᯽♟isabela merced, female, she/her, twenty-four … #NOBLE // the seven beckon LADY TEORA LANNISTER toward them; a cowardly, lion of HOUSE LANNISTER. the seventh born lannister daughter feels their soul flay open just as judgement is shackling to a evasive nature, gripping it tightly as mercy fights with earnestness. traits guidance sees in the dreams of a rebellion with an accompaniment from strength and courage as they offer a pouch of gold, enough to buy any weapon she desires. all while innocence encapsulates memories of them — dresses of red and gold made of the softest fabrics; a drizzle of honey crawling down pursed lips; desire for more twisting your insides, leaving you constantly unsatisfied; the least worn item in a polished jewelry box — so they are remembered when the unknown flickers into view, dragging them towards their end, being found to be useless, insignificant.
basics.
NAME lady teora lannister
TITLES a lady of house lannister.
AGE four and twenty.
MOTIVATIONS marry a firstborn <3. establish herself not just as a woman but also a lannister worthy of note among the court.
visuals.
HEIGHT tbd.
EYES light brown, with the tiniest flecks of green stolen from her father.
HAIR long, black, and waist length. she will splurge on headpieces, but you will find that they are quite simple, which makes their cost all the more baffling.
NOTABLE FEATURES tbd.
connections.
PARENTS lord terrence and lady mirelle lannister.
SIBLINGS lady lucretia, lord loren, & four more.
OTHERS princess laena targaryen (attending to).
WANTED childhood friends/acquaintances from the westerlands; people at the red keep she takes issue with (whether one sided or mutual).
by the time teora is born, house lannister (and the westerlands as a whole) are already waiting for her older siblings to make arrangements and have babes of their own. a seventh cub is nothing to take note of, especially not after the lord lannister's new wife had given him twins, always a fun circumstance. she was never truly denied anything, in that her wishes had never been thought of much at all. her education was spectacular, her horse impressive, her dresses regal and costly....her opinions relegated to the importance of a dove cawing or a cow mooing. the older lannister siblings were taught to govern, to command respect...teora was taught to sit down and be pretty (and stop making those irritated faces, for seven's sake!)
her siblings are old, out of her reach; her father, larger than life itself; her mother...well, teora had more of a connection to her nursemaid as a child than she did the woman.
she had reached a level of boredom known to send young ladies down terrible paths, but instead of seeking such temptations, she had begged lord lannister to send her as a lady-in-waiting to one of the princesses, and luck should have it she had been given to the princess laena.
on the off chance that luck should find her once more, teora hopes this.....friendship will lead to a well made match (no second sons, please) and the chance to save herself from being forgotten amongst heads of gold (by throwing herself into the midst of heads of silver) and being written off as wholly insignificant.
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#STAFF // the seven beckon DAME ELYRA SELMY toward them; a reclamation etched into bone, a daughter shaped by the ghost of a fallen name, associated with HOUSE SELMY. the sworn shield feels their soul flay open just as judgement is shackling to a ruthlessness nature, gripping it tightly as mercy fights with discipline. traits guidance sees in the dreams of a rebellion with an accompaniment from strength and courage as they offer a longsword — balanced, unadorned, precise — a weapon not meant to dazzle, but to endure. all while innocence encapsulates memories of them — the echo of steel against steel in an empty training yard before dawn, frost clinging to her breath as she refuses to yield, the suffocating weight of a name once spoken with pride now carried in hushed tones and lingering stares, rain-soaked battlements overlooking a violent sea, where storms crash endlessly as if mirroring the unrest she keeps buried beneath composure, the quiet, fleeting warmth of a presence beside her in the early hours, where duty softens just enough to feel like something more, something dangerous — so they are remembered when the unknown flickers into view, dragging them towards their end, the unbearable possibility of failure, not death, but the realization that she was never enough to restore what was lost.
# 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.
— and the worst part?
she is beginning to understand him.
which is far more dangerous than not understanding him at all.
rosamund pike, cisfemale, she/her, forty five … #NOBLE // the seven beckon LADY LUCRETIA LANNISTER toward them; a rapacious, tactician of HOUSE LANNISTER. the firstborn daughter of the ruling lord feels their soul flay open just as judgement is shackling to a self-serving nature, gripping it tightly as mercy fights with diligence. traits guidance sees in the dreams of a rebellion with an accompaniment from strength and courage as they offer a long sword. all while innocence encapsulates memories of them — a spread of maps and books on the greatest battles known to history, a birth-cry so deep the mid-wives mistook her for a son, sunlight catching the polished brass of her pauldrons — so they are remembered when the unknown flickers into view, dragging them towards their end, failing to protect her siblings and daughters if war comes.
basics.
