  that  he  had  to  push  it  deep  down.  he  caressed  her  hand  instead,  a  soft  touch.  they  bickered  more  than  they  agreed  with  each  other,  and  addam  always  pushed  her  to  her  limits.  to  bite  back.  to  stand  up.  to  do  something  more  with  your  life.  you  cannot  be  both  lamb  and  knife,  so  why  would  she  want  to  keep  being  father’s  pretty  weapon  to  use  and  abuse.  but  she  was  his  sister,  in  the  end.  and  they  came  from  the  same  place.  when  he  noticed  her  stirr,  he  blinked  at  her.  ❛❛ —  always  with a  ploy  for  attention,  shiera. —  ❞  addam  said  softly,  lips  stretching  in  a  derisive  smirk,  but  he  did  not  mean  it  as  an  insult.  the  truth  cannot  be  an  insult.  in  one  way  or  another,  the  three  of  them  would  always  be  vying  for  their  father  attention  when  birth  and  shared  blood  did  not  guarantee  any.  he  could  have  teased  her  more,  like  when  they  were  children,  but  her  brown  eyes  were  so  clouded  by  confusion  and  her  skin  was  a  sickening  pallid  grey,  he  did  not  have  the  heart.  addam  was  probably  the  last  person  she  was  expecting  on  her  sickroom,  but  shiera  should  jave  expected  it.  who  else  besides  family  did  she  have  in  the  red  keep?  ❛❛ —  yes,  'tis  me.  in  your  sickbed,  do  not  mistake  for  any  hallucinations.  your  fever  was  so  high  you  mistook  it  as  fire  and  screamed  bloody  murder.  but  not  alone.  —  ❞  he  glanced  quickly  around  the  sick  room,  hightower  men  and  maesters  were  administering  more  doses  of  the  antidote,  they  informed  the  poisoned's  kin  that  it  would  require  more  than  one  try.  some  people  he  recognized,  some,  only  by  the  sigils  in  their  cloth  or  on  the  breast  of  their  servants.

                                    he  watched  her  with  keen  eyes  for  every  reaction,  every  symptom.  danger  had  not  been  conquered  yet,  addam  expected  that  trouble  would  continue  to  follow  them  until  the  kingsmoot  was  resolved.  what  if  the  hightowers  were  wrong?  one  already  died,  and  a  ruling  lord  with  a  powerful  claim  to  the  throne  —  their  lord  paramount,  of  the  westerlands.  sometimes,  addam  forgot  those  origins  were  supposed  to  matter.  his  time  at  casterly  rock  so  easily  forgotten,  so  easily  abhorred.  addam  moved  from  the  chair  next  to  her  to  sit  beside  her  on  the  bed,  careful  to  not  jolt  her  too  much,  but  he  wished  to  speak  secrets  in  the  lowest  voice.  they  were  not  alone  in  the  sickroom,  but  hardly  anyone  was  paying  attention  to  the  hand's  bastards  whom  they  called  the  hand's  children  only  in  polite  conversation.  ❛❛ —  they  are  saying  it  was  poison.  in  the  wine.  all  eyes  are  on  the  lannisters.  on  the  redwynes.  and  on  hightowers  that  decided  to  climb  down  their  towers  with  a  convenient  antidote  in  exchange  of  a  position  on  the  council.  —  ❞  he  was  not  sure  someone  had  informed  shiera  of  the  important  details  yet.  certainly  their  father  would  not  be  boring  his  only  daughters  with  the  ugly  details,  he  was  a  sentimental  fool.  ❛❛ —  you  just  cost  father  a  master  of  laws  position,  shiera.  —  ❞  he  said,  bluntly.  ❛❛ —  but  i  am  glad  you  are  alive.  —  ❞  and  this  time  the  smile  he  offered  his  sister  was  almost  warm.

Bile pooled in her stomach as she attempted to think through the haze and focus on his words. "Did you taste no wine yourself, brother, that you were spared? Did Father somehow find it in himself to abstain?" This tale she could not believe. She had watched near every liege in the gathered hall drink like a fish, so pleased with the Redwynes' bounty it may well have been gold they were offered. She had been one. That airy lightness of her memory of the feast vanished in her mind, replaced with the astringent taste of the cure. One may well have been the other.

