Lo vÄzos mazilÄŤptas, dĹros qÄlÄŤtsoso lÄŤ ropakis. closed muses for @darkwindshq
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HUGO ARRYN đŻ intro, threads, memes, musings
PHILIP MARBRAND đŻ intro, threads, memes, musings
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@qelitsun
Lo vÄzos mazilÄŤptas, dĹros qÄlÄŤtsoso lÄŤ ropakis. closed muses for @darkwindshq
CYRENNA BARATHEON đŻ intro, threads, memes, musings
HUGO ARRYN đŻ intro, threads, memes, musings
PHILIP MARBRAND đŻ intro, threads, memes, musings

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Lord Arryn's words elicited the smallest chuckle from Argella, humorless though it was. Were she in his shoes, she'd likely think more than thrice about hosting all the realm. She had heard that Liege Arryn and his lady wife had found a new heir, and she wondered for a moment if Ser Hugo was this new heir. Gods be good to him, she thought, for court life will not be. She could sense the bit of greenness to him, someone who'd only explored the shallows now being tossed into the depths. "That they have. And that it is. Especially when keeping up with the feuds that pop up between houses great and lesser because someone sneezed the wrong way."
She shook her head, though she appreciated the asking in some small way. "No, my house was spared in losses from the fire. My mother died two years ago. A lingering illness she never managed to shake." Not that she didn't fight. Argella's mother had been of a determined sort, and the maester at Felwood had thought that a good sign. But for all the fight and all the poultices, Argella had still been woken by the servants and her step-father with news that she was the new Liege Fell. "You have my condolences as well, my lord. House Arryn has suffered many losses to the flames."
Hugo inclined his head, offering a small smile that he hoped expressed some sort of sorrow... for her, if not entirely for himself. They had been his cousins, even if he had not known them, and he *was* sorrowful... but he had never met them, and it was tough to feel greatly sorry for boys and a lord whose names he had only heard. Lord Hugh was to be his model, his idol, and nothing else was there to tell: the others he knew even less of. "My apologies! And my thanks, Lady Fell," he said as seriously as he could. "It seems we have all lost most terribly in these last years." Even if not in the fire, two years ago was not so long. His own mother had passed a similar length ago, and though he had inherited little from her in truth, it did not mean he did not miss her the same as if it had been a moon ago. âGods keep us that we lose less in the next. But I have turned our conversation quite sorrowfulâreally I meant only to say that I shall visit Felwood at first opportunity, and be certain to bid you hello when I come.â
open starter! where: at the feast, during the storm.
the mathematics of a highborn feast are incredibly delicate, especially when the hosts are bleeding gold to buy the room's goodwill. the rykkers have undoubtedly spent agonizing days arranging the long wooden tables in the belly of the dun fort, balancing rivalries and fresh griefs like a man walking a tightrope. the ruling lords, those who have bent the knee and sworn their swords to the boy king, are seated in places of honor close to the royal dais. this, by the rigid laws of court hierarchy, includes the man who currently calls himself the lord of the tides. for lady aelina, this separation is a profound, secret mercy. relegated to one of the lower tables amidst the sprawling sea of lesser nobility, she is granted a physical reprieve from the suffocating proximity of her new husband. she does not have to endure his ambient body heat, the wine-laced scent of his breath, or the paralyzing possibility of his hand settling on her thigh beneath the linen tablecloth. the storm outside is howling, a dark and violent entity rattling the high windows of the fort, but here, swallowed by the crowd, she is safe, she can breathe.
the lady settles into her assigned chair, ensuring saera and daeron are comfortable on the bench beside her, their small frames acting as a grounding weight in the shifting anxiety of the hall. the air is thick with the smell nervous sweat and the extravagant, savory aroma of roasted meat. she reaches for her silver goblet, the aged dornish wine catching the hearth-light like dark blood. turning her gaze to the noble seated to her right, she offers a perfectly calibrated, polite smile that doesn't quite reach the heavy exhaustion in her eyes. "house rykker is nothing if not generous tonight," she murmurs, hoping her words are carried to her immediate neighbors over the ceaseless roar of the rain. she nods elegantly toward the massive platters being hauled from the kitchens, but noticed the person sitting beside her, glaring at the windows instead. "forgive me⌠but you seem to be listening more to the storm than to the music. does it trouble you?"
