ser loras tyrell

𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐘𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐋.

he looked her over much the same as the other lords and ladies of the court and found her wanting. “𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒆, 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒅. 𝒊 𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒂 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒕𝒉, ” she clarified, suddenly nervous. sansa wouldn’t have been so silly as to disparage the wine. “ 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒉, ”  she answered, the answer falling flat. “ 𝒔𝒆𝒓 𝒓𝒐𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒌 𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒍’𝒔 𝒅𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓, ” as if loras tyrell knew or cared who ser rodrik was. her cheeks flushed a little, aware in a moment that she was no longer a little fish in a pond that everyone could spot, but a guppy in a vast ocean.

“ 𝒏𝒐, 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒅. 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒆𝒍𝒍. 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒉 𝒊𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒃𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏. 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒊’𝒗𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉, ” he was a pretty man, the floral nature of tyrell apparel might have looked feminine to some, but beth thought it was complimentary in its beauty. she saw little comparable embroidery in the north. “ 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆, 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒅, 𝒊𝒕’𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔, ” she smiled, holding out the goblet with a plain smile. “ 𝒊’𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒂𝒏 𝒆𝒙𝒄𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔. ”

“You lack a sweet tooth?” he repeated as if she’d said she has a third arm hidden under her clothing. He didn’t think he’d ever met someone who completely lacked a sweet tooth before. Maybe Stannis, but Loras favored forgetting everything he’d ever learned about Stannis Baratheon. “Ah,” he nods in understanding when she explains her lineage. “Your father’s a good warrior.” I don’t think he’s a fan of mine, though. That’s unspoken, now doesn’t seem like a time to speak his own praises.

My Lord, my Lord, my Lord, how Loras hated the formalities of court. My Lord this, my Lord that - he much preferred Ser Loras, a title he’d actually earned. “You’ve heard many great things, but you don’t like it,” he points out with a shrug. No sweet tooth. How odd. “I didn’t realize the North had wines of their own.” Where can one grow the grapes in a land that’s as barren as the women seem to be fertile? Also likely not an appropriate comment, so Loras holds his tongue. He smiled in return and took the goblet from her, taking a sip out of it. He’d seen her drink from it, so it isn’t poisoned, he figured. She didn’t seem like the sort to be a very good liar about who she was, either. And there were plenty of other people wandering the gardens; poisoning him here would be an incredibly bold move. Taking another sip of the wine to show his trust, he raised an eyebrow again. “Have you not had the ale? They forced it upon me all night last night. It... certainly isn’t sweet, I’ll say that for it.”

𝙸𝚃   𝚆𝙰𝚂   𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷   𝙰   𝙳𝙴𝚂𝙿𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝚂𝙸𝙶𝙷   𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃   trystane   found   himself   in   the   company   of   a   familiar   face   —   the   expression   of   surrender   on   his   own   entirely   too   telling   in   its   honesty   ,   while   simultaneously   inviting   conversation.   while   they   did   not   always   agree   on   their   topics   of   discussion   ,   any   time   spent   with   loras   was   sure   to   leave   him   …   invigorated   in   the   aftermath.   headaches   could   be   invigorating   ,   could   they   not   ??

　　　❛　　　𝚃𝙴𝙻𝙻   𝙼𝙴   𝙼𝚈   𝙵𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙽𝙳　,　what   leaves   you   with   such   a   look   of   distate   upon   your   face.   you’ve   only   just   arrived   !   —   surely   nothing   could’ve   been   so   fast   to   bring   you   offence   ?　　　❜

Looking up at the sound of a voice, Loras gave Trystane a smile; despite his own best interests, in the past, he’d found himself liking the Dornish prince. If Loras really thought about it, it’s because of the Dornes that he and Renly didn’t have to hide who they were, for the most part. The country’s far more progressive now than stories told of twenty-some years ago, back when Loras was too young to write his own name, and he’s grateful for that - though he’d never admit it out loud.

