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โน เฃช ห๐ฐ๏ธเญญห. แตแต๐๏ธ immclaticns: dependent mumu blog forย darkwindshqย โย ย pennedย by lyra.
lady aelina velaryon neรฉ celtigar;ย ย intro, threads, pinterest.
lady nerissa tyrell of highgarden; intro, threads, pinterest.

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status: open to all. location: the bustling streets of duskendale, the day after the coronation.
dignity is a currency aelina has spent her entire life hoarding. she is the lady of the tides, a woman who navigates court with the precision of someone trained to stay above water. yet, here she stands on the cobblestones of duskendale, her sea-green silks compromised by tiny, sharp claws, holding two squirming balls of ginger fur against her chest while her children assault the nobility with aggressive kindness. it had started as a stroll to escape the suffocating gloom of the rented manseโa place that felt too small without victor, too quiet without corlys. but grief makes one weak, and when daeron and saera had discovered the litter of six abandoned kittens beneath a hawthorn bush, mewling and motherless, aelina had crumbled. she could not leave another family broken. she could not be the one to tell her surviving children that sometimes, things are just left behind to die.
so, a compromise. they could not keep them all ("they may not survive the voyage back home, the ship's rocking will frighten them," she had tried to argue, weakly), but they would find them homes. now, the twins are little heat-seeking arrows of adorable guilt. saera, bold and imperious even at six, has cornered a squire, explaining with great seriousness that the black kitten in her hands is "very good at catching dragons," a lie she tells with a straight face. daeron, quieter, simply holds his chosen fluff up to passersby with wide, pleading lilac eyes. lady velaryon watches them, a soft, weary smile playing on her lips. it is a ridiculous scene: the elegant widow velaryon, turned into a peddler of strays. but beneath the maternal indulgence, her eyes are sharp. the fire in king's landing burned away the old court; the streets are filled with new faces, spares turned heirs, second sons turned lords. she needs to know them. she needs to see who stops for a child, and who sneers. kindness is a useful metric for an ally.
she steps forward as the twins zero in on a new target, cutting off their escape route with the coordinated precision of a military flank. "i must apologize," aelina says, her voice a smooth melody that cuts through the street noise, stepping in before saera can demand the stranger takes in the small calico she named pebbles. she adjusts the ginger kitten climbing her pearl necklace, offering a smile that is both apologetic and utterly charming. "my children are under the impression that the nobility of westeros is currently suffering from a severe lack of feline companionship. please, tell me you are not allergic, or i fear daeron might cry, and that is a terrible thing to have on one's conscience so early in the morning."
๐ฌ๐๐ก๐๐ค๐ข๐ย ๐ฉ๐คย ๐๐ก๐ก.ย
๐ฅ๐ก๐๐๐๐ย ๐๐ฅ๐๐๐ข๐๐ง๐๐ก๐ก๐ฎย ๐ฌ๐๐ฉ๐๐๐ฃย ๐ฉ๐๐ย ๐ฉ๐ค๐ฌ๐ฃ,ย ๐ฉ๐๐ง๐ค๐ช๐๐๐ค๐ช๐ฉย ๐ฉ๐๐ย ๐ฌ๐๐๐ .
targaryenย byย marriage,ย butย aย rykkerย inย herย bloodย โย carlysย hasย alwaysย beenย proudย ofย herย family'sย seat.ย duskendale,ย underย theirย handย forย wellย overย aย century,ย wasย aย beautifulย stretchย ofย bustlingย portsย andย pristineย whiteย mortarย cappedย withย terracottaย shingles.ย meantย toย accommodateย merchantsย andย sailors,ย thereย wasย muchย housingย toย keepย visitorsย ofย suchย aย station,ย butย neverย soย manyย roomsย toย houseย aย legionย ofย pettyย lordlings.ย dunย fortย barelyย hadย theย capacityย toย holdย theย targaryenย retinueย andย theย sprawlingย armsย ofย theย otherย greatย houses,ย regalingย sheย andย herย husbandย toย theย apartmentsย ofย herย youth,ย stillย paintedย inย skyย blueย asย sheย hadย requestedย inย herย precociousย childhood.ย theย duskyย pinksย wereย tooย puerile,ย she'dย said.