The wind had picked up quickly after the guards had closed them into the hall, and the maester had proclaimed that it would be ill-advised to leave. Philip would liked to have felt more certain of himself with the Dun Fort's thick stone walls between him and the rain, but they were not so thick as to drown out the sound... and they held what seemed to be every noble in the realm. The walls of his borrowed home were thinner, but they were also emptier.
He looked up at being spoken to, eyes meeting the lady's dully. "I imagine the Rykkers' generosity will be... tested, if this rain does not cease. But yes, thus far," he said, eyeing the platters being brought towards them. It was not their granaries he doubted, but their ability to provide shelter. A trifling storm would have meant nothing, were they in King's Landing. It would have meant nothing to everybody but Philip. "It ought to bother all of us," he said dryly, looking out at the windows, which were so thickly fogged he could not so much as make out the castle's outer walls from the sky. âThe Crownlands are no stranger to rain, but I have never before heard guards run screaming away from it, nor maesters warn us to stay within. It strikes me as odd, that this one has.â And odder yet that the music played on, uninterrupted. The Rykkers' attempt to keep their guests calm was likely to fail, and soon.
Of course this pretentious Lord did not remember her. It was foolish for Willow to assume that a buyer from so long past would remember a peasant's face.
She schooled her face back to the politeness that was now expected of her. Willow was supposed to be mourning the deaths of those she barely knew. Now was not the time to get into petty fights about events in the past.
Or maybe it was. Who was she to deny herself a chance to air her complaints now that she possessed the power to do so?
"Willow. It was foolish of me to think you would recall me" She murmured with a bit of resignation. "Do you remember that pretty chestnut mare I sold you? You paid a quarter of what she was worth" Willow thought back to the sale day that quickly turned into a sale fortnight, she was stranded in the Westerlands for days trying to make back her money.
Willow. Was Philip now expected to remember every passing tradesman who'd sold him a beast or a sack of grain? Philip flicked his eyes over the woman again. She was not clad in the raiment of a horse merchant, unless she was an exceptionally rich one, which he doubted she could be if she had agreed to sell chestnut mares for a quarter of their worth. "I have a number of horses," he said... though he had an inkling he knew the chestnut mare of which she spoke. A young mare, still, well-bred and well-trained. Whether she had been cheaply bought he barely remembered. "My stablemaster is the one responsible for this, if you have... tracked me down years later to complain of a poor sale. Is that what brings you to Duskendale? Complaining about old dues?"
He doubted it. More likely some fool second or third son with a tight-fisted father and a fondness for wine or women had made her a lady. There was little more irritating than an upjumped merchant who had learned nothing of tact in their elevation.
where: a balcony on the dun fort when: the hour of ghosts, as day one bleeds into day two for: open!
The air is as heavy as the raindrops that fall, and yet Argella still stands with the door to the balcony open. Most were asleep, either in warm beds or makeshift pallets on the floor. And yet, she could not sleep, mind refusing to rest. So, she had stalked the halls, now at the most bare they had been since the feast had both begun and ended. She reached out a hand into the rain, allowing the falling water to pound against the delicate bone within. She sighed, then, an almost wistful thing. "Strange, the things that make you miss home." Argella speaks to the silence, staring in fascination at her now drenched hand, at the rivulets of water that snake down to her elbow. "My mother used to always speak of how she could barely keep me indoors when a storm came to Felwood. I loved nothing more than running and dancing in the rain, as if I were Jenny of Oldstones."
Cyrenna had taken to the balconies as hour after hour of rain kept what seemed like half the realm trapped inside with them. As had grown most ordinary, sleep would not find her. She wandered, feeling wraithlike as she wandered the unquiet halls, when a lone voice drew her attention. Cyrenna neared Lady Fell with a muted smile, looking out at the rain. "It must be a familiar story in the Stormlands," she said companionably, looking out at the rain pouring over the rooftops. The maesters and guards had been quite clear not to step into it, and yet... She had never known a storm that did not leave the world feeling cleaner than before it began. Unlike flame. She shook her head, and looked at Lady Fell once more. âI loved to be outside just after the rain was at end, when everything still smelled damp and my feet would dig into the mud. My septa despaired of me for it. Though she never called me Jenny of Oldstones, only a... grimy bogswoman, or a Rainwood urchin.â

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where: next to a glass window in a hall in the dun fort when: a few hours after the feast has ended and the storm has become known with: open!