"I did not ask for Father to do sacrifice anything for my sake. He did not do it for my sake. Do you come at his command, to chide me for being poisoned?" Her eyes flicked over Addam, comfortably settled by her bedside; the picture of a concerned brother, even as he offered reminders of what her life cost. What was some Waters worth? Certainly not the Small Council. Did their father believe it an act of paternal affection, so sanctioned by the Father above, to have saved her from the clutches of death... alongside Vaiora Redwyne, the ladies of houses Baratheon and Arryn, and whoever else had been taken ill? Had the rest of the Small Council no say in this choice, or did Lord Alester intend to take the credit for both antidote and sacrifice with his singular avarice? She carded her hand through her hair; had to stop as her fingers caught on mats and knots. She dared not tear it. Idly, she said: “Cerion Lannister is the Master of Laws. What did Father do to convince him to cede that?”

"Only natural," she said softly, suppressing the curiosity such a tale evoked. She would learn, in time, what the lady meant; or she would not. Nothing ever came from pushing a confidence that one had not yet earned. "I suppose I do not understand, but that is merely a matter of perspective. Perhaps I have never seen the possibilities there may be beyond a dip in the bay, or a late night honeyed cake pilfered from the kitchens. I would be eager to hear what else there is, though. On the morrow, then? As we explore the Street of Flour, or walk down the docks? I would be delighted to join you in your explorations, my lady; how else to make certain you do not pass by something wonderful without so much as noting it? You shall have to tell me your preference in sweetmeats; we must find something to challenge Highgarden's best cooks."

It was perhaps unlikely. And perhaps Lady Falyn would smell the stench of Pigrun Alley or Sowbelly Row, that stretched under the sun's heat to encompass entire streets around them, and remember with whom she walked. Perhaps on the morrow she would not wish to explore the city at all, or not with current company...

But perhaps she would. 

Few of her shades spoke beyond what had been said in memory. Even contorted from remembrance, she did not remember this trembling voice. "Gwyn?" Shiera asked, reaching for the shade. "Is that you? Are you..." Even a sharp breath left her gasping, cold air rough on her unused voice. Her clammy fingers closed upon their trembling hands, a paltry support Shiera was not certain who for. "Are you ill too?" 

Tal, at least, would mourn her. "You say it as if you wish more had succumbed to justify the lack of wine. No, no, do not take the chain; those you administer to may never recover, and at the moment I am one." She squeezed his hand back; a silent acknowledgement.

how   easy   it   was   ,       for   the   human   mind   to   fall   into   the   comfort   of   a   routine.   as   abruptly   as   the   sickness   had   swept   over   them   all   ⸻   not   only   those   who   had   taken   ill   directly   ,       but   those   left   to   care   for   them   in   the   aftermath   ,       the   entire   keep   had   mobilized   in   an   effort   to   contain   the   plague   upon   them.   a   displaced   sense   of   comfort   ,       to   see   the   efforts   of   all   in   aiding   where   they   could   ,     herself   included.   but   in   the   midsts   of   it   all   ,       the   fear   that   reminded   syrenna   all   too   easily   of   the   energy   that   had   overtaken   storm's   end   throughout   their   blight   ,       and   ultimately   ,       of   the   last   few   moments   of   her   mother's   life.   it   had   terrified   her   more   than   words   could   say   ,       sitting   at   her   step   -   mother's   bedside   ,       and   praying   to   the   god's   of   her   forest   that   could   not   reach   them   there.   if   only   she   got   better   ,       if   only   helvis   began   to   recover   ,       she   would   do   her   part   in   seeing   their   conflict   ended   ,       in   a   resolution   restored.   she   had   suffered   through   the   slow   loss   of   one   mother   already   ,       she   would   not   survive   that   of   another. 

so   while   she   was   not   ready   to   so   easily   accept   helvis'   role   in   their   lives   ,       she   would   sit   ,       she   would   listen.   she   would   try.

     ❝     lady   helvis.   i   have   ,       please   do   not   concern   yourself.     ❞       and   while   previously   ,       the   words   would   have   slipped   off   her   tongue   with   an   offhanded   sort   of   vitriol   (   a   clear   attempt   to   cut   any   attempt at conversation   short   )   ,       these   were   spoken   softly   ,       assuringly.   her   step   -   mother   had   enough   to   worry   over   with   her   own   recovery   ,       let   alone   syrenna's   eating   habits.     ❝     i   have   become   rather   adept   in   seeing   to   her   care.       i   shall   watch   her   closely.     ❞       the   hours   spent   at   her   bedside   throughout   the   worst   of   her   illness   ,       spoke as a   testament   to   the   servant who finally took their leave.   taking   her   usual   seat   ,       closest   to   the   edge   of   her   bed   ,       syrenna   made   an   effort   to   ignore   the   unease   in   her   stomach   at   meeting   a   gaze   that   shone   with   clarity   for   the   first   time   in   days.     ❝       …   you   are   truly   feeling   better   ?     ❞     

