𝗱𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗎𝗌.

    # 𝗯𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗰 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇

official name: elyra selmy. nicknames: none. noble title: sworn shield to prince saerys targaryen. age: twenty-eight. birthplace: the stormlands. home: king’s landing (formerly the stormlands). nationality: westerosi. gender: cis woman. pronouns: she / her. orientation: tba. monikers: the white shadow, the fallen daughter, oathbound steel. languages: the common tongue (fluent). accent: stormlander — low, controlled, stripped of warmth; each word deliberate, measured.

     # 𝗽𝗵𝘆𝘀𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇

faceclaim: tba. hair: dark brown, often kept tied back; practical, severe, rarely left loose. eyes: cool brown, steady and unreadable — a gaze that lingers without wavering. height: 5’8”. build: lean, honed for endurance and precision rather than brute strength; every movement controlled. scent: polished steel, worn leather, and the faint trace of rain. dominant hand: right. allergies: none. scars: several, earned rather than hidden — thin lines along arms and shoulders, one more prominent at her collarbone. distinguishing features: composed stillness; a presence that feels immovable, as though carved from something unyielding. clothing style: kingsguard whites when required — otherwise restrained, functional attire; muted tones, clean lines, nothing excessive.

     # 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒

label: the oathbound blade. mbti: istj. enneagram: 1w9 — the reformer. element: steel / storm. star sign: capricorn. temperament: melancholic-choleric. character inspirations: brienne of tarth, barristan selmy (legacy), stoic knight archetypes. deadly sin: pride. heavenly virtue: diligence. godly parent: the warrior. positive: disciplined, loyal, resilient, precise, unwavering, quietly perceptive. negative: rigid, emotionally restrained, self-denying, severe, unyielding, quietly judgmental.

    # 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌

hobbies: training at dawn, maintaining her armor and blade, silent observation, riding patrol routes, honing technique to perfection. religion: the faith of the seven (devout, particularly the warrior). alliance: the crown; formerly house selmy. personal goals: to restore the honor of her house, to prove her father’s disgrace was not deserved, to embody a standard no one can question. would they choose family or power?: family — though she would call it duty.

 𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 . . .

i.

honor does not die loudly. it fades — quietly, humiliatingly, until only the echo remains.

there was no storm the day her house fell. no fire, no blade raised in righteous defiance — only whispers, thin and venomous, slipping through halls that once carried her name with pride. a knight undone not by weakness of arm, but by something far more unforgivable: doubt. disgrace settled over house selmy like dust, slow and suffocating, until nothing of it remained untouched.

elyra selmy did not cry. she watched.

watched the way doors closed softer when she approached. the way her father’s name was no longer spoken, but avoided. the way honor — once something solid, something certain — could unravel without ever breaking. and in that silence, something within her hardened.

not grief. something colder.

ii.

elyra selmy. the daughter. the remnant. the name that refused to disappear. children are not meant to carry the weight of legacy, but she did. not as pride — but as burden. as something sharp and constant, pressing into every moment of her becoming.

she did not grow angry. she grew precise.

where others might have rebelled, she endured. where others might have turned away, she leaned in — into discipline, into control, into the relentless pursuit of something she could not yet name, only feel.

she learned early that effort alone was not enough. perfection was required. steel did not come easily to her — it was earned, inch by inch, through repetition and refusal to yield. every bruise was a lesson. every failure, unacceptable. she did not fight to prove herself better.

she fought to prove she was not what they believed her to be. and when she was finally seen — truly seen — it was not as a girl. but as something harder. something useful.

iii.

elyra selmy, the oathbound blade.

knighthood was never meant to be hers. not truly. not in the way the world understood it. and yet — she took it anyway, not as a gift, but as something carved from expectation and defiance alike. duty became her language. clear. unyielding. absolute.

she did not question orders. did not waver. did not allow space for doubt to settle where discipline had taken root. her loyalty was not born of devotion, but of decision — deliberate, conscious, unbreakable. and then — him.

a prince who did not behave like one. a name that carried weight, worn as though it did not belong to him. careless, in ways she could not afford to be. soft, in ways she had long since abandoned. saerys targaryen was not a duty she understood.

but he was hers. and she did not fail what was hers. even when he resisted. even when he slipped beyond reach. even when protecting him felt less like purpose — and more like punishment.

iv.

in a realm where honor bends as easily as men do, elyra selmy does not. she stands. unyielding. unwavering. carved from something that does not allow for fracture, only pressure. the crown may shift, alliances may falter, names may rise and fall beneath the weight of politics and power — but she remains constant.

not untouched. never untouched. but unbroken.

and yet — there is something dangerous in the stillness she has built for herself. something that lingers just beneath the surface of discipline and restraint. because duty, when held too tightly, begins to resemble something else.

something fragile. something that, if cracked, would not mend cleanly. she does not fear death. she fears failure. fears the quiet, unbearable truth that no matter how steady her hand, no matter how sharp her blade —

it may never be enough to restore what was lost. and if the world remembers house selmy not for what it was, but for what it became — she will not scream. she will not break.

she will simply stand, blade in hand, and endure, until there is nothing left of her, but the name she refused to let die.

ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑛𝑠.

— elyra wakes before dawn every single day, no matter where she is. even in the red keep, even after sleepless nights. there’s something almost ritualistic about it — like if she lets herself rest too long, she’ll lose control of the only thing she truly owns: discipline.

— she keeps her father’s name alive in the smallest ways. not spoken — never spoken — but etched into the inside of her armor, hidden where no one will see it. not for sentiment. for remembrance.

— she rarely removes her armor completely unless she absolutely has to. there’s always something on — a bracer, a blade, a layer. being unguarded feels… wrong.

— she does not pray like others do. no kneeling, no whispered pleas. instead, she trains. to her, perfection is prayer. every precise strike is an offering to something that may or may not be listening.

— she has a habit of standing just slightly behind and to the side of saerys, always within reach. not obvious. not suffocating. but constant. like a shadow that learned restraint.

— when saerys disappears (which he absolutely does), she doesn’t panic outwardly — but her search becomes relentless, almost frighteningly focused. she doesn’t stop until she finds him.

— she does not raise her voice. ever. the angrier she is, the quieter she becomes — and that’s when she’s the most dangerous.

— she remembers every failure. not just hers — but others’. files them away, studies them, refuses to repeat them. it makes her terrifyingly efficient… and quietly unforgiving.

— she has a soft spot for horses, but you’d only notice it if you were paying very close attention. it’s one of the only times her movements lose that rigid precision.

— she does not touch people. not casually, not instinctively. the only exception is duty — steadying, pulling back, protecting. which makes every accidental brush of contact feel… heavier than it should.

— she is deeply uncomfortable with praise. not because she doesn’t want it — but because she doesn’t trust it. praise feels temporary. expectation feels permanent.

— she’s hyper-aware of how she’s perceived in the kingsguard. not insecure — but calculating. she knows she has less room for error than anyone else, and she acts accordingly.

— if someone insults her, she doesn’t react. if someone insults her house… that’s different. that’s the one place where emotion cracks through — sharp, immediate, controlled but felt.

— she has scars she refuses to treat properly at first. almost like she believes she should carry them. like healing too quickly would be… undeserved.

— she sleeps lightly. always. the kind of sleep where the smallest sound pulls her awake, hand already halfway to a weapon before her mind catches up.

— she does not think of what she feels for saerys as love. she refuses that word entirely. in her mind, it’s duty misaligned. something that needs to be corrected.

— but she notices everything about him anyway. the way he moves when he thinks no one is watching. the shifts in his tone. the silences. she catalogues it all without meaning to.

     # 𝗯𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇

official name: daevan baratheon. nicknames: dae. noble title: heir of storm’s end. age: twenty-six. birthplace: storm’s end, the stormlands. home: storm’s end. nationality: westerosi. gender: cis man. pronouns: he / him. orientation: tba. monikers: the gilded stag, storm’s wrath, the black thunder. languages: the common tongue (fluent). accent: stormlander — smooth, controlled, but edged with something sharp beneath.

     # 𝗽𝗵𝘆𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇

faceclaim: cha eun-woo. hair: dark, soft, deceptively neat — often undone by wind and weather. eyes: deep brown, warm at first glance — cold upon closer look. height: 6’1”. build: lean, defined — strength held in restraint rather than bulk. scent: storm air, wet stone, iron beneath rain. dominant hand: right. allergies: none. scars: few — one faint along his side, another near his knuckles, often hidden. distinguishing features: striking beauty that disarms before it unsettles; a gaze that lingers too long, too knowingly. clothing style: refined stormland nobility — dark fabrics, gold accents, structured silhouettes; elegance used as armor, not decoration.

     # 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒

label: the storm that waits. mbti: entj. enneagram: 8w7 — the challenger. element: storm / fire. star sign: virgo. temperament: choleric. character inspirations: daemon targaryen, cersei lannister, young robert baratheon (distorted). deadly sin: wrath. heavenly virtue: none he claims. godly parent: zeus. positive: decisive, commanding, perceptive, fiercely driven, unshakably confident. negative: cruel, arrogant, temperamental, manipulative, deeply egocentric, dismissive of those he deems beneath him.

    # 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌

hobbies: sparring, hunting, provoking, testing limits — both his and others’, riding through storms, observing weakness in court. religion: the faith of the seven (nominal, indifferent). alliance: house baratheon, the stormlands. personal goals: to dominate, to solidify his legacy as something feared and undeniable, to never be overshadowed or forgotten. would they choose family or power?: power — and call it necessity.

               𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 . . .

i.

storms do not ask to be born. they arrive — violent, inevitable. storm’s end did not quiet itself for him. the sea still crashed against its walls, the wind still howled through its towers, and somewhere within it all, a child drew his first breath not as a promise — but as a challenge. daevan baratheon did not cry for long.

whatever softness infancy might have offered was short-lived, swallowed by a house that did not nurture gentleness. he was not the first son carved from storm and expectation, but he would not be another forgotten echo of it either. his name was not whispered. it was spoken with certainty — as though it already belonged to something that would not be ignored. and from the beginning, there was something… wrong in the way he looked at the world. not with wonder. but with judgment.

ii.

daevan baratheon. the heir. the storm made flesh. the boy who did not bend. children learn kindness before cruelty, they say — but daevan learned hierarchy. instinctive, immediate. the understanding that some stood above, and most beneath. he did not seek approval. he expected it.

storm’s end raised him in iron and expectation, in the unspoken demand that he be strong, louder, greater — but daevan did not roar like the others. he did not need to. where his kin burned hot and reckless, he simmered. quieter. sharper. controlled in a way that made his anger far more dangerous. he learned early the weight of silence.

how to look at someone long enough for discomfort to settle beneath their skin. how to speak just enough to wound, never enough to reveal. his words were not loud — they were precise. cutting in ways that lingered. he did not fight for attention. it came to him regardless. beauty helped. he knew that.

used it. weaponized it. because while others relied on brute force, daevan understood something far more valuable: perception is power. and he would never be seen as anything less than untouchable.

iii.

daevan baratheon, the storm that does not pass. ambition was not a hunger for him. it was certainty. he did not dream of greatness — he assumed it. not loudly, not foolishly, but with the quiet arrogance of someone who has never truly been denied. the world, in his mind, was not something to conquer.

it was something that would, eventually, arrange itself around him. those he deemed worthy were few. those he did not were… nothing.

he did not hide his disdain. there was no need. it lived in the curve of his mouth, in the way his gaze lingered just a second too long before dismissing. in the subtle cruelty of a comment delivered too smoothly to be called anger, too sharp to be ignored.

he did not explode. he eroded. slowly. deliberately. until there was nothing left worth acknowledging. and yet — for all his control, for all his precision — there was still a storm within him. restless. violent. waiting. because control is not the absence of chaos. it is the decision to hold it back.

iv.

in a realm where power shifts like tides and crowns sit heavy upon unsteady heads, daevan baratheon does not wait to be moved by it.

he watches. calculates. chooses. the stormlands remain as they have always been — unyielding, loud, bound to a legacy of strength that few dare challenge. but daevan is not interested in legacy alone.

he is interested in dominion.

not the kind won in a single battle, shouted across bloodied fields — but the kind that settles quietly, inevitably. the kind that does not need to prove itself because it is already understood.

he does not trust easily. does not care to. alliances are tools. loyalty is conditional. respect is earned — and even then, never fully given. there is something dangerous in him. not just in what he does. but in what he believes himself capable of doing.

     # 𝗯𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇

official name: aera stark. nicknames: none. noble title: lady of winterfell. date of birth: 01/21. age: twenty-three. birthplace: unknown. home: winterfell. nationality: westerosi. gender: cis woman. pronouns: she / her. orientation: tba. monikers: the quiet wolf, the godswood’s daughter, she-who-watches. languages: the common tongue, the old tongue (basic). accent: northern, quiet and low-spoken. accent: northern — low, quiet, steady; words spoken sparingly, as if each one must earn its place.

     # 𝗽𝗵𝘆𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇

faceclaim: ruby cruz. hair: dark brown, soft and wind-touched, often worn loose or in simple braids. eyes: deep brown, near-black in dim light. height: 5’6”. build: lean, sinewy, built for silence and endurance rather than strength. scent: pine, cold air, and damp earth beneath snow. dominant hand: right. allergies: none. scars: faint, scattered along her hands and arms — thin lines, some clawed, some bitten. distinguishing features: an unsettling stillness, a gaze that lingers too long, rarely seen without her direwolf. clothing style: dark, muted northern layers — wool, leather, and heavy furs; practical, shadowed, blending into forest and frost.

     # 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒

label: the shadowed heir. mbti: istp. enneagram: 5w4 — the observer. element: ice / earth. star sign: capricorn. temperament: melancholic. character inspirations: arya stark, bran stark, ghost (direwolf), feral northern folklore. deadly sin: envy. heavenly virtue: patience. godly parent: the old gods of the forest. positive: observant, steadfast, resilient, instinctive, quietly protective. negative: withdrawn, emotionally detached, unsettling, guarded, slow to trust.