Sybelle had told herself she would not look, but she cannot help it. The pitter patter of the rain against the windows of the dun fort is almost deafening for the foreboding feelings it carries. The darkness swallows as port town outside, though the torches lining the walls behind her provide an eerie glow to thousands, tens of thousands of raindrops making beelines for the ground. She looks on, countenance forlorn, lips drooping into the frown she has been trying to move past for the last week. "My tent stands no chance out there." She says, to herself more than anything, as one finger swipes across the glass pane, a chill apparent across her shoulders and running down her spine at its cool feel. The finger pulls back to trace the pendant lying across her neck, a seven pointed star fashioned for her long, long ago. "Brave warrior, give Robb and Ilyn the strength to reach shelter, and to protect Holly in their endeavor. She is but a small handmaid. And they can be bumbling fools."
The guards had intruded upon the feast with the air of haunted men, speaking of rain like it was some nightmare creature out of a wet nurse's tales. It was a bleak time if water could frighten armed men... but Philip was more displeased by it than he would like to admit. Water could do terrible things. But the greater risk here was to be trapped for too long with every lordling with a title in the realm. Including, he thought, looking over at the lady muttering to herself about her handmaiden... or perhaps somebody else's. He looked over the lady, brow rising and falling in half a question. "Your tent?" he asked, looking back out at the town. Its walls had offered little shelter to those here thus far; now they would offer none. "I would not count on it remaining upright long, if it is anymore. Pray your... bumbling fools, have the foresight to have escaped it before it falls."
dun forth, the sun is out. lady lyla frey pays a visit to the dowager queen, cyrenna. @qelitsun
duskendale feelsâŚÂ
lyla refrains from letting the thought wander too far. itâs not what sheâs interested in. if her mind travels too far, she might let it lead her somewhere she isnât ready to admit. lyla wanders quietly. thereâs an agenda on her mind, something that she has not yet done and something that is long overdue. she hasnât made her appearance in front cyrena yet. itâs not long overdue, if you ask lyla. she thinks thereâs still a window where she can respectfully return to the company of the dowager queen without seeming neglectful of her⌠well, duties. her feet are steady as she passes through the crowds, towards the one place she knows she can find cyrenna.Â
on the tip of her tongue sits several words. worries. daemon, a brat. she doesnât say that but at the news, she had simply closed her eyes. it makes sense. what a shame what happened, what a shame a child is taking the spot. sheâs quiet. so quiet. sheâs guided through the passages until sheâs finally given an audience with cyrenna, the dowager queen.Â
theyâre similar in a way.Â
âat last,â lyla speaks gently. politely, to an old friend almost. âiâm glad to return to your company, your grace.âÂ
There were a small number of ladies amongst the courtiers that bowed to her and smiled for her favour, that Cyrenna considered friends. Not so close that she might trust them with her secrets the way she might Olynna or her other ladies... but certainly friendly enough she would not expect them to predicate their opinions on the vagaries of court, to allow gossip or ill winds to poison their thoughts. Those who would, in short, look to her even if the tide was not turned her way at any given moment.
She was not certain yet if Lyla Frey was one of them. The future Lady of the Crossing stood before her, with a gentle smile and a title that was Cyrenna's yet but only by courtesy; she could not say if she meant it, or not.Â
And yet: she was her queen, as she had ever been. Perhaps she might even be her friend. She wanted to be; she had a sore lack of true friends just now. "Lady Lyla," Cyrenna said with a small smile. "It gladdens me as well, and to know you are well. It has been a long time." Had it? Cyrenna could hardly remember the last time they had met. So many of her memories before the fire had taken on a distant, far-off quality, all but her most precious and cherished memories. She may have seen Lady Lyla six moons ago or six years ago. "How has court treated you these past days?"Â
For @qelitsun ft. Philip Marbrand Where: Hallway of Duskendale, after the vigil
It was all Willow could manage slipping into the halls after the vigil. Lord Hightower surely would not prefer her to wander too far from the Keep, but Willow did not care. If he wanted her to be a proper noble he should have claimed her long before he actually did.
