"This is no true godswood," commented Balon, laying his hand upon the grainy carven face peering at him from the oak.

It was true that the southron regions of Westeros were sadly lacking in weirwoods -- a last, defiant gift of the Andals -- but somehow the replacement struck him as more crude than the chopped-down stubs which littered other, older castles. The Targaryens were, in many respects, a baffling people to Balon, but no more so were their religious exploits. Oh, their conversion to the Faith of the Seven was not difficult to comprehend -- Maegor's reign had made the reasons for that decision plain enough -- but small moments defied obvious reasons. Choices such as this.

Dragons or no, that their fiery reign had been a relatively short one in the history of Westeros struck Balon as efficacious enough. They'd never been meant to be anything more than petty lords of Dragonstone. Even in Valyria, the maesters had it, they had been but one of the lesser Houses, made great only by the eradication of all other dragonlords. Yet, the condition of his own home of Harrenhal stood in molten testament that, however pitiful their might by comparison to others of their kind, the power of the dragon was still no small thing. It had brought nearly all of Westeros to its knees, one way or another. Yet, that choice was as baffling to Balon as the existence of this pathetic godswood. Common men, he was told, were not to know the mind of the dragon, but they were not dragons. They were men, women, people as common as all others.

No, it was no true godswood -- but, then, they were no true kings, no more than the House of Hoare they had immolated upon the pyre of Harrenhal. Would a true king be elected here, he wondered, or would the realm crack, splitting into its ancestral settlements? For himself, he hardly knew which outcome to prefer.

Eyes turning towards his companion, he smiled softly. "But perhaps you disagree? Can there be a godswood without a weirwood, or is it all a sham?"

they had come seeking guidance. the sept had offered little in the way of instruction or comfort ─ the incense had burned at their eyes and the quiet, droning chants of the septons were only made worst by the constant rush of feet as septas were called out of prayer to attend to the sick. jocelyn could not say why they had tried the sept. perhaps because it was the faith of their stepmother, who had accepted the peculiarities of her stepchildren with a stiff chin, or perhaps it was because they knew they would not find the old gods in the red keep's pitiful excuse for a godswood. the fragrant air ( their nose twitched, picking up lavender and not tree sap, frowning at the wrongness of it all ) stirred with life and for a moment, jocelyn paused. was it ... ? a voice broke their foolish hope ─ it was not the gods but a man. ❝ it is not. ❞ they came to stand before the carved oak, brow furrowing. a hand reached out, finger poking at the face etched into the wood. it felt wrong, not because there were no gods here but because something seemed to be watching, prickling at the back of their neck. jocelyn shook their head slightly, turning their attention to the other. ( odd. ) ❝ ... maybe. i ... i don't know about the gods. ❞ if they were real, they had spared no thought for jocelyn. ❝ but i do know that the weirwood trees in the rainwood grow larger than this. you can smell the sap, sweet and sticky, for miles and see the red bleed of it when you get closer. ❞

russett  eyes  register  the  colour  of  their  robes.  black.  gold.  stags.  baratheon.  the  index  at  the  back  of  her  head  rolls,  siphoning  through  names.  vaiora  comes  despairingly  empty.

what must it be like, to simply know what to say ? if jocelyn had ever said something correct ( which they must have done, for the woman before them continues to smile ), it has always been entirely on accident and they have rarely been able to hold conversation for longer than politely necessary. perhaps the crownlands would be a place for many firsts ? swallowing around the nervous lump in their throat, they take a little sip from their cup, allowing themselves some time to process the words. their dark brows furrow and they lift a hand to roughly around the height of a wine barrel, trying to imagine how it would stack up in a ship without toppling or spilling over. a silly thing to fixate on, but jocelyn had long since given up hope on controlling where their thoughts took them. ❝ i would like to see it. your ships, i mean. i've never been one for sailing, for pleasure or for travel, but it seems as though i am trying many things for the first time in king's landing. ❞ drawing their bottom lip between their teeth to worry at the bit of dried skin, jocelyn looks more distressed than they feel with their knitted brow and thinned mouth, though the wine does warm them enough that they wave a hand at the apology. ❝ i did not know your name until just now either, so we are on equal ground, my lady, though you are wiser than many others. shipbreaker's bay is not one to be challenged. ❞ during one of the hottest summers in their lifetime, the seas had been especially rough and if one had sharp eyes, one could pick out the bodies of sailors amongst the ship wrecks that had crashed against the natural formations of the bay. jocelyn frowns at the memory, glancing up at the lady vaiora ─ perhaps they ought to keep that to themselves. ❝ i am liege jocelyn baratheon, as you correctly surmised ... the youngest of the three. ❞ they attempt a smile, a little too square around the edges.