theย cityย wasย crowded,ย sheย thoughtย toย herself.ย itย hadย neverย seenย soย manyย bodiesย before.ย thisย couldย beย remedied,ย however.ย theyย couldย useย theย monthsย afterย courtย disbandedย toย rebuildย theย septย inย aย granderย fashion.ย expandย dunย fort.ย thisย seasonย aloneย wouldย payย forย itย โย aย newย waveย ofย visitorsย withย deepย pockets,ย newย merchantsย settingย upย shopย inย hopesย ofย rubbingย elbowsย withย someoneย ofย importance.ย yes,ย withย aย fewย improvements,ย duskendaleย hadย theย makingsย ofย aย newย capital.ย theyย were,ย now,ย theย largestย portย inย theย crownlands.ย dragonstoneย wasย atย aย swifterย distanceย too.
"ah,ย yes,"ย carlysย venturesย toย smile,ย lipsย pressedย toย aย thinย line,ย forcedย toย speakย moreย thanย sheย oftenย deignedย to.ย "duskendaleย hasย alwaysย beenย lively.ย youย willย surelyย findย muchย toย entertainย yourselfย withย alongย theย waters."
it is a testament to the strength of their shared history that aelina does not flinch at the crush of bodies pressing against the dun fortโs walls. to anyone else, she might have whispered a critique about the smell of the unwashed masses or the suffocating lack of space, but to carlys, she offers only a knowing, violet-eyed soften of her expression. she remembers the girl carlys wasโfour years younger, standing on the edge of a ballroom with a braid so intricate it had stopped aelina in her tracks. ryella and melinsa had giggled, but aelina had marched right up to the rykker girl, demanded to know the artisan behind the plait, and been met with such a cool, unbothered deadpan that she had decided, then and there, that carlys was necessary.
they were the golden girls of a golden era. aelinaโs father had pushed her toward viserys with every breath, scorning the "spare" princes. marry a ruling lord if you cannot have the king, he had said. so aelina had married victor, and carlys had taken aemon, the quiet brother. how the wheel turns. the fire that devoured kingโs landing took the king aelina was meant to marry and the husband she truly loved. it left her alone with a usurper in her bedโvictorโs brother, a vulture who stepped over six-year-old daeronโs birthright while the ashes were still warm. and now, carlys, the friend who married the spare, stands as the wife of the regent, the most powerful woman in the realm. aelina needs that power. she needs aemon, who loved victor like a brother, to look at her children and see the injustice of their plight. she needs to secure a betrothal between her daughter saera and the young king daemon, to lock her survival in iron. she hates the man she calls husband now, and she needs him gone. but that is a conversation for wine and closed doors. for now, she is simply a friend.
"lively is a gentle word for it, but if anyone can wrestle order from this chaos, it is house rykker," aelina says, her voice smooth as silk, stepping closer to link her arm through carlys's, ignoring the claustrophobia of the city for the sake of her friend's pride. "it reminds me of the tourney at maidenpool, though with graver stakes. the city is lucky to have you and aemon at the helm." she squeezes carlys's arm gently, shifting the subject to the domestic, the soft underbelly of the viper pit. "are the children finding any peace in this madness? my own ask for their father and brother dailyโฆ i can only imagine rhaenyra and lucerys feel the absence of their uncle just as keenly."
@antagonistzz
๐ฌ๐๐ก๐๐ค๐ข๐ย ๐ฉ๐คย ๐๐ก๐ก.ย
๐ฅ๐ก๐๐๐๐ย ๐๐ฉย ๐ฉ๐๐ย ๐๐ช๐จ๐ ๐๐ฃ๐๐๐ก๐ย ๐ฅ๐ค๐ง๐ฉ,ย ๐จ๐ค๐ข๐๐ฉ๐๐ข๐ย ๐๐๐ฉ๐๐งย ๐ฉ๐๐ย ๐๐ค๐ง๐ค๐ฃ๐๐ฉ๐๐ค๐ฃ.