    # 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌

hobbies: wandering the godswood, hunting, tracking, sharpening blades, silent observation, running with her direwolf. religion: the old gods. alliance: house stark, the north. personal goals: to understand the bond within her, to master the line between self and beast, to protect her family — even from what they do not see coming. would they choose family or power?: family.

     # 𝗳𝗮𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗶𝗮𝗹𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗌

father:  ruling lord rstark.  relationship:  positive.  mother:  ruling lady stark. relationship:  positive. 

               𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 . . .

i.

the north does not scream when it births its children. it endures.

winterfell stood quiet beneath a sky heavy with snow, its ancient stones unmoved by the arrival of yet another child not born of its blood. there were no cries that split the halls, no gods invoked in desperation — only the hushed murmur of servants, the careful, measured footsteps of those who knew better than to disturb the stillness that cloaked the castle like frost.

she did not arrive kicking, nor wailing.

a girl placed into arms that were not meant for her, wrapped not in lineage, but in decision. no mother’s blood marked her as theirs, no name tied her to the long line of kings who once ruled the north. she was given one instead — aera. a name spoken softly, as though it might not settle if said too loudly.

the old gods bore witness in silence.

and though no ritual marked the moment, something unseen shifted — deep within the roots of the weirwood, where red leaves never fell and eyes carved into pale bark watched without blinking. something ancient took note of the girl who did not belong, and yet… remained.

she did not cry.

she only watched.

ii.

aera stark. the fourth. the taken daughter. the quiet one.

children are not meant to notice the spaces they do not fill, yet she did. early, instinctive — the way a body learns cold before it understands warmth. she grew not into her place, but around it, careful not to press too hard against something that might reject her entirely.

winterfell raised her as it did all its children — with duty stitched into bone, with honor pressed into the shape of the spine — but where others wore it like armor, she carried it like something borrowed. something that did not quite fit.

she learned silence before speech. stillness before comfort.

and then — him.

not given. not assigned. not chosen by any hand but his own.

shadow came from the treeline like something pulled from dusk itself, too large, too watchful, too knowing to be dismissed as mere beast. there had been no fear. none. only recognition — sharp and immediate, as though something within her had reached outward and been answered in kind.

they did not bond.

they aligned.

where she stepped, he followed. where he stilled, she listened.

and when the first time came — when her body remained in the godswood but her mind did not — it was not terror that found her.

it was clarity.

the forest through different eyes. the world reduced to scent, to movement, to the pulse of life beneath snow.

teeth where there should be words. hunger where there should be thought.

a rabbit, quick and desperate — a snap, clean and final —

warmth flooding her mouth that was not her own.

when she returned to herself, there was blood beneath her nails.

no one spoke of it.

but something had already begun.

iii.

aera stark, the girl who walks with a shadow.

the north remembers, they say — but it does not always speak.

she moved through winterfell like something half-seen, half-felt. never loud enough to demand attention, never soft enough to be dismissed entirely. there were whispers, of course — there are always whispers — of the way the direwolf never strayed far, of how her gaze lingered too long, too deeply, as though looking through rather than at.

they called it strangeness. they called it northern blood. they called it nothing at all.

but the old gods do not grant without taking.

the line between girl and beast thinned with time — not broken, never fully, but worn. softened at the edges. there were moments where instinct bled too far, where silence stretched too long, where the world felt… distant, as though she stood just slightly outside of it.

she did not rage. she did not rebel.

she endured.

like stone. like snow. like something that knows it will outlast what tries to change it.

and then came the blade.

no ceremony. no witness bold enough to claim it.

only the quiet understanding that passed through winterfell like a breath no one admitted to taking —

ice rested in her hands.

heavy. ancient. certain.

she did not question it.

and no one dared to take it from her.

iv.

in a realm stirring with unrest, where whispers of rebellion curl through halls and kingdoms alike, aera stark remains what she has always been — not untouched, but unmoved.

they speak louder now, beyond the north. of dragons and crowns, of power shifting like tides too great to hold. the south burns with ambition, with greed dressed in silk and gold — a world so distant from frost and root that it may as well be another realm entirely.

yet even the cold is not untouched.

something coils beneath the surface of winterfell — not treachery, not yet, but tension. the fragile nature of a house built not by blood, but by choice. cracks too fine to see, but deep enough to matter.

aera does not speak of it.

she watches.

always watching.

the godswood breathes around her, ancient and patient. shadow lingers at her side, golden gaze fixed on things unseen, ears twitching at sounds no one else hears.

she does not pray.

she does not need to.

because whatever the old gods demand of her, whatever they have shaped her into without asking — she will meet it the only way she knows how:

without hesitation. without fear.

and if the end comes, as all things do —

it will not find her running.