NAME: lady lucretia lannister.
TITLES: lady, ser, heir to casterly rock and the westerlands.
AGE: five and forty.
ALLIANCES: house lannister, the crown.
PRONOUNS: she/her.
ORIENTATION: lesbian. (homosexual + homoromantic)
STATUS: widowed.
FEARS: failing to protect her family in times of war. failing as a ruling lady.
GOALS: ascend as lady of the west after the passing of her father, maintain lannister supremacy, keep the west obedient (and eliminate house reyne if necessary).
2. visuals.
EYES: pale green.
HAIR: golden, usually worn braided or pinned down.
HEIGHT: 5'9.
SKIN: white. tans softly during summer.
BUILD: lean, toned and strong.
IDENTIFIERS: a collection of fine scars across her hands and forearms from years of training; an impeccable posture; hands filled with rings when outside the training yard.
3. connections.
PARENTS: lord terrence lannister & lady amara lannister (née lefford).
SPOUSE: lord brendan lannister (née serrett), deceased.
CHILDREN: lady myrcella lannister & lady cyrelle lannister (twins).
SIBLINGS: lord loren lannister, tba.
FRIENDS: tba. wanted!
LOVERS: tba. wanted!
4. biography.
lucretia lannister was born in casterly rock, with a cry so fierce and hoarse that the midwives, for one suspended and foolish moment, believed her a son. the mistake amused her father more than it disappointed him. lord terrence lannister, still young enough then to sire more children, took the deed as an omen rather than an insult. the girl was not denied the education of a lady. instead, she was given both worlds in full measure. tutors came and went through the rock, teaching her courtly etiquette, music, hosting, and anything else expected of a noblewoman, just as others instructed her in history, warfare, strategy, and westerosi politics. she learned it all. she absorbed it all. still, lucretia found herself drawn, again and again, to the weightier things. it was not that she could not play the lady. she simply preferred not to linger there.
lord terrence lannister was not a sentimental man, though he loved his children with a ferocity that bordered on the immovable. lucretia grew up idolizing him, but as she aged, the golden veneer wore thin, revealing the cold iron beneath his might. she came to understand that his love did not exist apart from his duty, and that the rock would always come first. to him, she was a daughter, an heir, and a piece on the board, utilized as easily as any bannerman or alliance. he sharpened her as he would any blade meant to endure, handing her every tool she might need, even as he made it painfully clear that her personhood would never outweigh what was required of her blood. and that understanding hardened her.
at seventeen, the title of knight was added to her name. her strikes, and her absolute command of the longsword left no room for doubt. yet there were those who loathed her for it, bitter lords who still cursed queen rhaenyra for letting women touch steel, but their anger changed nothing. she rode, fought, and studied with a discipline that bordered on severity, carving a place for herself in a world that would have preferred her ornamental. she did not argue her right to stand among men. she simply stood, and let her towering presence do the speaking. but skill, for all its brilliance, did not grant her freedom from expectation. if anything, her exceeding competence bound her tighter to it. as heir to casterly rock, her body was not entirely her own; it was a vessel for legacy, for continuity, for the unbroken line her father refused to see diluted.
their arguments over the matter were not usually screaming matches, but rather immovable, grinding stalemates. lucretia wanted women. she had always wanted women, and she possessed no desire to hide that truth. lord terrence, for all his pride in her, would not bend. duty came first. blood came first. the west could not afford ambiguity in its succession, not in an age where the realm itself seemed poised to fracture. and so, at thirty, she did what was required of her. she married lord brendan of house serrett. it was a political match, nothing more, nothing less. she was civil to him, at times even amicable, but there was no illusion of tenderness between them. he was a means to an end, and he understood that much, if not the full extent of it. within a year, he had given her heirs, twin girls, strong and wailing, their survival secured past the fragile threshold of infancy. and with that, the purpose of the marriage had been fulfilled.