lyannaย peersย outย intoย theย darkย waterย ofย theย blackwaterย bay,ย crouchedย withย herย kneesย toย herย chestย โย aย featย forย aย bodiceย asย tightย asย hers.ย sheย paysย noย mindย toย howย theย goldenย silkย ofย herย dressย tracesย theย darkย woodย ofย theย duskendaleย marina,ย trulyย nothingย comparedย toย theย grimeย thatย blanketedย theirย nativeย lordsport.ย theย airย rangย withย aย differentย soundย thanย theย islands,ย children'sย laughterย setย toย aย bright,ย cleanย landscape.ย itย wasย nothingย likeย theย low-hangingย cloudsย ofย grey,ย mergingย intoย theย mistyย fogย ofย theirย gloomyย islands.ย theย thoughtย ofย theย subsequentย monthsย passingย beneathย theย crownlands'ย sunย stretchedย beforeย herย likeย aย tabbyย cat,ย languishingย inย aย satisfiedย stretch.
"hisย graceย wasย quiteย fetchingย inย hisย finery,"ย theย pykeย musesย aloud,ย glancingย atย herย neighbour,ย cheeksย dimplingย intoย aย smile.ย "winsomeย even,ย iย think.ย don'tย youย thinkย so?"
the sea breeze off blackwater bay did little to cool the fever simmering beneath nerissaโs skin. she stood near the edge of the marina, stiff-backed and wrapped in heavy emerald silk, fighting the urge to wring her hands together to hide their trembling. she had come here to escape the suffocating crush of the townโduskendale was bursting at the seams, a cup overflowing, ill-equipped to hold the grief and grandeur of the seven kingdoms. it made her heart ache for home; highgarden would never feel so cramped. its white walls and endless arbors would have swallowed this crowd with grace, offering soft beds instead of rented floors. but she was not here to petition, at least not yet. she was here to survive the hour. at the voice, nerissa turned, blinking through the haze of her withdrawal to focus on the girl crouched so casually upon the wood. she did not recognize the faceโnew to court, perhaps, or simply another soul she had overlooked in her years of self-indulgenceโbut the lack of recognition did not excuse a lack of courtesy. what would willam do? the thought was a mantra, a lifeline. he would smile. he would offer warmth. he would not let the darkness inside him spill onto a stranger.
"he was," nerissa agreed, forcing her voice to be steady, stripping the rasp from her throat to sound as pleasant and comely as an heir ought to be. she looked out at the water, then back to the girl, offering a smile that was fragile but genuine. "poised, too. i watched him sit upon that wooden chair and thought he looked more regal than half the lords who came to bend the knee. it is a cruel thing, to be so young and yet... so capable." she adjusted her shawl, the movement hiding a shiver. "i confess, at his age, i could barely sit still for a septa's lesson, let alone a coronation. to see him hold the weight of the realm when he cannot yet hold a sword... he puts us all to shame, does he not? though i suppose tragedy forces children to grow up faster than they should." she paused, studying the girl's ease with a pang of envy. "you seem in high spirits, my lady. does the sea air agree with you, or are you simply happy to escape the crush of the fort?"
@antagonistzz
where: in the courtyard at the dun fort, at the coronation who: open to all! (1/3)
Oaths of fealty to the king were the highest oaths any knightโlordโmight make, and Hugo had never thought he would be making them. He hadn't dreamt of the White Cloak, that illustrious symbol of ultimate honour and unrivalled skill, in years, not since his mother had first despaired so openly at the ambition that he had dropped it entirely, and so he had never thought that unless there was some sort of catastrophic war that needed every knight of the Seven Kingdoms to rally together, Hugo would have occasion to swear his oaths to the king. How wrong he had been!
Lord Arryn had asked that he offer his own oaths, as the heir to the Vale right after his own oaths. Hugo had not stumbledโmore than onceโbut he did not think it mattered terribly as the king was about seven and trying his damnedest not to yawn. But just because the king was but a child hardly meant *his* oath was less true! It was near unimaginableโhim! If his mother could see him now... Rather lucky, all told, he did not attempt a White Cloak after all.