The most uncanny thing about all this was coming face to face with nobles who would not even spare Willow a second glance before, now treating her like a living being.
She leaned against the dark walls of the hall then heard footsteps. Willow turned slowly to acknowledge the approaching noble before turning sour. Willow did well to not remember all her past clientele as it was safer that way, but she did remember those that cut her short on a deal. "Lord Marbrand, I was not expecting to see you so soon after the vigil"
The smoke that had accumulated in the sept had left him with an irritation in the back of his throat that Philip misliked. Candles, of all things, so many one might consider if the septon was trying to burn this sept down, too. Laying flowers beside flames; the greatest way to demonstrate pity, piety, or both. Philip had neither to spare, and had left as soon as he was able, having exchanged, with all he had seen, the obligatory terse and silent nods of acknowledgement: that he had been there, as had they.
He was apparently not the only one to have left as soon as possible. He cleared his throat as he came across a lady whose politeness failed in the instant she saw him. A poor face for dissembling... but try as he might, Philip could neither place her, nor place whatever imagined slight had brought forth the dry as dust tone. Who is she? It was rare for Philip to outright forget someone he had been introduced to.
âI did not know I was to remain concealed away. What has the vigil to do with me, Lady...?â
Well! Now he was in it. There had been a mule man in his village, as a boy, who had used to say that when the blind led the blind they'd all be driving themselves off cliffs. He'd said it so often, in fact, that Hugo now considered if there had been some incident of that sort, perhaps before his time. Well! "Lady Serrett," he began shortly, patting her hand, "Please know that I would never offer less aid than I could; I would hate to do anything less than my most! However... there are very few people in that room that I could name. I could direct you to Lord Arryn, and a few other Vale lords, but of the people of the West..."
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."
The theatrics are clearly wasted on Ser Hugo, and Sybelle tries not to visibly deflate, keeping her shoulders steady, stopping her light brown eyes midroll. He knows nothing. Both of us require saviors. "I shall trust you then, ser." She says, softly, tries for an understanding smile. "I am certain with all four of our eyes working together, we can find Lord Lannister soon enough, especially when such a strong knight is here to escort me." Even if he is useless now, that may not be the case later on. One friendly face is better than none during the season; it is not as if Holly will be able to vouch for her in front of the Lannisters. An Arryn, no matter how seemingly far removed from the others of noble birth, can become useful in some way.
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."
end.
the promise of a wager hit her like the scent of blood to a shark. her pulse jumped, a traitorous skip in the rhythm, driven by the hunger to risk something, to dangle over the edge of a cliff just to see if she would drop. it was an appetite she had fed for years in place of love or purpose. but the realization followed instantly, a bucket of ice water over a fever. that was a luxury forfeit to the new heir of highgarden, as long as she wanted to prove herself presentable. but how long could the facade hold? fear rattled her ribcage. she stared at his open, unguarded face and felt like a wolf invited into a sheep pen. he was too good for this, too whole. if she let the game begin, she would devour his innocence along with his purse. she had to muzzle the beast, had to starve the craving before it tore the throat out of this budding alliance.
"keep your purse strings tight, my lord," she said, forcing a lightness she did not feel, waving a manicured hand as if the very idea of coin were a bore. "gambling with gold is for sellswords and desperate men. it lacks... imagination." she tapped her chin, the picture of a thoughtful strategist, while her insides churned with the effort of denial. she was clever enough to spin this, to turn her penance into a game. "no, if we are to play, we shall wager something far more valuable. dignity. the loser must confess their most embarrassing childhood mishap. or perhaps..." she flashed a grin that felt held together by spit and prayer, "the loser owes the winner a dance at the next feast, regardless of how tired their feet may be. high stakes indeed."
she lingered for a moment more, but felt a sudden, sharp need to flee. not from him, but from herself; and the light that someone as bright as lord arryn could cast over her shadows. the performance of the functional, charming heir was a fragile construction, held up by rotten beams, and she could feel the structure groaning under the weight of his kindness. if she stayed, she would slip. she would say something too dark, too honest, something that would curdle his admiration and turn him away before they had even begun to bond. she needed to preserve the better version of herself in his mind, before the real nerissa broke the spell. "but that is a battle for another night," she murmured, curtsying before stepping back into the shadows where she belonged. "my wits are dulling, and i fear i am becoming a cautionary tale. sleep well, my lord. do not let this place sharpen your edges."