it lasted three years in total. when the twins turned one, lord brendan died on the road, his carriage waylaid by bandits in what was reported as an unfortunate but unremarkable tragedy. there were murmurs, of course. there are always murmurs when death arrives too conveniently. some even suspected that lucretia’s hand had not been entirely absent from the matter. but suspicion without evidence means nothing, and lucretia gave them nothing to accuse her with. she mourned as she was expected to, clad in black, composed, impeccable in her grief. she performed widowhood as flawlessly as she had performed wifehood, and when the year of mourning passed, she emerged from it unburdened and unbothered.
motherhood remained the only territory she refused to surrender. myrcella and cyrelle were not just the required continuation of the golden line. they were the absolute only things in her life that belonged wholly to her. the iron that defined lucretia did not rust when she looked at them, but it bent, forming a quiet, vicious ring of protection around their lives. she looked at the heavy compromises she had been forced to swallow and vowed her girls would never taste the same poison. she would raise them to be sharp enough to cut their own paths, perfectly aware of the world but never imprisoned by it. they would be capable, but they would be uncaged. or so she fiercely promised herself.
today, lucretia is a creature of lethal fluidity. knight, lady, widow, heir. she glides between titles, refusing to let the court reduce her to just one. her blade stays sharp, though experience has cured her of mistaking skill for invincibility. she takes her lovers quietly and without apology, severing attachments before they can mutate into liabilities. she hides nothing of her nature. she simply denies the realm the chance to weaponize it. but now, the winds are turning. with aegon the unworthy in the ground and daeron the second wearing the crown, the whispers of bastard uprisings are already turning the air sour. the political board is shifting rapidly, and lucretia knows that keeping the west unbroken will be a far heavier burden than her father ever carried.
the seven beckon JAIDETH "JAIDE" WATERS toward them; a rough and tough, gem associated with HOUSE TARGARYEN. the dragonkeeper feels their soul flay open just as judgement is shackling to a CALLOUS nature, gripping it tightly as mercy fights with VERVE. traits guidance sees in the dreams of a rebellion with an accompaniment from strength and courage as they offer a pair of dual swords of damascus steel, named piety and prayer. all while innocence encapsulates memories of them — a laugh with the same intonation as a snapping branch ; to be aware of the stars but never dream of touching them ; blue wildfire raging in your ribcage, so hot it feels like ice — so they are remembered when the unknown flickers into view, dragging them towards their end, left unremembered and unmemorialized.
𝙈𝙀𝘼𝙎𝙐𝙍𝙀.
FULL NAME: jaideth “jaide” waters OCCUPATION: dragonkeeper AGE: twenty-seven BIRTHDATE: twenty first day of the eleventh month PLACE OF BIRTH: braavos, the free cities PLACE OF RESIDENCE: king's landing, the crownlands GENDER: demiwoman PRONOUNS: she/they SEXUAL & ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: bisexual — though horrendously non-committal RELIGION: moonsinger, culturally but non-practicing ; is more familiar with the seven and has taken to their sayings LANGUAGES SPOKEN: braavosi (northern low valyrian), high valyrian, common tongue of westeros ALLEGIANCE: the dragons, house targaryen, braavos
FATHER: unknown MOTHER: sera of braavos, assumed dead SIBLINGS: unknown MARITAL STATUS: unmarried, unbetrothed RELATED: unknown
TRAITS: callous, cynical, biting, prodigious, fearless, reckless INTERESTS: loves card games, sparring, hearing a good story, will always stop to hear what a fortune teller has to say, the stars SKILLS & TALENTS: an ambidextrous wielder, and quite skilled with twin swords, preferring their right when single-sworded despite it being the weaker hand; can sing quite prettily but hasn't in many years WEAPON: a pair of dual swords of damascus steel, named piety and prayer PLAYLIST: i love you, fontaines dc ; glum, hayley williams CHARACTER INSPIRATION: fang runin, the poppy wars ; celaena sardothian, throne of glass ; riza hawkeye, full metal alchemist ; katniss everdeen, the hunger games ; trinity santos, the pitt
HEIGHT: jaide's always been of great height, towering over most ladies with her height of nine inches and five feet HAIR & STYLE: a healthy head of dark locks, loose strands clearly attempted to be pinned out of their face in a braid, or coronet but victorious in their escape — the ends are somewhat choppy, evidence of months past when they'd taken her sword to its length and sawed at it themselves EYES: dark russett hues framed by long, dark lashes NOTABLE FEATURES: jagged scars along her right arm, earned from some fight or another, a diamond tattooed against her sternum FASHION: a girl who loves her dresses and pleased by how small her waist can look in her corsets, although one is more likely to find her in her dragonkeeper uniform scales and all SCENT: straight out of the dragon pit? burnt hair and dragon shit ; before the day starts, lemony laundry and the sea
𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙏𝘼𝙇𝙀.