He turned on the spot at the sound of footsteps approaching, exiting the great hall, and dipped into a bow for the newcomer. "Needed some fresh air?" he asked. "Me as well. I didn't think I would be nervousโbut it's quite something, isn't it, standing in front of everybody and swearing your loyalty? Haven't felt so tense since the day I was knighted."
the great hall was a mouth, and it was swallowing them all whole. nerissa had felt the walls closing in, the drone of a hundred oaths mingling with the pounding in her temples until it became a physical weight. she had fled not for air, but for survival, her skin prickling with the cold sweat of withdrawal that the heavy velvet of her gown could barely conceal. she had expected solitude, but instead, she found a ghost. not a real one, of course. ghosts did not bow with such courtly grace. but when she turned to face the stranger, the breath hitched in her throat, sharp and painful. he had the look of the vale about him, yes, but in the soft light of the courtyard, he looked devastatingly like him. the glow of warm brown skin, the same earthy, earnest eyes, the same sweet, unguarded candor of a man who still believed the world was as good as he was. for a split second, the haze in nerissaโs mind cleared, and she saw willam. sweet, dead willam, standing there as if the fire had never touched him.
an impulse, wild and irrational, seized her. her feet shifted, her body leaning forward as if to close the distance and bury her face in his chest, to cling to him and beg him to tell her it was all a jape. youโre here, her heart screamed. youโre safe. but the moment shattered. he spoke, and the voice was wrong. the face was a shade too dark, the jawline unfamiliar. this was not willam. this was just another boy thrust into a manโs boots by tragedy. she caught herself, one hand fluttering to her throat to mask the aborted embrace as a gesture of surprise. she forced a smile, though it felt brittle enough to crack. "fresh air is less of a luxury and more of a necessity today, i find," she replied, her voice soft, lacking its usual sharp wit. she studied him, trying to place the face among the blur of nobles she had ignored during her seasons of revelry. had she seen him before? or was he, like her, a spare suddenly pushed into the light? "and you are right to be tense. the gods have reshuffled the deck, and we are all trying to remember which cards we are holding. i confess... i do not believe we have been formally introduced. though i see the falcon in your bearing, i fear the wildfire has left my memory as hazy as the city skyline."
@qelitsun

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where: in the sept at duskendale, on the morning of the vigil who: open to all! (0/3)
The Sept at Duskendale was little like the one on Dragonstone, which she had grown too familiar with over the past moon, but it smelled and sounded the same. The chanting Septon, the metallic swing of his thurible and the scent of his incense, which gathered thick enough in the air she might choke on it. It put her in mind of the fire. Everything put her in mind of the fire. Wildfire would not smell as sweet, she reminded herself, as she knelt before the Father's altar, tall black candle in hand. She had not had the head for prayers in days; all that ran through her mind was a wordless plea for something that she hoped the Gods understood, because she did not know how to give it words.
She went from one to the next, stopping before none but the Stranger, with whom she spent a few more minutes. There were songs enough about the Mother's mercy and the Father's judgement, but of the Stranger it was only said that the Smith had forged their scythe, sharp enough it would make no mark and never miss. That was a sort of mercy as well, perhaps. She did not know what it meant to pray for it when the deed was done.
When Cyrenna rose again to turn for the makeshift altar that had been erected at the heart of the Sept, she saw somebody standing there already, watching the few flowers that had already been offered. She offered a smile, somewhat flat; but she was rather poor at offering truer ones of late. "Do you think they can hear our prayers?" she asked softly. "Not the Gods. The ones we light these candles for."
the incense is cloying, a thick, sweet fog that tries to mask the scent of burning that still clings to the back of aelinaโs throat. she hates it. she hates this makeshift sept, hates the chanting, and, gods, she hates the woman standing before the altar. it has been a lifetime since they were girls in silks, trading barbed smiles over goblets of arbor gold, measuring the worth of their beauty against the gaze of a silver prince. cyrenna won that war. she got the crown, the king, the throne. aelina had told herself, for years, that she had won the better prize: victor, who looked at her as if she were the sun itself. but now? now cyrenna stands there in her widowโs weeds, mourning a husband, while her son sits safe and crowned on a borrowed throne.