"I am much improved, I assure you," she said. She felt it in the clearness of her head, though her body struggled yet to muster any strength. "Merely relieved that the fever did not touch you three, nor your father." This was a dangerous time for it, in truth, unsettled and likely to blow any way. Had the Gods taken her... there were those that would scoff at it, were Chayton to take another bride, but accept it. His loss, however, may well be their house's undoing, with the triplets so lacking for... direction. Discipline. Advocates, champions, allies. Helvis had seen already, on the very night of the feast, the way the eyes of the court turned; how eager all were, how ready, to seize upon first opportunity, haste guiding their footsteps to the first bid for power they could find.

Helvis had no desire to act blindly—they had no need for desperation—but patience would not serve them here. She looked over Syrenna, her wary face, the careful seat by her bed. Now was as good a time as any. "This has been a cruel reminder, yet an essential one. The Stranger's scythe looms above us all... and there are those at this Keep who seek to hasten it. We must secure our future before it is past. Your future." 

turning on your heel with an immediate roll of your eyes, you ran straight into lady helvis baratheon. you paused to look at her. time had passed since your last real visit; new lines sat at the corners of her eyes, giving her a gravity that hadn't been there before. losing lord connington and marrying again had remade her world, and while you didn't run in the same circles anymore, the correspondence had survived. you were always drowning in letters anyway, answering half the realm just to keep up. "lady helvis," you greeted her, the smile reaching your eyes without the usual effort of the court. "how good it is to see you. it has been far too long." your hands rested on her arms for a brief moment before slipping away. "yes, the kingsmoot," you added with a dry sigh. "though the gates will likely stay shut until we are all skeletons. one has to invent ways to pass the time." you checked the shaded street ahead and easily took her arm, steering her into a more leisurely stroll. "come. walk with me. we have an entire season's worth of gossip to get through." behind you, the guards kept their distance as you both moved deeper into the quiet parts of the district.

above you, ripe figs leaned over a stone garden wall from a heavy tree. your eyes caught them right away. "there," you signaled one of the guards with a wave. "grab a handful, will you?" you turned back to helvis, laughter in your eyes. "my wife adores them. though, if memory serves, so do you. my cook makes an excellent fig preserve; i shall have a jar sent to you tomorrow, lest my people devour it by noon." you continued walking ahead. "it is frantic here, is it not? though far quieter than if we were lodged at the city center, trust me. speaking of which, are you nearby? i desperately hope so, for i am already bored beyond reason." your gaze drifted briefly toward the distant silhouette of the red keep visible beyond clustered rooftops. "i must admit, the whole affair is fascinating." a short laugh cut through the air. "a kingsmoot. who would have thought? next we are to start raiding our neighbors like savages, i suppose. i'm rather eager to watch it unfold." you slanted a look toward her, curiosity taking over. "tell me honestly, lady helvis, has house baratheon come to press its own claim… or are you just here to support someone else's?" you could hazard a guess, of course. but haste rarely served diplomacy well.

Another look around, towards the chaos behind them, and the busy street ahead. "Cities of this scale always seem mad with energy to my eyes. Little peace to be found, even in the quieter parts of it. Yes, we are nearby—a manse further down this street, though I find I am already looking forward to quit it." Horses, carts, gold cloaks, hawkers and peddlers and every other source of noise in the city seemed to filter in through their windows. It was enough to exhaust the most fortified of spirits. "Not that I believe the Red Keep will be better, with half the realm here for the moot." Speaking of which—she looked over Lady Arryn. Her friendliness spoke nothing of the contest that may well sit between them before a moon's turn, and yet most houses at the Kingsmoot were here for one thing only.