all things considered, myrcella had lasted longer than usual. she had danced when asked, smiled where expected, and endured enough empty conversation to satisfy even the most watchful courtiers. but eventually the press of voices became too much -- too many people wanting pieces of one another, too much noise layered endlessly atop itself. and so, she quietly slipped beyond the feast when she felt people's attention was fixed elsewhere.

the corridors beyond the feast were dimmer, quieter, touched only by scattered torchlight and the distant echo of celebration bleeding through stone walls. myrcella wandered without much destination in mind until she found one of the many sitting alcoves tucked throughout the red keep.

she settled there almost immediately, folding one leg beneath herself as she opened the small weathered book resting in her lap -- worn enough at the edges to suggest it had been tucked beneath sleeves and hidden within layers of skirts more than once before.

for a while, there was only silence. only the turning of pages and the faint muffled sound of music drifting from somewhere deeper within the castle. until approaching footsteps finally broke the quiet.

"before you say anything, my liege," she murmured softly, glancing upward slowly as one finger remaining tucked between the pages to hold her place. "i should warn you that i have no intention of returning to the feast."

in hindsight, perhaps wearing a bodice inspired by the proud stag of house baratheon had been a poor choice ─ even putting it on had been difficult, the metal antlers digging into the soft insides of their arms until jocelyn had been forced to push their chest out and pull their arms back to ease the discomfort. they had only accepted one dance, with their lord father, being sulking in the corner of the grand hall in a rather unflattering position. no one expected much from jocelyn to begin with and, for the first time in their life, they found themselves glad of the fact, even if they seized the chance to follow their older sister out of the room with the excuse of checking on myrcella before sprinting ( or rather, awkwardly hobbling to avoid being stabbed in the breast again ) out of sight. after struggling with the decorated bodice for a moment, jocelyn huffed, irritated, and stalked through the corridor in search of their sibling, nudging myrcella with their foot. ❝ what ? that's not fair. did father say you could ? ❞ for a moment, they were possessed by the urge to bite their sister but they tampered it down, one hand on their ribcage. ❝ wait. can you help me with this ? just ... there's a clip on the side to unhook it from the bodice. i'll cover for you if you want to hide away here and read like a maester, just ... get me out of this. ❞

LOCATION: the streets outside of the red keep, before the day of the feast.

                                     the  wheelhouse  stopped  once  again,  the  third  time  in  a  couple  of  minutes,  to  amerei’s  candid  despair.  it  was  to  be  expected  when  most  of  the  lords  of  the  realms  were  expecting  to  enter  the  keep  at  the  same  time,  eager  for  glory  or  for  the  chance  to  step  out  of  the  scorching  sun.  all  amerei  cared,  though,  was  how  humid  it  was  inside.  summer  may  be  ending  but  before  the  sweet  chill  of  autumn  could  descend  it  was  leaving  its  own  powerful  impression.  and  it  didn’t  make  the  city  smell  any  sweeter.  amerei  was  left  to  enter  alone  in  one  of  the  tully’s  wheelhouses,  alone  with  her  thoughts  and  the  sweat  dripping  down  her  neck  for  no  cooling  breeze  would  come  through  the  window.

                                     still  stuck  in  the  middle  of  the  line,  she  was  suddenly  overcome  with  boredom.  impulsively,  she  put  her  head  out  of  the  window,  her  brown  ecstatic  eyes  falling  on  the  first  person  outside;  if  either  tending  to  their  own  ride  or  outside  of  a  carriage,  she  would  not  care  to  observe.  ❛❛  —  would  you  like  to  join  my  caravan,  my  liege?  this  line  is  moving  so  terribly  slow,  some  company  would  be  mostly  appreciated.  it’s  boring  at  these  roads.  —  ❞  she  smiled  her  bright  smile,  the  one  that  tends  to  convince  her  grandfather  of  acquiescing  to  anything  her  heart  desired.  surely  this  noble  company  would  not  deny  her  such  a  simple  request.  opening  the  door  before  even  receiving  an  answer,  she  continued  her  friendly  chatter.  ❛❛ —  interesting  what  it  takes  for  most  of  the  realm  to  come  together.  not  a  nameday  celebration  or  a  summer  tourney.  but  the  death  of  a  king.  rest  his  soul.  and  the  promise  of  a  kingsmoot.  woe  that  they  would  chose  more  joyful  excuses.  —  ❞  kingsmoot.  even  the  word  even  tasted  bitterly  in  her  mouth.  what  a  ludicrous  idea,  by  the  gods.  she  would  let  the  big  brains  with  ambitious  hearts  get  drunk  on  the  idea  of  power,  if  it  resulted  in  a  lively  trip  to  king’s  landing  before  the  weather  turned  to  worse.  ❛❛ —  but  by  the  mother,  who  cares?  all  these  silly  details  will  be  resolved  one  way  or  another.  how  were  your  travels,  my  liege?  —  ❞