He hesitated for a moment, and a moment only, as she did not agree quite as quickly as she had made her offer. Perhaps it had been only a kind word, and not necessarily a true one, and Hugo had failed to see the distinction? But in the next moment the lady waved her hand, and raised him a better offer yet. The lady had a fine imagination; it was a sort of wager that would never even have occurred to Hugo! Dignity indeed! He was not entirely certain he had a great deal to spare in terms of secrets, but of embarrassing childhood mishaps he had plenty, and he was always happy to dance. "A most brilliant suggestion! I shall be sure to think of a good wager with appropriately high stakes, so we are not left wanting for something interesting to play with. I find myself quite looking forward to the game, Lady Nerissa!" He grinned at her, satisfied that his own invitation had not been considered inappropriate or too bold; that the offer of a game and some respite was a true one.Â
For the moment, however, Lady Nerissa's words rang poetic, all sorts of meanings he wasn't entirely able to draw from them, but perhaps that was simply her way. The honeyed speaking of Tyrells. Or ought that be... the gilded speaking?Â
If all at court spoke as she did, Hugo would certainly have to grow better practiced at coating his own words. "Ah! Do not let me keep you, my lady. I bid you fare well, and hope your own are not too... dulled?" And he dipped into a bow; when in doubt, courtesy could certainly not fail.

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"No need to call me Lady, just Willow" If that was even appropriate. She had felt as though her title of 'Lady Hightower' had not been earned or wanted. There were losses within the Hightower family, but Willow was not close enough to properly mourn. Not that Elinor would enjoy seeing Willow's return from the market.
Willow hesitated at Hugo's kind offer. There was only so much she could get away with at this time, and staying out late may have been making her father worry. "If you insist. But truly, I don't usually expect such kindness from Lords like you" She shifted on her feet "I do not believe that he is overtly worried about my location, my lord" Still, better than to keep gossip running wild about Lord Hightower's bastard.
Hugo offered Lady Willow his arm, indicating the path back to the castle. "It is hardly a great kindness," he said, inclining his head. He would not even call it gallantry; only the simple courtesy that any knight or lord might do a lady that was out by her lonesome. It took none of his time, after all, and there was no grave danger in such a simple task. "If anything, you are the one who does me a kindness by allowing me to escort you within!" Was that laying it on too thick? There was a fine line between gallantry and fawning, though truly Hugo meant it perfectly truly that he should not wish to abandon a lady to her own devices.
âMy lady is being modest or attempting to assuage any guilt I may face of a scolding directed your way⌠but I am certain your lord father has reasons to take concern, as do we all here. After the fire, I mean. Lord Arryn tends to keep me close as well.â
carlys herself had been pleased to extend her lord brother the honour of holding court in duskendale. it had seemed a wise choice. wiser than elsewhere. it would have been a weakness to bestow it upon the stormlands, worse to give it to dorne. seven knew the martells grew too comfortable with the princess married into their family. if the choice had been disliked, well, it had not been her husband's alone to make. the record did not show how carlys had done her part to make it more attractive to him.
"the words are sharp too," carlys adds, thinking of the complaints she had fielded as she greeted â near as popular as the queen dowager these days. although her husband was not king, she enjoyed the attention given as the regent's wife. "though they do not break skin." let the curmudgeons whine. they could bear it until they built taller walls. "we are no strangers to attention, nor whispers." eyes had always followed. critique too. one always believed themselves better to handle a situation when it was not within their hands. "his grace will learn well as he ages," a truth and unassuming flattery in one fell swoop. she would smooth her husband's rough edges, snipping the edge of loose threads in their tapestry, "guided by your capable hand."
Carlys had always had thick skin. Or perhaps Cyrenna had only felt that way for the cool, collected manner in which she allowed such criticism, the censure of court to simply slide off her. If it pierced deeper, she had rarely shown it to *her*. Perhaps she was right for it. Gossip was all too common in these halls, and those that permitted the questions of whether it was true or false, or whence it came, or how many mouths whispered it break them... those would not be long for this court. A princess must know that.
