the blind leads the weak

ARTEM TARGARYEN. 53. Captain of The Blackfyre / Exiled Lord. Godspite.

UNA BARATHEON. 59. Dowager Lady of Storm’s End. Puppeteer. 

⸻

It won’t be the ground that greets her when name is called.     No moss growing thick and heavy over her bones.      No hair and teeth left behind while the rest has rotted into the earth.     She supposes there will be many centuries of burning,      pyre only made out of her choices and manipulations.     Like dry wood to a flame,     she had always been conscious of scraping the wound.     She’d let the world burn down to ash if it meant justice for her own funeral during childhood.      Death and more death.   This man across from her is the reaper himself,    cloaked in soot and hunger,   carved out from the flesh to reveal a mouth that devours and fists that break jaws.   If his outburst bothers her,   she doesn’t show it.   Expression mildly neutral,   if not for the twitch in her upper lip.   Men had the ability to demand attention from the room,   yet offered nothing but a boorish attitude in return.   She’d have better luck speaking to a wall.   His reputation,   however,   precedes him.    She is crafty in her need for survival,   a smile stretching along her lips like a balmy breeze to meet his angry hurricane.  ‘   Yes,   you are an omen to some before they travel to the afterlife.    I need no feathers and rabbit bones to tell you that.  ‘  Voice lilting at the end as though she were speaking to a petulant child,    one who misbehaved and got himself expelled from his own bloodline.   Fingertips trail along the edge of the rickety table out of habit,  the wood underneath her touch is coarse.  Aranya almost wishes for the sudden plucking of a splinter.   Something to cure this unbearable tension.  ‘   My visions aren’t my own to control.    They’re not like an army,   or a ship’s crew.    You must wait another day or two.    Ask a specific question if you must.   ‘

-

GODS HAVE NO TONGUES. The light dims to grey, blue, and orange; flames lights dancing upon small window of the bereft. Flea Bottom is Flea Bottom for a reason, and the reason can be smelled five miles out from the city itself. It attracts all kinds of mad - the hungry, the empty, the liars. This sort of cunt-worship would fare better in Essos, he knows; he has seen it. Women, men, and children - all with tongues that speak for the Gods sit next to those where power reside. Yet there is no power in sheep that needs must the grace and vision of gods. It must be claimed; it must be conquered; it must be quiet. “You are mistaken once again - “ his palm closes quick, his face lax and without tension “ - I give no omen. When I want you to see me, you will; and often it will be the last you see.” 

Out in the distance, his sail of black and red flutter with the winds. They are anchored here and within sight. There is no pretense, there is no rouse. Their flag means what it means - skull pierced with a rapier, out through the jaws of death. They are here for deliverance. 

it had been so long since she had heard of her mother. perhaps it was because their death was appropriately mourned for in the North, and Dara hadn’t been around anybody who knew her mother during her time in the Reach though it was heart-warming that her mother seemed to garner such an endearing reaction from a woman who oozed power and respect. even such a woman who was a baratheon. dara smiled softly as the woman spoke, nodding her respect with a small cursty before she let Una continue speaking. 

❝ It’s a pleasure, Lady Una. ❞ she remarked, though suddenly Dara felt self-conscious of her bandaged hand.  ❝ Im not sure my mother would have forgotten she was holding a glass of wine but i’m glad to not be alone in such regards. ❞ she spoke, her embarrassment obvious as she tried to hide her hand in the flows of fabric from her dress.  ❝ yes, I do have a brother. he’s somewhere around her, probably with my uncle. did you want me to go get them? ❞ she asked, unsure how much Una wanted to interact with the Karstarks. she wondered what was the impression the karstarks and the north left on those from the reach, or perhaps in the stormlands. was it good? bad? both?  