several attempts had been made to convince the youngest baratheon of the benefits of occupying the carriage that brought not only the rest of the family but also their trunks over the courage of the two ( nearly three ) weeks that it took the stormlanders to reach the capital. their refusal had been vehement and loud, and pride kept them from admitting defeat on the third day as the insides of their thighs chafed from riding on horseback over such a distance, but after the pain had faded, jocelyn was rather convinced of their decision to ride ahead, considering the congestion that they now found themselves stuck in, their poor horse snorting in irritation. with a furrowed brow, they patted the creature on the neck lightly, nearly startling from their saddle when a head, followed by what seemed to be the largest, brownest eyes they had ever seen, peered out from a carriage window. ❝ oh, fu--- ❞ they paused, biting back the almost immediate refusal. while it was deemed somewhat accepted to cuss out their sisters ( and indeed, it seemed to amuse their father to be on the receiving end of their vitriol too ), jocelyn had to remind themselves that not everyone was deserving of such language. ❝ eh ... i meant to say ... no. thank you. ❞ there ─ that was polite. they blinked as the other continued speaking, following her words with their head. ❝ rather, you could join me on foot, if you'd like ? this fellow needs a break, i think, and they are selling dried fruit up ahead. ❞ jocelyn grunted as they slid down from the saddle, tugging the reins lightly to get the horse to follow as they walked alongside the carriage ─ gods, it was slow. their natural stride was quicker than the pace it was going. ❝ eh ... my travels were fine. it rained a little by felwood but otherwise, the roads were rather smooth. ❞

FOUND  IN  ...  the  feast.

vaiora  smiles  brightly,  as  if  stepping  into  the  role  of  hostess  —  as  if  king's  landing  is  her  home,  already.  the  chandelier  of  wax  and  iron  reflecting  the  lady  of  the  arbor's  warmth,  amber  candlelight  allowing  a  halo  of  light  in  the  darkness,  the  seven  smiling  down  on  her.  it  feels  nice  against  the  deep  plum  of  her  silks,  drinking  in  the  light's  rays,  warming  the  bare  of  her  shoulders,  imbuing  the  collar  of  rubies  fastened  to  her  neck  with  a  gentle  sparkle.  “do  be  sure  to  imbibe,"  she  advises  sweetly,  palm  outstretched  to  hold.  the  other  nurses  a  gold  patinaed  goblet  inlaid  with  a  matching  scarlet,  swishing  nearly  half  empty.  "we  brought  near  to  a  hundred  barrels  for  the  occasion.  the  arbor's  finest,  of  course."  vaiora  resented  the  favour  of  dornish  reds.  "they  will  not  drink  themselves!”

is it possible to be blinded by a smile ? jocelyn blinks in rapid bursts as their path towards a familiar face ( or rather, a familiar figure clad in the colors of house baratheon, to serve as a buffer between the crowd and themselves ) is interrupted by an enthusiastic individual sprouting a series of sentences that, at first, startles jocelyn into temporary deafness ( a dull buzzing in the ear that often comes as a result of being startled ─ a panic response not entirely unlike that of a deer ) and then forces them to intensely study the shape of the other's mouth until a few words are picked out and they are, at once, brought back into present. ❝ o---oh ! ❞ politeness prompts jocelyn to reach out for a goblet carried by an awaiting servant, fingers pressing over the etchings made in the metal. they find it easier to breathe with something trivial distracting them even as they nod along. ❝ oh, the arbor ! yes, i quite like wine from the reach ... dornish reds are far too sour for me, though perhaps i hold an unfair biased against it. ❞ the stormlands were not entirely fond of anything dornish, after all. ❝ ... how many ships did it take to carry a hundred barrels of wine ? ❞