sister, i was hungry.

Princess Jacaera sat near the tall windows, composed as ever, Naerys settled neatly in her lap. Sunlight gilded them both, the child’s pale hair bright as spun gold while her small fingers toyed absently with one of Jacaera’s rings. The picture was almost painfully serene.

Aren felt the faintest tightening of irritation in his chest.

He schooled his expression before stepping inside, hands clasped loosely behind his back, a slow, devious smile replacing whatever honesty had tried to surface.

“I am so rarely granted the company of my nieces and nephew,” he said smoothly, offering a bow precise enough to border on mockery. “You will forgive me for interrupting. There is no need to hold her so defensively.”

Naerys spotted him and brightened immediately, squirming with excitement.

While away, his longing for his family was a dull ache that he could easily ignore. In their presence, however, the sadness became much sharper.

“I take it my sister doesn't know you've made off with her youngest, then?"

The Father does not grant her prayer.

She turns the princess around in her lap, then lifts her and sets her gently down upon her little black slippers. As she toddles over to Ser Aren, gown of an equally black swishing around her legs, Jacaera allows herself the moment to think, These are no colors for a babe. Before she squashes the memories down beneath her heel, her countenance showing how unaffected she is if not for the roll of her eyes she deigns Ser Aren with, since her words must be polite. "We are in the middle of a storm; it is not as if the girl would have gone far. I was going to return her, of course, ser. It is a knight's duty to protect the weak, but surely not from adoring aunt?"

His smile, his bow, his tone, though any proper offense is imperceptible, Jacaera knows it is there. "Have you been surveying the keep, then? Protecting us from ne'er-do-wells? Perhaps a white cloak is in your future, ser." With the way his eldest had grabbed at the position of the hand, he might as well become a kingsguard. Let all the Baratheons take on positions, why not? Bully for us all.

He gave her an askance look. He couldn't quite believe it; the first lady who had asked him for aid, and so kindly at that pinned her hopes at making it inside and offering her oaths, upon him, and Hugo could not do it. He would have to improve his knowledge of those here at once! "Truth be told, I have not yet met many of them. I believe I might be able to recognise Lord Lannister if I saw him? I hear he is quite young, and most Lannisters should be known by their hair, but... aside from the Arryns, I am also here with nearly nobody." He cleared his throat. "But I would hate to concern your people! Please be assured that I should not abandon you in the crowd; you will be returned to your guards safe and sound, having made your swears."

She pats his arm with her free hand, and thinks a prayer to the Crone, so that She may grant the both of them some much needed wisdom. Though, it is quite peculiar why the knight is also here alone...The crowd is too noisy, too ready to swallow them within it for her to ask about what led him to this point, so Sybelle writes down the oddity in the back of her mind, to ask at a later date; she is determined to find him again, and maybe then, he will have learned more information and thus had more to offer her. "Let us be on our way then, good ser. His grace waits for no one."

the dun fort was a cage of stone and breath, too small to hold the grief of a kingdom, let alone the ghosts nerissa carried in her train. the coronation had been a suffocating affair; she had stood shoulder to shoulder with the weeping nobility, watching her father bend the knee to a boy king who looked too small for his crown. the air inside had been hot, recycled, and thick with the scent of unwashed bodies and cloying incense. escaping it felt less like a choice and more like a survival instinct. now, she paced the cobblestones of duskendale, a shadow in fine silks, flanked by the silent, armored bulk of her sworn sword. the guard was a necessary nuisance, a reminder that she was no longer merely nissa the wild rose, but the heir to highgarden—a prize to be protected, a vessel to be watched. the city was alive, though the celebrations were dampened by the shroud of mourning. the smallfolk drank to forget rather than to rejoice, and it was the drinking that nearly broke her. nerissa watched a group of knights near a tavern far down the street, the torchlight catching the ruby glint of wine sloshing over the rim of what looked like a goblet. her mouth watered, a traitorous, physical ache that started in her jaw and travelled down to her fingertips.

she could taste it—the sharp, grounding burn of wine, the way it would silence the itching in her blood. thirty days sober. thirty days of feeling every jagged edge of the world without the soft, white blanket of the poppy to dull the pain. it would be so easy. to slip away from her guard, to vanish into the dark, to grab a bottle and find a brothel where she could buy oblivion for a night. she could be drunk. she could be high. she could be lost in a bed of linen and limbs, forgetting that her brother was ash and her future was a burden she never asked for. be good, nissa, the memory of willam whispered, his voice clearer than the clamor of the city. be the heir i can no longer be. she tore her eyes away from the alley, her nails digging half-moons into her palms to ground herself in the pain. she needed a distraction. any distraction. nerissa turned sharply, almost colliding with the figure standing nearby, and the words just started spilling out of her, a nervous, rambling flood to drown out her own thoughts.