you were born of the braavosi waters to a mother and the idea of a father. he was a westerosi lord, she said, he gave you his own name. but, your mother was a teller of tales. you never knew if she had been truthful to you. you never will. she took ill around your fourteenth nameday and with all the money she had, sent your across the sea to your father.
you were too young to be sent abroad alone, meant to meet your father at the end of the dock. but, he never showed. you learned that waters are the bastards of these crownlands — sailors laughing at you when you insisted for a lord waters meant to meet your off your ship. the lord of bastards, girl? you stung with embarrassment.
with no money to return to braavos, to see if your mother made it to her grave, you have no choice but to stay. flea bottom hardens you. work as a tavern maid hardens you. handsy customers handled with a harsh left hook, free city sailors charmed with a taste of home. your life changes one day when a man decides to enter it. it is strange. he asks how your valyrian is. your high valyrian. you spit at his feet. he says work on your attitude, girl, and we might make use of you yet. and then, you become a dragonkeeper.
it is a strange job, you learn. to stand next to these grand beasts. to know the targaryens. to watch how they love their dragons. to speak the same language. you wear scales and armour, you soothe the drakes, you stop intruders, you smell like dragon shit at the end of each day.
six years you've been here, the rest of your life you will be.
𝙄𝙉 𝙎𝙀𝘼𝙍𝘾𝙃 𝙊𝙁.
not unfamiliar with ways of the flesh, jaide is happy to find themselves the freedom to fall into whomever's bed they please! perhaps your dragon likes her more than you. perhaps your dragon makes her life a living hell. perhaps family unknown to her — searching for their father/uncle/brother's bastard he sired in the free cities for some reason or another!
the seven beckon LADY ASELLE DAYNE toward them; a wide-eyed, dove of HOUSE DAYNE. the fourth born of the ruling lord feels their soul flay open just as judgement is shackling to an ANXIOUS nature, gripping it tightly as mercy fights with TENDERNESS. traits guidance sees in the dreams of a rebellion with an accompaniment from strength and courage as they offer a charming dance and gentle smile. all while innocence encapsulates memories of them — sleeping with your arms crossed over your chest, next to your dress neatly laid out in anticipation for the following day ; starry freckles spattered across your skin ; feather light steps gliding across the floor, swaying to the drifting hum of a faraway melody — so they are remembered when the unknown flickers into view, dragging them towards their end, danger finding starfall.
𝙈𝙀𝘼𝙎𝙐𝙍𝙀.
FULL NAME: aselle dayne TITLE(S): youngest lady of starfall AGE: twenty-two BIRTHDATE: seventh day of the seventh month PLACE OF BIRTH: starfall, dorne PLACE OF RESIDENCE: starfall, dorne GENDER: cisfemale PRONOUNS: she/her SEXUAL & ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: unexplored RELIGION: the faith of seven, devoutly practicing LANGUAGES SPOKEN: common tongue ALLEGIANCE: house dayne, house martell, dorne
FATHER: ruling lord eyan dayne, lord of starfall MOTHER: lady dorea dayne, wife of the ruling lord SIBLINGS: eldest liege dayne, second liege dayne, lady sezim martell née dayne MARITAL STATUS: unmarried, unbetrothed RELATED: house martell by way of marriage
TRAITS: sheltered, affectionate, sensitive, imaginative, anxious INTERESTS: among singing, and dancing, and doodling, and all the things young ladies love, admittedly, anselle loves to spread a rumour — no secret ever safe with her SKILLS & TALENTS: plays the flute night and day, it is the song of starfall; a fabulous dancer though has rarely had opportunity to share it WEAPON: charming dance and gentle smile PLAYLIST: we’ll never have sex, leith ross ; vienna (in memoriam), the army, the navy CHARACTER INSPIRATION: myrcella baratheon, a song of ice and fire ; sansa stark, a song of ice and fire ; neifile, the decameron ; natasha rostova, natasha, pierre and the great comet of 1812 (i’m not going to pretend i’ve read war and peace)
HEIGHT: as much as she would love to be of a ferocious height — she’s still holding out hope that she might grow a few more inches if she forces herself to eat just one more turnip at dinner each night — alas, she remains a miserable five feet flat HAIR & STYLE: born with a full head of dark hair that simply never stopped growing EYES: wide and curious NOTABLE FEATURES: a spray of freckles across the expanse of her skin, told many atime when she was a smaller thing that her freckles were a starry night spilled from the seven's FASHION: trunks upon trunks of pale pink and lavender dresses; owning more shoes for dancing than walking SCENT: the warm, sweet scent of her hair oil
𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙏𝘼𝙇𝙀.