"I am glad," she said, though she did not know if she was. It was well enough for the Regent's wife to go unphased by sharp words, and another entirely for such a young rule to be questioned for not listening. âWords are but wind. Duskendale will grow the stronger for it.â Though it was too soon to speculate yet, if this was to be a lasting arrangement. A fleeting smile, there and gone, as she could not quite hold it up. Her guidance. Her capable hand. Did Carlys mean what she said? Her features were smooth and opaque as marble. She may have meant false flattery just as much as true recognition of who Cyrenna was. "His Grace," she said instead, with a huff of almost-laughter. âI keep forgetting. But you are right; he has much to learn... but he has the guidance and support of so many.â
aren can't help the enormous grin that breaks across his face when he sees the little ones, stepping aside so that the two of them could jump into his arms. "they never look so happy to see you because they see you every day, sister," he tells cyrenna with an almost-too-loud laugh. "the rarest fruits are the sweetest, after all."
he presses quick, firm kisses to the tops of each of the children's heads and then kneels so he's closer to eye-level with both of them.
"come now. i've traveled very far and fast to be here and i'm so hungry i could gobble down a whole warhorse on my own. please tell me the cooks here have laid out something delicious for supper. who am i sitting by tonight?"
he laughs again as the siblings start squabbling, each one taking one of his hands to drag him towards the table. he looks back at his own sibling, recalling the days when the two of them did the same thing to their favorite family members and friends during their visits.
"i fear i've set them off. my apologies," he says, completely unrepentant.
Cyrenna felt her smile fall away as she watched the children, for once no more than children competing for the position of Aren's favourite nephew and nieceânot that there was great competitionâtug him to table, telling him of pea soup (awful!) and apple and walnut salad (yum!). She followed them a pace behind, then tugged her smile back into place as Aren looked back towards her.
She might speak of her troubles later, but the last thing Daemon and Naerys needed was this last bit of normalcy stripped away from them, from something as simple as a meal with a rarely visiting uncle.
If she thought of why this normalcy would be all too rare now, she would not last. So Cyrenna kept her smile in place, forced if it was so, and joined them. "You're not apologetic at all," she said, her laugh somewhat more watery than it ought to be. "I wouldn't be so smug; when you have children of your own who think I am the most wonderful aunt in the realm, and certainly the best Baratheon, you will understand."
And then, lower, "Thank you; it is good to see them so exuberant." Exuberance that had been sorely lacking, these last few weeks.
LORD PHILIP MARBRAND of ASHEMARK attends the season within the capital! before the court, they are SHREWD and DARING. but every man has his shadows, and when darkness descends, they are ARROGANT and CAPTIOUS. another face appears in duskendale, reminiscent of the long drip of blood down a blade, shining on silver; a drowned man, hair matted to brow, winded even by breathing; hands grasping for something too vast to close around, but what can they possibly hope to achieve in the aftermath of the flames? for the west to matter more than it has these past years; to wrest control of it to his and house marbrandâs benefit, however he can. gods protect them from these dark winds.
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."
A pause, then, she looks away, in an act of wistfulness, eyes scanning the area before she sighs. "There is no one for me, ser. Besides my guards and my lady's maid, whom I have left outside so that they may not be trampled by the crowd, I am quite alone, you see." She has gotten used to it, in the five years past, being alone. Truthfully, even such a small retinue was wearisome. She would liked to have more peace, no one to take notice of but herself. Even though it is the guards and Holly who are meant to be looking out for her, she cannot seem to let the responsibility go. "Please do not abandon me; who knows if I will ever be able to make it back out to them? They will make themselves ill with worry." Is she being too theatrical? Can he see so easily through the act? She hopes not. None of the nobles she had done business with had been particularly shrewd....But, perhaps the shrewd ones had others doing business for them.
Well! Now he was in it. There had been a mule man in his village, as a boy, who had used to say that when the blind led the blind they'd all be driving themselves off cliffs. He'd said it so often, in fact, that Hugo now considered if there had been some incident of that sort, perhaps before his time. Well! "Lady Serrett," he began shortly, patting her hand, "Please know that I would never offer less aid than I could; I would hate to do anything less than my most! However... there are very few people in that room that I could name. I could direct you to Lord Arryn, and a few other Vale lords, but of the people of the West..."