“Is this city not too much for you, too?” he asks, raising his wine to his lips once again to take another small sip of the familiar arbor gold. “Because it truly seems like I’m the only one suffering from homesickness.” He misses the spare time he used to have - not that he doesn’t have spare time now, the problem is he has too much of it, and no one he usually spends his time with has the same amount. Politics. He hates the game. “Welcome to the Capital, Martell. I suppose you’re taking a break from partaking in the games of politics with everyone else?”

the  splendor  of  the  palace  gardens  paled  in  comparison  to  the  floral  displays  in  highgarden  and,  when  little  alerie  thought  it  was  prudent  to  give  voice  to  such  observations  a  few  days  prior,  her  pouting  mouth  whispering  the  words  in  his  ear  in  a  tone  that  was  clearly  far  too  loud  to  be  secretive,  garlan  had  snorted  in  response,  glad  that  there  was  no  one  around  to  rebuke  her  statement.  not  that  there  was  much  to  dispel  ─  anyone  who  had  seen  the  beauty  of  the  reach  would  agree.  still,  there  were  elements  of  dornish  influence  in  the  domed  gazebos,  with  curtains  of  transparent  silk  flapping  in  the  gentle  breeze  and  fallen  orange  blossoms  littering  the  stone  pathways,  that  he  could  appreciate  with  an  unbiased  eye.  passing  a  departing  servant,  he  reached  out  to  halt  their  steps,  grasping  a  glass  jug  of  what  he  immediately  recognized  as  an  arbor  gold,  and  goblet  so  that  he  could  find  a  space  within  the  gardens  to  complete  his  daily  letter  to  his  daughter  in  a  quest  to  aid  in  her  education.  instead  of  a  quiet  area,  he  finds  his  younger  brother,  looking  decidedly  miserable  and  a  fond  smile  tugs  at  his  mouth  as  he  occupies  a  vacant  seat  unceremoniously. 

❝  because  it  is  our  wine.  unless  you  have  been  served  some  variation  of  that  watered  down  dornish  sour  that  they’ve  been  calling  wine.  ❞  it  had  been  impossible  to  keep  his  face  straight  after  a  mere  sip  of  it,  but  garlan  had  persevered.  ❝  i  have  some  arbor  gold  to  share  but  only  if  you  tell  me  why  you  are  sitting  here,  instead  of  socializing.  you  cannot  be  tired  of  king’s  landing  already,  loras.  ❞

While he had travelled to King’s Landing with his family, since their arrival, it seems as if they’d all gone their separate ways. Willas was probably playing politics with their father’s associates, Margaery probably somewhere off being charitable or finding some man or another to swoon - perhaps even a woman, what does Loras know? - and Garlan... well, he has a child, and there are certain duties that go along with parenthood, Loras supposes. He never wants children; he’d be happy spending the rest of his life as Renly’s bedmate, just the two of them. All that to say that he’s glad to see Garlan - finally, a connection to the beautiful world outside of this awful city. He relaxes his posture, sinking into his seat a little bit more, knowing that his brother most likely won’t correct him while they’re alone. The Lord of a great house needs to sit like one, he can practically hear his tutor chiding from his days growing up in Highgarden.

“Obviously, it is our wine. I’m as much a man of the Reach as you are, brother; I recognize an arbor gold just the same as I recognize you or Willas or Margaery across a room.” He cringes at the mention of the Dornish sours, a glass of which he’d been served at dinner the night before. He’d finished it perhaps too quickly in an attempt to rid himself of it, prompting the servants to refill the goblet in front of him, cursing him to a cycle of awful wine. He rolls his eyes at the question, gesturing towards his brother with his glass. “You, too, are sitting here instead of socializing,” he points out. Renly’s playing politics and I’m bored. “I have been tired of King’s Landing since we arrived, Garlan. This city is so... bland. Dirty. Populous. Small.” Highgarden never felt like this; there was always space to breathe in the city he called home. “Though I suppose that’s what happens when the whole of the country is called here for His Highness’ name day,” Loras muses to himself, taking another sip of his wine. “The tourneys will start eventually, I’m looking forward to that, at least.”

beth had never looked so out of place. even in her finest gown, she washed away among the extravagance of the south. she couldn’t even find it within herself to be jealous, instead she watched on with wistful, eager eyes and a full goblet. the wine was too sweet, like candied plums. each sip was syrupy and unpleasant, but it did not stop her from doing so over and over until her drink was half way to empty. it was nothing like the wine back home, but slowly she was finding a taste for it.