"tell me," she started, her voice a little too quick, a little too breathless. "do you smell rain coming? back in the reach, you can smell the storm miles before it breaks, all green and heavy, but here... i can’t tell if it’s a deluge waiting to drop or just the natural state of the town to be this grey. it is my first time in duskendale, you see. do you think it will be a proper storm? or just a miserable little drizzle?" she didn't wait for an answer, her eyes wide and searching as she gestured vaguely at the sky, terrified of the silence returning. "and where have they put you? surely not in the tents outside the fort? i shudder to think what a downpour would do to the morale out there. nothing says 'long live the king' quite like sleeping in a swamp, does it? it’ll be like the gods' saying: 'here, have a coronation, and here, have a fever to go with it.'"

She has half a mind to scold him, tell him the bear and the maiden fair is not the sort of song she wishes others of high standing to associate her with, when an other of high standing speaks first. Sybelle had learned some of the names (....Particularly if they belonged to beautiful women) during the coronation, and so she immediately dipps into a curtsy at the sight of one of the Tyrell ladies, though, which, she does not quite remember.

At the tangent, she feels her face turn crimson, the heat of it making the wind hitting her cheeks seem almost biting. "The gods will have mercy on us, I am certain, my lady. There is no need to worry about swamps. Or...Or floods, as a matter of fact. Everyone in the tents will be absolutely fine. Especially if we...I pray very, very hard." The whole day she has found herself looking up, up, up whenever the sky had been in sight. The clouds are pale, grey, but that is no reason to assume a deluge. Her nerves, already heightened at speaking to whom she assumes is already a very important woman, get the best of her, as she herself also rambles on, their words intertwining to cause a cacophony of ill tidings. "And even if the rain were to swallow the tents whole, and everyone sleeping outside were to gain fever, there must be maesters aplenty here in Duskendale, what with so many nobles around. And the season! We must not forget the season. It is my first season, you see, my lady, but I believe there are many, many maesters, yes. Do not worry for those of us...That is to say, those of them who are sleeping beneath the stars and the clouds, which, might I add, are not quite so dark as to promise rain, you see."

Though... he did not know the order for the other houses, and there was no way to know from without. He did not want to frighten Lady Serrett any further, however, and he did not think there was any need to take concern, when Hugo would most certainly have her in the hall with time to spare. Gallant! It was not a sort of thing he had ever expected to be called gallantry—it was only a crowd; no band of ruffians or bandits with swords and clubs—but it was of course his duty nonetheless, so he only grinned and offered the lady his arm. His left, just in case he needed his right for some elbowing. "Why of course, Lady Serrett; we will have you inside and watching the others swear from an excellent vantage in no time!" Perhaps he ought to find some other Westermen to place her beside so she would be most comfortable?

... he did not know anybody from the Westerlands. "Is there anybody you should like to find? I could not abandon you in the midst of a crowd."

Sybelle blinks sweetly up at the knight, gently places a hand upon the crook of his proffered arm. Is she doing it? Is she playing the part of the sweet maiden? She is neither a maiden, nor particularly sweet, but perhaps if Ser Hugo can vouch for her....Especially to the Lord Lannister, whom she has yet to meet despite her inheriting two moons ago. "I shall put my full trust in you then, ser." She looks upon the crowd, the sea of faces she can barely discern, and then raises her head up, up, up to gaze upon him..."If you please, ser, it would be most kind of you to tell me of any you recognize. I would loathe to speak a fellow nobleman, only for them to realize I haven't the slightest who they are."

when:  after  the  coronation  but  before  the  vigil

who:  open  !

the  princess  awakens  rather  early  that  morning,  and  finds  herself  unable  to  fall  back  asleep.  with  a  heavy  sigh,  she  calls  upon  handmaidens  to  help  her  prepare  for  the  day  –  first  by  preparing  her  a  bath,  then  brushing  and  styling  her  honey  blonde  hair  and  finally  by  helping  her  into  one  of  her  fine  dresses.  a  black  one,  of  course,  to  show  the  world  that  she  is  still  mourning.