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."

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"Honor so long as those nobles are fed and entertained, which is no easy feat. We nobles can be a rather vain lot." Some more than others, though Argella does not mention that. She could only imagine how many noble houses felt slighted at the current conditions of Duskendale. For all the current faults, the old port city was holding up rather tremendously. In that, she could not fault neither House Rykker nor the crown. And yet, Argella could not fight off the sting of envy. Would that her own keep and lands were doing so well in the wake of such abhorrent loss.
She simply gave a nod of her head at his bow, noting the awkwardness but not speaking on it. "A pleasure to meet you, Ser Hugo." She knew, if only idly, that House Arryn was one of the many houses so affected by the flames that had swallowed King's Landing. Thus, Argella couldn't help but wonder if the man before her would now be serving as Lord and Lady Arryn's heir. At his mention of Felwood, she smiled softly. "Then I would be remiss to not extend an invitation to visit Felwood once more. You would have rode through when my lady mother was the ruling liege. Gods be good, it should not be much changed."
Hugo had enough experience with knights well more noble than he taking offence to loss; to ladies unhappy they had not been named queens of love and beauty; to lords embittered by the coin they had lost betting here or there. But he was more familiar with hedge knights whose claims came nowhere near their deeds, who would not serve for honour nor justice if there was not enough coin for them in it, and a great deal worse. He started to say so, then changed his mind; speaking of all the hedge knights he knew would do little. "They've fed us well thus far," he said instead. "But I take your meaning. I suppose I shall have to think thrice before I ever make plans to host all the realm. It sounds quite a task."Â
Oh, he'd done it, put his foot in his mouth again. He needed to be careful what he said: everywhere he turned, there was someone who had died only a moon ago, and everything he said accidentally reminded their kin of the loss. At least Lady Fell wasn't crying. "I'llâbe certain to remember, my lady, and visit when I can. But I'm very sorry," Hugo said, rubbing the back of his head. âGods keep your mother well. Was sheâthat is... in the fire?â
The hushed answer was not a defence, only a truth they both knew, and knew well. They had both seen the realm's judgement time and again; turned it to their own vantage, courted it until it was not merely opinion, but favour. They had both, in turn, built their circles, those spaces in which such judgement was, if not entirely absent, at least muted. Hushed. Where the judgement was meted outward; where their favours came with meaning. Promise. Cyrenna's favour and where it fell could have dire consequences indeed, for those who did not think to court it. Lady Velaryon knew it, and knew it well.
But she was surprised, nonetheless, when Aelina continued with an appeal to some emotion Cyrenna did not expect to see from her. She could not meet her gaze then; she looked away. "Nor I," she said instead, dully. She saw visions of flame for hours and hours, or thought of court, or the weight of the crown upon her son's fragile head... and just when she'd fall into short, fitful rest, she'd wake having forgotten, and reaching for Viserys. And what would Viserys say of this, if asked? She had no answer to that. Were he alive to say anything about it, Aemon would never have been so bold to push her aside. Were he alive to say anything about it, Cyrenna would not have been so weak as to be pushed. "No living whisper can tip the Father's scales. If you have nothing to be judged for, Lady Velaryon, the Gods see enough to know it. So do the dead, one hopes. If they see at all... they must see all. Lord Velaryon..." she began, then, correcting, "Lord Victor was not a man known for severity." And he had adored her; she had seen it, well past all courtly facades. She almost wonderedâ
Aelina knew the court's favour meant. What her favour meant. If her defence was merely an attempt to claw, crab-like, for both her position and her good repute... A woman who lies with her husband's kin has nothing to fear from lying in a sept. One sin outweighed the other so deeply the danger of falsehood might cease to matter entirely. And yet: nobody knew what had happened on Driftmark's shores when that black word arrived, that had turned Lady Velaryon from a widow into a bride so quickly. She hardly expected she would tell herâbut then, was she not her queen yet? The regent may be the regent, but Carlys was no more queen now than she ever had been, and until Daemon was of age, there would not be one to whom the ladies of the court could turn.
Butâthis was not the place, nor the time.