“ 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒅𝒓𝒚, 𝒊𝒕’𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕. ”

Looking over at the sound of a response - oh, it seemed he wasn't alone - Loras raised his eyebrows, a dry laugh escaping him. “Too sweet?” he repeated, looking the girl over. Her clothes certainly don’t express her origins to be through a great house, and, if she was, Loras would most likely have learned her face by now. “Who are you, exactly...?” he asked, perhaps a bit impolitely. He then realized that that’s probably not the way to go about this conversation, despite the fact that he’s insulted for the Reach’s wine.

“I take it you’ve never had wine from the Reach before, because this isn’t nearly as sweet as they can get. Not to say that sweeter is always better, of course, but... this is about average, give or take...” he muttered, trying to think back to sweeter wines he’d had in his lifetime. “If you don’t like it, I’ll gladly take the rest of yours.”

“𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑳𝑳𝒀. 𝑵𝑶 𝑼𝑺𝑬 𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑴 𝑰𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑵𝑶𝑹𝑻𝑯, 𝑨𝑵𝑫… 𝑴𝒀 𝑪𝑶𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑶𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑺 𝑻𝑹𝑰𝑷 𝑾𝑨𝑺 𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑳𝑳𝒀 𝑲𝑵𝑶𝑾𝑵 𝑻𝑶 𝑴𝑬 𝑼𝑵𝑻𝑰𝑳 𝑹𝑬𝑪𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑳𝒀. 𝑰 𝑻𝑯𝑶𝑼𝑮𝑯𝑻 𝑻𝑯𝑬𝒀 𝑾𝑶𝑼𝑳𝑫 𝑳𝑬𝑨𝑽𝑬 𝑴𝑬 𝑼𝑷 𝑵𝑶𝑹𝑻𝑯.” he wished they had. 

he smiled at the tyrell lord, older than him, but jon looked the elder. he blamed his sullen face. and bad attitude from time to time.

“𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑺𝑬𝑬𝑴 𝑾𝑬𝑳𝑳 𝑫𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑺𝑬𝑫 𝑻𝑯𝑶𝑼𝑮𝑯 𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑾𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹. 𝑰 𝑯𝑨𝑽𝑬 𝑨𝑳𝑾𝑨𝒀𝑺 𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬𝑫 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑰𝑮𝑰𝑳 𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝑯𝑶𝑼𝑺𝑬 𝑻𝒀𝑹𝑬𝑳𝑳. 𝑽𝑬𝑹𝒀, 𝑼𝑯𝑴. 𝑩𝑹𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻.”

“Is it truly that cold in the North? Year-round?” If that’s the case, Loras is glad that he’s never had to set foot there. He simply isn’t made for the cold, in his opinion; in his time in Storm’s End, Loras had consistently whined about the weather, but that whining is what ended him up in Renly’s bed in the first place. Surely the better outcome than either sleeping through those awful nights on his own or being sent back to Highgarden.

Of course he seems well-dressed for the weather; he’s never been ill-dressed for any occasion. “I take it you’ve never visited the Reach,” he comments with a polite chuckle at the compliment to his sigil. “The colors there are the brightest you’ll see in Westeros. There’s nothing greener than the grass there, nothing bluer than the sky.” Maybe he’s being boisterous, but he doesn’t care; he’ll brag all he wants about his home. “You ought to visit sometime, if you get the opportunity. It’s like nothing else.”

King’s Landing was certainly not Loras’ favorite place in Westeros. It was busy, it was crowded, it smelled odd, there was a lack of beauty. A lack of greenery, to say the very least. Hells, even the wine they drank seemed to come from the Reach. He felt as if he’d done enough mingling in the crowds; he needed some space to himself, and, in this godsforsaken city, the only space he could find was in the palace gardens, still nursing a goblet of a wine from his home region. “At least the wine is acceptable,” he mused aloud to no one in particular, giving it a look. Loras was already dreading having to go and retrieve another glass.

SER LORAS TYRELL. KNIGHT OF THE FLOWERS, LORD OF HIGHGARDEN.

could  that  really  be  LORAS  of  HOUSE  TYRELL,  the  LORD  of  THE REACH  entering  the  keep  ?  king’s  landing  is  sure  to  benefit  from  the  TWENTY-EIGHT  year  old’s  ability  to  be  both  CHARMING  and  DEVOTED,  but  beware,  whispers  also  say  they  have  been  known  to  be  RASH  and  ALOOF.  their  loyalty  belongs  to  HOUSE  TYRELL & BARATHEON  and  they  SUPPORT  the  notion  of  peace  throughout  westeros