aelinaโs hands tremble, just once, before she stills them. she looks down at the two small figures clinging to her skirts. daeron and saera are solemn, their eyes wide and confused in the gloom. with a gentle touch, she guides them forward, placing a stalk of purple hyacinth into each of their small hands. one for victor. one for corlys. she watches them step up to the altar, their movements clumsy and heartbreakingly sincere as they lay the flowers among the offerings. she performs this pantomime of faith for them, holding space for a goodbye she doesn't believe in, so they might find a peace she cannot. corlys. the thought of him tears through her, distinct and jagged. twelve years old. did he scream? did he cry for her when the green fire melted the flesh from his bones? there is no body to hold, no face to kiss goodbye. just ash. just silence.
she straightens, smoothing the dark fabric of her dress as the twins return to her side, her lilac eyes meeting cyrennaโs. the queen mother looks tired, her smile a flat, fragile thing. do you think they can hear our prayers? it would be kind to lie. it would be the graceful, courtly thing to say yes, they are watching over us, they are at peace. aelina has spent her life perfecting such lies. but the image of her son burning burns away the courtesy. "no," lady velaryon says, her voice soft, devoid of the warmth she was once famous for. she looks back at the flowers, the vibrant purple stark against the grey stone. "they are gone, your grace. the dead do not listen." her gaze flicks back to cyrenna, sharp and unyielding. "that is just a lie we tell ourselves so we can sleep at night." and yet, her hand lingers on saera's shoulder, a protective weight, grounding herself in the only life she has left to fight for.
@qelitsun
The vigil did not offer the princess the reprieve she had hoped for. The Sept, almost as crowded as the Dun Fort on the day of the coronation, had her nearly out of breath, inhaling the fumes of the incense and shrinking away from the tiny, little flames of all the candles lit along the altars. And the weeping, seven help her. The echoes of the cries along the walls of the Sept still ring in her ears minutes later, as she stands just outside the building, a guard by her side in the streets of Duskendale.
"I understand it is customary," She tells the man, "But lighting candles and incense, fire and smoke, for those burnt alive is truly in poor fashion." She notices eyes upon her countenance, and turns her head to look at the interloper, one eyebrow cocked, "Would you not agree, dear?" Her voice drips honey, though mustering it has become a bit of a hardship. Even if Jacaera does not make a spectacle of herself crying at altars, a feeling, cold and slimy, grips at her heart all the same.
the vigil offered no peace, only a suffocating heat that clung to nerissaโs damp skin. she had fled the nave not out of boredom, but necessity; the air inside was thick with myrrh and frankincense, a cloying sweetness that sat heavy in her throat, dangerously similar to the milk of the poppy she had been denying herself for thirty agonizing days. her body was in revoltโher hands trembling beneath the folds of her emerald silk, her blood itching with a hunger she could not feed. she felt raw, exposed, a nerve ending left open to the salt air. and then, she appeared. jacaera. the princess who was once a friend, then a judge, and now a mirror reflecting everything nerissa had failed to be. nerissa braced herself for the sting. she heard the honey in the princessโs voice and felt the phantom prick of the thorn. she knew what jacaera saw: the redness rimming nerissaโs eyes, the uncharacteristic disarray of her curls, the sheen of sweat that no amount of rosewater or perfume could mask. she looked like a ruin standing before a statue. gods save house tyrell, she imagined jacaera thinking. they have traded a golden sun for a withered, trembling weed.
she dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, fighting the shame she had carried since her dismissal when bowing her head. only then did she force her spine straight, the first act of the worthy heir she promised she would become."i find comfort in it," lady tyrell confessed softly, contradicting the royal commentary with a fragility she would usually mask in wine. she faced jacaera, her skin pale and damp with sweat, but she held her ground. "the smoke masks the smell of the city, and the candlesโฆ we need the light, your grace. duskendale is grey enough without extinguishing the only brightness we have left to offer them. it is for the living, i think, not the dead." she took a breath, the air rattling in her chest, and offered a smile that was more wound than warmth. "it is a relief to see you, princess. truly," she lied, or perhaps she didn't; there was a comfort in the familiarity of jacaera's judgment amidst a sea of strangers. "though i wish it were not in the shadow of such pyres. the realm bleeds for your brother... just as highgarden bleeds for mine. but i am truly sorry for your loss."