but  is  she?

it  is  not  like  daena  did  not  love  viserys  –  she  did,  of  course.  but  did  she  ever  really  know  him?  likely  not.  so  she's  currently  in  a  very  odd  space,  somewhere  between  deep  grief  and  indifference.  it's  a  strange  place  to  be,  that  is  for  certain.

she  makes  her  way  through  the  halls,  eventually  stumbling  upon  a  library.  and  while  she's  never  been  much  of  a  scholar,  the  quietness  of  the  space  is  nice.  so  she  peruses  the  many  shelves  of  books,  mismatched  eyes  scanning  for  anything  interesting.  she  eventually  settles  on  what  appears  to  be  some  sort  of  story  book  about  the  children  of  the  forest.  she's  always  found  those  accounts  of  the  children  to  be  quite  interesting,  so  why  not?

taking  the  large  book,  she  then  looks  for  a  place  to  sit  only  to  find  that  she  is  not  alone  after  all.  there  is  another,  sat  upon  one  of  the  lounging  chairs.  daena  jumps  slightly,  not  having  expected  to  find  anyone  else.

“oh  –  shit!”  she  exclaims.  “apologies,  i  thought  i  was  alone  in  here…  and  what  brings  you  here  today?”

Quite similar to the one her destroyer of solitude dons, in fact. She tilts her head to the side, eyes lazily flitting over the princess, the weak sunlight shining in lighting up the half of her face that faces the windows. She hums, "Queen mother watches us from the seven heavens, Daena...She will ask the Lady Mother to curse you for your foul mouth. Though, your words, unfit for royalty, make more sense than your apologies."

Her eyes narrow upon her sister's countenance. "What are you apologizing for, dear sister? Could it be that you are wearing my dress?" Truth be told, Jacaera has so many dresses, she cannot be certain the one upon her sister's body is truly her own...But the similarity is grating. Does being in mourning mean one has to appear as everyone else?

his shoulders sag like rotted wooden poles holding up the weight of his snowy white cloak. it is unbecoming of a kingsguard—no, the lord commander of the kingsguard—to be out and about with a bent spine. but it’s inevitable, what with all this gravity and reality and duty. he figures it’s fine. night is here and no one’s nearby, not in this corner of the sprawling garden, behind these bushes, far from any eyes. he takes a break. his first breath of the day. pinches his nose, rubs his eyes. he’s meant to rest, see his chambers for the first time since swinging down from his horse at the dun fort’s front steps, but his head is splitting beneath his intricate white enameled helm.

everyone packed like sardines for miles, it was stupid or arrogant or optimistic to think he’d found the one empty place in all of duskendale. he lifts the helm free—cool air to his temples like a lover’s kiss. jael exhales and leans back, letting the stone wall take all the ache. hunk of head-shaped metal resting on his knee. the heavy wind a soft whisper between silver-streaked strands of overgrown black hair brushing his shoulders… his eyes pry open. lips curling, thin as moonlight.

“not much for crowds?”

What she is familiar with, however, is the cloak she sees. How foolish of me, to expect a moment without any guards in sight. Ever more so are the long black tresses that frame the face of her unwanted company. "Ser Jael." The greeting is is devoid of enthusiasm, though he is not the reason for her lack of it. "You know me better than that." Yes, yes, she loved crowds. Loves crowds. Attention, awe, secrets. Her favorite! Why does she avoid them so? "Should you not be directing your men?" He remains one of the few familiar kingsguard to have survived the catastrophe, a face from her youth that has yet to fade with what has suddenly become so many others. "It would not do for someone to find you looking so down on your luck."

And then, because her wits have not been about her for the past moon, she stands next to him, leaning her back against the stone wall but not crouching as he is, no. She is a princess! The daugh-sist-aunt of a king. Her hands clench and unclench at her sides. Does she look a princess grown to him? Does she look in control of her surroundings, of herself? Does he think a fire could have killed her, too? Her gaze is directed straight ahead, not one look spared for the new lord commander of the kingsguard.

Perianne had never liked crowded spaces anyway. Too many sounds, hither-tither. The Great Sept of Duskendale, with its soaring crystal prisms and the persistent, rhythmic drone of the Most Devout, felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cage of echoes. To those she passed, she was a balm: a soft smile, a gentle nod, an easy-going daughter of the Riverlands who looked as though she had been born from the very wildflowers she smelled of, the rustle of silk that sounded like dry leaves, the clatter of boots on stone, and the endless, exhausting hum of people trying to be more than they were.