-

THERE IS NEVER ENOUGH DRINK FOR THE THIRSTY. The sun is setting and it looks fire upon the gentle green leaves. Sentiment is what one makes of it - and though her heart is full of many, many sentiments, Una knows, that this here, right now, as Aranya’s daughter speaks of her mother, would be another ripple in her heart. It is both heavy and both light. Memories of those departed demand it to be so. “I will find him in due time,” pacifies her with gentleness. There is no need to rush: they have time yet. This Aranya - who is not Aranya - stands before her and Una knows there is more to this tale, as all tales are

A teacup shattered will always leak and cut. She smiles at Dara Karstark with no limited fondness; her hand gesturing for a seat. “Please,” says she as she leads the lady to where on of her own ladies-in-waiting had been earlier. Like this, in the heat of the Southron afternoon, the memories flood the teacup, and suddenly it is full. “From how you greet me, I imagine your mother rarely mentioned who I am; yet she and I do -did - share more days in the sun than I can count. - Please, tell me, how are you and how is your life in the North? Your brothers?” - and then she remembers that who shatters the teacup “ - your uncle?” 

she’s been thrumming with anticipation since she’d received his message, hidden easily the way it always was whenever they passed notes back and forth through ravens. months had passed, months where she’d been stuck in this hell hole of a castle. the very place made her skin crawl, the halls dancing with her brothers ghost and she wanted nothing more than to be free of it, even if being here only pushed her closer to what she wanted. even still, she knew it wouldn’t take lng at all for all her anxiousness to dissipate. wandering through the gardens, she likes the symbolism of waiting by the rose bush, and it truly is waiting for how long she stands there. though the second she sees his figure cut through her vision, her heart starts thumping and her lips pull into a smile. “you’re in quite the hurry there. looking for someone?”

-

THE PRETTIEST OF FLOWERS ALWAYS GET PLUCKED. It happened to him first - he saw her once, and then she was all he ever wanted to see. The ground is smooth and stable here, the hills are covered by great towers his ancestors supposedly built. The Red Keep would sooner burn than have its walls see him return. Yet here he is with an inaudible gasp and his heart on his hands. “Even when you think I do not - “ his steps are sure, his stride lofty; there is no need for distance here, and so he closes it, “- I always do. I make the winds howl towards you.” Her hair on his fingers catch the rough-trimmed nails and callouses of his hands, but it matters not. 

Here, where pretty flowers bloom, he will take his and pluck it. Soon his arms snake through her and his has his chin over her head, resting in near-contentment yet still not enough. It happened to him first - and keeps happening to him over and over and over again each and every single time he has her in his arms. He falls in love. “I have missed you. - tell me you have missed me too.”

 open starter﹕ featuring lady aranya pretending to read your muse’s fortune !

‘  I see a great victory in the coming months.   It’ll be summer,   fruits will ripen,   as will your glory.  ‘   The words are laced with a particular venom that can only be found in the most cunning of liars.   Those who prefer the skills of intelligence and fickleness over that of violence and outright cruelty.   She is between snake and skin here,   a shedding of the previous girl that inhabited this vessel now replaced with that of a seeress.   One who tells fortunes,    who deals in premonitions and raven feathers.   The other’s hand is warm in hers and she turns it over to reveal a palm,   index finger light and gentle as she traces a line that the years have engraved on the surface.    ‘   Ah,   but with glory comes suffering.  ‘ 

IT IS ALWAYS NIGHT IN THE BELLY OF THE BEAST. The stench of filth and waste is a brand King’s Landing so love that it sticks to even the most flowered of hair. It envelopes the night - makes the candlelight sway in disgusting gusts of wretched squalor. Once he had lived in a castle lorded by a great dragon that breathed more fire than air; now he spends his hours in the shadows of Flea Bottom - amusing himself by wasting coin on the useless. The woman speaks of fruits and victory in a promise, and Artem scoffs. What good is a seer that sees not what lays before her? He’s had fruit, he’s had victory - he tires of them. The dirt deep in the lines of hand dampen her touch, yet her words almost makes him laugh. What entertaining nonsense. “The shit and grime in my hands tell you this?” Booming is the sharpness of his tone, quick and drowned as the waves carry the Narrow Sea bashing into the rocks. “Well, let me tell you this: I am the suffering. I gift it to many before their glory even dawns. Read your feathers again, little girl.”