@masqueing
หโง๏ฝกโ๐ต๏ธโ๏ฝกโงห LADY NERISSA TYRELL of HIGHGARDEN attends the season within the capital! before the court, they are VIVACIOUS and BOLD. but every man has his shadows, and when darkness descends, they are HEDONISTIC and RECKLESS. another face appears in duskendale, reminiscent of sneaking out to venture into secret revels; a trail of highborn suitors forsaken for the company of whores; the cloying scent of opium clinging to a gown, but what can they possibly hope to achieve in the aftermath of the flames? to fit in her late brother's large shoes as the new heir despite her bad reputation and help her parents make highgarden the new capital. gods protect them from these dark winds. โALISHA BOE, 30, CIS FEMALE & SHE/HER หโง๏ฝกโ๐ต๏ธโ๏ฝกโงห
หยฐ๐ผ๐โ๐ฆ.๐ผ ๐ ๐๐ธโชโช LADY AELINA VELARYON (neรฉ CELTIGAR) of DRIFTMARK attends the season within the capital! before the court, they are FAR-SIGHTED and SHREWD. but every man has his shadows, and when darkness descends, they are OPPORTUNISTIC and BEGUILING. another face appears in duskendale, reminiscent of three withered crowns of love and beauty nailed to a wall, the rhythmic stroke of a brush through copper curls, and a lilac gaze where ambition lurks and rattles. but what can they possibly hope to achieve in the aftermath of the flames? to ensure her son daeron's claim as heir of driftmark and to marry her daughter saera to the king. gods protect them from these dark winds. ๐๐ธโชโช ๐๐ผ.๐ฆโ๐๐ผยฐห
โโโ๐๐ต๐ฒ ๐ฏ๐๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ป๐ฒ๐ฒ๐ฟ๐โโ๊โโ๐บ๐ ๐๐๐๐บ ๐ป๐๐พ .โโby clicking on the source link , you'll be redirected to ( 282 ) gifs of alisha boe in the buccaneers , s01 ( 2023 ) ! they were born in 1997 & are of somali & white descent , please cast accordingly . all of these gifs are made from scratch . you may edit these , but do not claim as your own . this pack is free & accessible through a page & zip file .

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GROWING STRONG หโง๏ฝกโ๐ต๏ธโ๏ฝกโงห HOUSE TYRELL
"Highgarden is rightly hailed as the most beautiful castle in all the realm... Its great keep sits upon a broad verdant hill overlooking the Mander, ringed by three concentric walls of white stone, each one higher and thicker than the one below it. Between the outermost wall that girdles the foot of the hill and the middle wall above it can be found Highgardenโs famed briar maze, a vast and complicated labyrinth of thorns and hedges maintained for centuries for the pleasure and delight of the castleโs occupants and guests... and for defensive purposes. Within the castle walls, greenery abounds, and the keeps are surrounded by gardens, arbors, pools, fountains, courtyards, and man-made waterfalls... The keep is a palace like few others, filled with statues, colonnades, and fountains... Highgarden is filled with flowers, singers, pipers, fiddlers, and harpers. Highgardenโs tallest towers, round and slender, look down upon neighbors far more ancient, square and grim in appearance, the oldest of them dating from the Age of Heroes... The castle sept... is rivaled only by that of the Great Sept of Baelor... and the castle godswood contains three ancient weirwoods known as the Three Singers."
ALL IN OUR GRASP หยฐ๐ผ๐โ๐ฆ.๐ผ HOUSE CELTIGAR
โClaw Isle was heavily garrisoned, its castle reputedly stuffed with Myrish carpets, Volantene glass, gold and silver plate, jeweled cups, magnificent hawks, an axe of Valyrian steel, a horn that could summon monsters from the deep, chests of rubies, and more wines than a man could drink in a hundred years.โ