Her mind was still fixated on Torrhen, Rickon, and Sansa. How cruel could these gods be, she wondered, to pluck them out of existence as if they were nothing more than mere puppets?

The Sept of Duskendale offered a different kind of air. It wasn't the damp, ancient breath of the godswood at Raventree Hall; there was no scent of old bark or the watchful silence of the ravens here — but it was quiet. The incense was thick, a cloying sweetness that sat heavy on her tongue, yet it muffled the sharp edges of the outside world. As she rounded a heavy stone pillar, she realized she wasn't alone. A figure sat in the dim light, hunched or perhaps just lost. Perianne stopped, her gaze lingering just a moment too long.

"Oh, I'm sorry for disturbing you. I wished to find a quiet spot."

...But a woman from a house cursed by the gods would do well to be considerate of those whose company she wishes to become a part of, so she sings a gentle tune to the gods.

Her voice has never been the greatest, and it is worse, still, as she sings a hymn for each gods, the smoke of the incense and candles ever so cloying, upsetting her lungs. Her voice cracks in the middle of her prayer to the Crone, and in that moment she finds she is no longer alone in the little corner she had sought out so that she make focus on her words. At the interruption, Sybelle stands up from her nears and turns to greet the figure, immediately dipping into a curtsy. "There is nothing to apologize for, my lady." She tells her, voice low but still clear in their little hiding spot. "Would you care to join me?" Making friends is, of course, paramount when one is in her position. "I should think the gods would like it very much to hear prayers from a voice much lovelier than mine." The self deprecation comes easy to her, for the thoughts whir in her mind all day. Still, a woman of such beauty must carry an equally as alluring voice, no? She immediately imagines her singing to be that of a siren, based on nothing but her beautiful eyes.

"the  tents?"  she  echoes,  half-startled  to  imagine  a  young  lady  of  such  beauty  sleeping  outside  of  the  keep's  walls.  "i  suppose  the  entirety  of  the  realm  is  shoulder  to  shoulder."  it  had  not  occurred  to  the  pyke  that  one  might  be  so  troubled  by  a  lack  of  housing  that  they  chose  the  stars.  she  had  heard  of  hedge  knights,  men  who  made  their  pillows  from  grass,  but  had  never  seen  one.  it  is  curious  that  her  first  encounter  is  a  hedge  lady.  lyanna  herself  would  have  been  content  to  sleep  aboard  her  ship  with  the  rest  of  the  crew  if  her  father  had  not  invoked  his  great  name  to  reserve  them  a  home  at  dun  fort.  “i  began  to  imagine  that  the  walls  might  collapse  with  the  crowds  knocking  against  them."  she  dances  around  the  idea  of  oaths,  thinking  of  her  grandsire.  "but  the  keep  is  not  so  bad  during  the  day,"  perhaps  it  is  rude  of  her  to  say  so  when  the  lady  camps.  "i  should  not  mind  to  accompany  you  at  the  seven  swords.  is  your..."  she  chases  the  proper  word  for  royal  company  court,  "retinue?  very  large,  lady  serrett?  how  many  rooms  do  you  require?”

Her attention is quickly shifted from Lyanna's earlier question to her comment, "You have no rival." She can feel her cheeks redden, the blood drowning out the mask of confidence she is attempting to don. "That is so very kind of you, Lyanna." You have no rival...the words ring in her ear, before she realizes her mistake. That was not a compliment...Those were her own house words! Oh Sybelle, she will leave this conversation with no other thought of you other than that you are simple! "Very kind of you to....recall my house words, of course." She tries to amend, but even then, she knows her blush has stormed the gates and taken over the rest of her face.

"But the keep is not so bad during the day."