.

Before this evening Eldar had been occupied as he usually was maintaining daily operations within the reach by raven. It was a tedious way of doing things but his birds were trained and the information from trusted sources. Hearing Una speak his head naturally bowed. A reach woman first but a force no matter where she was  and in some distant way family in many ways. “All reports do lead to a good outcome for the coming harvest, stores are full and reserves are intact. The reach can always provide for the next few weddings  but even with the best reports I would still be ready - hedge out bets so the whole of westeros doesn’t starve. My dearest Lady Baratheon, Una you do look divine as always. Meri will be happy to see you here ”

- 

FLOWERS BLOOM WHERE THEY ARE WATERED. Her hand beckons and soon the cup before fills of Arbor wine. They are steeped in plenty, but it means not that do not know loss. They burned The Reach once - The Field of Fire - and now they are fed by the very same lands. “The whole of Westeros will see itself starve -” comments Una with a light tone, yet her words lay heavy between sips, “if my sons do no get their merriments and due. After all, all weddings incite happiness, don’t they? Just look at you and Merianne. - I will be happy to see her, and I hope she speaks more frankly to me with less flowery words, Lord Tyrell.” Yet still she tips her head with a graceful smile full of warmth and recognition. "Do you know what would please me, though, Eldar? - Another child. A little you and a little her: Aemma and  Eammon would love it.” Una raises her glass for a toast across the table and asks, “have you been trying for another one?”

-

Before he washed up on the soils of Westeros, the only grace Zirq knew was that of riding with his grandfather’s khalasar. Though his father nearly gave up on him, the woman before him never even broke a sweat as she taught him how to be a lord with dignity. It’s through her support, as well as the support of his siblings, that Zirq has even managed his new position as ruling lord so far.

He casts his eyes at the orchestra, though Tavion is not among them. She’s never steered him wrong before and what she speaks of Tavion is true - he is honorable and he is kind. He most certainly could have had it worse. As the music slows, he nods his head. “I will happily give him a chance.” He shakes his head then, a smile on his lips. “Have you always been so sure of everything? I can’t imagine there was ever a time where you didn’t know what to do.” She created a family for Zirq, one that has lasted longer than any other he has ever known, and gave him something he never knew he craved - stability.

-

THE SONGS ARE SUNG, THE DANCE IS SLOWED. Every marriage starts with a promise, and though Una understand that she has made it for her son, she will not break the oath she has told him as a child: she will take care of Zirqoyi - against the Gods, against the grain. She will not throw him into the Lion’s Den - not unarmed and not with uncertainty. “Oh,” choruses her cooing at his praise, “I have made mistakes, my sweet, but I make them knowingly and afford myself of them. - We don’t need to do wrong to know that they are wrong.” There is a muted light that passes through their hairs, and for a moment, her son looks but a mere child. The Dothraki make them so well, but Zirq is Una’s child now, and she will not want anything less than the very best for him. 

“When Lord Payne becomes you husband, you must afford him his mistakes as well. Marriage is no flower or summer’s eve.” As the new song wraps itself to a close, Una beckons Zirq to walk back to their seats. She finds no Tavion Payne on the floor, but she knows she will find him. Though her choice for her son stands firm, knowing how Zirq would have been elated to be with a fellow warrior still gnaws her - but never the mind, there is no need to worry about a fire before it is lit. Yet - “Tell me, are you unsure of Lord Payne, sweetling? Do you have anyone else in mind?” Not waiting for a response that she might not even want to here, Una cuts through with: “House Payne is a good house. A sweet man will make a good father. You must choose to give your children that much.”

ARTEM TARGARYEN.  53. Captain of The Blackfyre/Exiled Lord Targaryen. Godspite.