There was much to be gained... but nothing to be lost in admitting it. "Chayton has his ambitions," she said, lowering her voice so no others might hear it. The Baratheons had better claim than most; Chayton's grandfather had been Aegon Targaryen's half-brother; his father had been amongst Maegor the Cruel's first opposers. Helvis would be pleased, she thought, to see him upon the throne… but there were always other claims, other ambitions, other aspirants… and, of course, the question of his heirs. She shook her head. "But ambitions mean little without support. Do you come with your own claim, Lady Arryn?" She would rather leave with friends in high places than enemies.

perhaps an oddity for aila to have made their way to the sick rooms where those who had taken ill were in recovery. but they'd learned a few days ago that it was poison and not some plague, which brought much relief and hidden worries. it meant at the very least she could relieve herself of the anxiety of infecting loved ones by visiting. uncle mor would likely understand having tended to some of the ill themselves, but aila knew her sister and aunt would surely oppose the unnecessary risk.

yet there would always be lingering guilt and an unpayable debt to lady helvis. when the news broke and aila learned that the former lady connington among the sick, the worry never faded. still haunted by the late ser connington's untimely death. if aila had been stronger, more capable when joining the hunt for outlaws, then perhaps their children would still have a father. the only consolation was ensuring the assailants did not evade capture. aila had sworn to themselves that if ever in their power to help ser connington's widow and children to lend it. had sworn it to themselves over the fallen knight's body. even if becoming a knight was not their path, it would not be a broken oath.

aila had heard from a servant she had befriended that it seemed lady helvis' condition was beginning to improve. the last thing they'd want to do is impose on the family but she still at least wanted to offer any sort of aid if they could manage it. venturing into the chamber after knocking, the tully dipped their head in respect before greeting. a note of hesitation in their voice.

"good morrow, lady helvis. i hope i'm not disturbing your rest. i can... i can also go if i am?"

She remembered Aila Tully with the same distance that she remembered everybody she had seen in the weeks immediately surrounding the event, as though she were underwater. She could little remember what they had spoken of, and though passage of time may well account for it, she knew it was not anything so mundane. The sight of them now, with the eerie dreams of a fevered mind lingering so close, almost brought a faint sense of that same muted distance from the world... but Aila Tully was no more a harbinger of ill as anybody else who had seen that hunt, save the outlaws themselves, who had long been sentenced.

And Helvis had been lacking company. The sickbed was only a place to endure; the more company, the better. She smiled at the young liege. "Good morrow, Lady Aila. No disturbance at all; truly, I would welcome some company. Illness is tedious work. Please, join me," she said, gesturing to a chair in the room. “You must tell me how your travels have treated you these past years. It has been a long time. I hope none of your house have been afflicted by this vile attack?”

and then the word dragonbone falls between you, and the world inside you turns to ice. once more, your eyes seek the distant horizon where the city sleeps beneath the night; only, this time, your gaze finds the hill of rhaenys, where the dragonpit was carved. a sudden, heavy grief takes root in your chest before your thoughts can bar the way. creatures born to split the heavens chained beneath stone ceilings, growing smaller with every passing generation, never knowing open skies the way they were meant to. you have heard the stories all your life. beasts caged for the comfort of frightened men. monsters reduced into relics. soon, you promise yourself quietly. soon enough, you will see them. her voice pulls you back again before your thoughts can wander too far. do you share that appreciation for beauty, your grace? your eyes lift to hers fully now, lingering openly. shamelessly so. and perhaps the wine has softened your restraint because you find yourself stepping closer before you entirely decide to. slowly, carefully, you reach toward her hair, gathering a loose dark strand between your fingers. silk, finer and softer than the fabrics of lys. your thumb smooths down its length absentmindedly.

"i do," you answer quietly. "especially when it stands before me." your mouth curves faintly at one corner. "though i confess i cannot place you." your fingers loosen from the strand reluctantly. your head tilts slightly, curious now in earnest. "i have traveled much of the realm and still you seem entirely unfamiliar to me. what corner of the world are you from?"

And the knowledge of Shiera's own origin—what bearing would that have on the gentle, lingering touch to her hair, or that dark, focused gaze? How much stock did this Targaryen princess, who own soil held neither Targaryen nor princesses, place upon the blight of blood?

She had not the lay of Dragonstone yet. The Targaryens were not the only element of this kingsmoot she was unfamiliar with, but they were the most unfamiliar. If she suspected Princess Delfina to be anything like the late king, there would be no need to think of her twice... but whatever divided brother and sister certainly made her father mislike their whole brood... and he so rarely hated those who were powerless. Shiera raised her chin, if only to incline her head, let her drape of her hair curtain over her shoulders. "Why, from here, Your Grace. You, who have travelled much of the realm but seen little of this city, have no reason to know me; who has seen much of this keep, and none of the realm." A brief shudder, as the ends of her hair rustled past the bare skin of her shoulder, a gasp of byssine contact—before she looked the princess in the eye again, brow raised. A challenge, issued.