Her astonishment takes hold of her tongue before her wits have the chance, "You are staying within the Dun Fort?!" A self reported woman of little import, and yet she stays at the keep! She is clearly no working lady, nor is she a septa...Then who could a Lyanna of Lightfoot be, so that she rooms with the likes of the Targaryens and the Lannisters?! Sybelle herself is the Lady of Silverhill, yet in front of this woman the title feels weak, irrelevant. Though....Perhaps....She may have some leeway, then? "Oh, your help would be ever so appreciated then! If you mention your lodgings are within the keep, perhaps that will be a good enough word for the innkeepers to find some hidden room booked away for inquiring people of high standing! It is just me, my lady's maid, and two guards. The men can share a room with any other guards; I am certain they will prefer it to the bustle and noise of the grounds! Come, come, we must make our way at once." She is lowborn, but she had never been poor, and after the journey to Duskendale, she wishes for a nice warm bath more than anything. Some food not cooked in haste over a communal campfire. A room where men will not bother her and her maid!

the  pyke  offers  her  own  graceful  curtsy  in  turn,  taking  the  silk  of  her  skirts  in  her  palm.  even  with  bent  knees,  she  does  not  dip  any  lower  than  the  brunette's  height.  "they  call  me  lyanna  lightfoot."  a  truth,  in  many  ways,  but  an  omission  in  just  as  many.  she  grins,  her  secret  in  her  pocket  alone.  she  may  offer  it,  in  time,  if  she  pleased.  "i  would  ask  you  for  your  name,  my  lady,  but  i  am  in  no  place  to  demand  it."

As Lyanna rises from sitting, Sybelle's eyes trail up, up, up, taking in the full height of the beautiful woman. She feels her nerves fray; she is nowhere near as tall or as alluring as the woman is. Sybelle does not understand why she would put herself down so, when she radiant within her own eyes. "Lyanna Lightfoot." She repeats, the title? Descriptor? Family name? Odd on her lips. "My lad-" Oh, now she will offend in a different manner all together, "Lyanna. I cannot claim to be of any high importance myself, and thus I will give you my name freely." She raises her chin and a mockery of confidence, "I am Sybelle Wa-rrett." Not quite. "Sybelle Warryn. Serrett. A lady of- The lady of House Serrett. And the daughter of Warryn, which is not a house." Though, the name had been a home.

As to him... was he a lord? Hugo was accustomed to bowing to this lord and that lady; he had always been either Hugo or Ser. He supposed he had been milorded once or twice this moon... but serving maids hardly counted. Perhaps it was best not to test it. "Ser Hugo Arryn, of the..." He supposed he was not of the Gulltown Arryns anymore. "Of the Vale. Pleased to meet you as well, Lady Sybelle!" he offered, dipping into a bow that he thought was rather well courtly, considering how little experience he had of it. 

And to add to her humiliation, she had called him lord instead of ser...Why, he could be the lord of nothing; perhaps his elder sibling had inherited the Vale! The Vale? That is ever so far away! She knows nothing of the Vale, or of who this man is other than that he must be of high import as a relative to the ruling liege and the heir, and everything is quite jarring. She takes in a deep breath, closes her eyes (Though, she is certain to bow her head to her current company, lest he assuming she was bored of his conversation!), and takes in a deep, deep, deep breath. "Ser Hugo Arryn of the Vale," She overcorrects as she tilts her head up to take the knight in, "It would be my honor if you would escort me inside. To make my oaths. That would be very gallant of you indeed."

she dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, fighting the shame she had carried since her dismissal when bowing her head. only then did she force her spine straight, the first act of the worthy heir she promised she would become.“i find comfort in it,” lady tyrell confessed softly, contradicting the royal commentary with a fragility she would usually mask in wine. she faced jacaera, her skin pale and damp with sweat, but she held her ground. “the smoke masks the smell of the city, and the candles… we need the light, your grace. duskendale is grey enough without extinguishing the only brightness we have left to offer them. it is for the living, i think, not the dead.” she took a breath, the air rattling in her chest, and offered a smile that was more wound than warmth. “it is a relief to see you, princess. truly,” she lied, or perhaps she didn’t; there was a comfort in the familiarity of jacaera’s judgment amidst a sea of strangers. “though i wish it were not in the shadow of such pyres. the realm bleeds for your brother… just as highgarden bleeds for mine. but i am truly sorry for your loss.”

"The smell of the city?" Duskendale holds no place in her heart, but, "Do you mean the city of my good sister's family? The wife of the regent?" When Jacaera had asked for an opinion, she had meant for a simple, "Yes, my princess." And now everyone wants to let her know what they truly think! She makes note of the information; House Tyrell have become quite lofty in their manner of speaking, when their heir is a disaster of a woman. Every word she utters digs her hole deeper, a true feat for one who was born digging. "You are correct in some of your words, however; the realm does bleed for the late king." Just her brother?! Jacaera had been right to push her out all those years ago; her milk and her drink led her too often to forgetting herself, and it seems nothing exactly has changed.