"You should join me again in the sept," she said instead, stepping away from the makeshift altar and tucking her hands into her skirts. âWe both have much to pray for; who knows, we may even find something in common to speak of that we've never had before.â
the admission falls between them like a stone dropped into a deep wellânor iâand the ripple it creates disturbs the stagnant surface of aelinaâs composure. she watches the queen mother turn, and for a heartbeat, the old, ugly envy rears its head, unbidden and venomous. nor i. does that mean she wakes with the taste of ash in her mouth, too? aelina wonders, with a sudden, morbid curiosity, what the queen looks like in the thrall of those terrors. does she toss and turn in that massive, empty royal bed? does she sweat? does that cascade of raven hair mat against her neck, or does she wake up looking like a tragic painting, perfectly composed even in distress? she regards the queen mother's frame, searching for the cracks in the porcelain. where are the bags that should be hanging heavy under those eyes? where is the dullness of skin that plagues aelina every time she catches her own reflection in the glass? it is maddening. cyrenna looks breathtaking. she hates the startling contrast of those baratheon blue eyes against the mourning veil, deep and endless. she hates the sun-touched skin that seems to hold a glow even in the gloom of the sept. she hates the way cyrennaâs mouth, full and soft, holds a natural pout that aelina used to pinch her own lips to emulate in the mirror at six-and-ten.
aelina was made for the crown. she had been polished by her father like a gemstone, sent to riverrun at twelve to learn the southern graces of her mother's kin, to forge alliances, to become the perfect vessel for power. she and her golden girlsâryella, melinsa, carlys, shaeraâthey had set the tempo of the court. they had competed with cyrennaâs coterie not just in feats, but in perfection; in who danced best, who curtsied lowest, who behaved best, who had the most suitors. aelina had been the masterpiece. but while she had studied grace, cyrenna simply was. it is a petty, rotting thought, a sting that a woman of three-and-thirty should have outgrown by now, but it is there, pulsing hot under her ribs. she stares at the queen mother's face and feels a confused, tangled knot of resentment. she wants to find a flaw. she wants to see a gray hair, a wrinkle, a smudge of fatigue. but she canât. she just sees the woman viserys chose, the woman who makes grief look like high art, and it makes aelina want to scream and stare in equal measure. why did greatness choose you? the question lingers, childish and bitter, even though she knows the answer. even though she loved victor. even though she had been happy. looking at cyrenna now, she feels the unfairness of it all over again: that even in suffering, the queen wins the contest of beauty.
the redhead swallows the bitterness, forcing the memory of the girl who wanted to be queen of the seven kingdoms back into the dark. she tears her gaze away from the pull of cyrennaâs face, focusing on the cold stone floor to steady herself. "no," she agrees, her voice soft, bordering on reverent, choosing to honor the man who loved her rather than the rivalry that shaped her. "he was a rare man. a great man," she adds on. and he is gone all the same. lady velaryon watches the brunette retreat from the altar, tucking her hands into her skirts. the invitation that follows is unexpected, a white flag unfurled in the smoky gloom. you should join me again. it is not a command, nor a dismissal, but an opening. aelina understands the currency being offered; in a court where they are both being discardedâone as decoration, the other as a broodmare for a usurperâan alliance is the only shield left. and perhaps... perhaps she just wants to see if, up close, she can finally find the flaw that proves queen cyrenna is mortal.
aelina dips her head, a slow, graceful acceptance that bridges the distance between them without closing it entirely. "i would welcome that, your grace," she says, her eyes lifting to meet that piercing blue once more. but behind the facade of gratitude, her mind is a riot of warning bells. is this a gambit? does she seek to lure me close only to slide the knife between my ribs with a smile? minutes ago, the judgment in those eyes was a physical weight; now, an invitation? it smells of a trap. she thinks of saera and the betrothal she is so desperate to secure to the boy king. she has pinned her hopes on aemon and carlys to broker the match, but cyrenna is the mother, the gatekeeper. surely she does not invite aelina into her confidence to bless the union; surely this is a way to learn aelinaâs hand so she may crush it. yet, as she stares into the queen motherâs face, searching for the venom that has always defined them, she finds she cannot turn away. the command is implicit, woven into the very fabric of cyrennaâs being. she is the queen. she is my queen. one does not deny the sun when it demands you stand in its light. "i shall look for you when the bells ring next."
end.