there is not much to write because you have not lived too much yet.
you were an accident, that much was clear. your deduction is as follows: eleven years younger than your nearest sister, and the gap wider between the elder daynes, you were not meant to be. you are a child when your siblings begin their lives, growing up in the chasm of years between them. the youngest of four, you often feel forgotten more often than not. you are used to trailing after your older siblings. you let yourself be tailored to their liking in exchange for their attention.
ultimately, you are a lonely little thing. your father tries to coax you from your shell but you prefer to linger at his side, sitting by your mother with your embroidery hoops.
you are a cowardly imposter. seven forbid the finger is pointed at you for fear you’ll combust into tears. hiding in the margins of arguments spoken over your head, you learn that it is easier to say nothing. no argument can come from a silent tongue, so you grow quiet around a raised voice, unable to handle an argument.
you are sheltered.
you did not wish for it to be so, but you are so afraid of the world. you wish to be seen, but do not want to be seen for fear of them seeing right through you. seeing you and not liking it. seeing you and — there. you feel it. the seat at the adult table grows further.
𝙄𝙉 𝙎𝙀𝘼𝙍𝘾𝙃 𝙊𝙁.
nothing! aselle is quite happy with her current friend group: her family. no. soon to be friends. corrupters. bad influences. the devil on her shoulder, the angel on the other.
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the seven beckon LADY SAVA TYRELL toward them; a bleeding heart, cyvasse tile of HOUSE TYRELL. the second born child of the ruling lady feels their soul flay open just as judgement is shackling to a SUPERFICIAL nature, gripping it tightly as mercy fights with CALCULATION. traits guidance sees in the dreams of a rebellion with an accompaniment from strength and courage as they offer an expertly crafted, well-aimed bow and arrow. all while innocence encapsulates memories of them — a soft hand lowering a coin into a beggar’s cup for the memory of her smile to live in your mind ; a warm laugh, a well placed palm against your bicep ; choosing a life of blissful ignorance ; knowing you have the capability to be more than a wife but accepting the lot regardless — so they are remembered when the unknown flickers into view, dragging them towards their end, meeting an unworthy opponent at the end of the aisle.
𝙈𝙀𝘼𝙎𝙐𝙍𝙀.
FULL NAME: sava sarayana tyrell TITLE(S): second born of the ruling liege, lady of highgarden AGE: thirty-one BIRTHDATE: first day of the first month PLACE OF BIRTH: highgarden, the reach PLACE OF RESIDENCE: highgarden, the reach GENDER: cisfemale PRONOUNS: she/her SEXUAL & ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: bisexual — femme leaning, though expects to marry some lord or another RELIGION: the faith of seven, practicing although not too concerned with sins LANGUAGES SPOKEN: the common tongue ALLEGIANCE: house tyrell, herself
FATHER: lord othell tyrell, husband to the ruling lady MOTHER: ruling lady lynesse tyrell, lady of highgarden, lady paramount of the mander SIBLINGS: lord mathos tyrell, younger liege tyrell, youngest liege tyrell MARITAL STATUS: unmarried, unbetrothed RELATED: first cousins with house targaryen
TRAITS: outwardly compassionate, presents warmly; below the surface sava is calculating, prideful, and judgemental INTERESTS: so loves a good minstrel entertaining at feasts, adding to the numerous collections she boasts SKILLS & TALENTS: talented at all lady-like endeavours, a skilled harpist and loves to show it, an excellent shot and you would hate to join her on a hunt for she will out game you WEAPON: an expertly crafted, well-aimed bow and arrow PLAYLIST: deathbydevotion, adéla ; von dutch, charli xcx CHARACTER INSPIRATION: taryn duarte, folk of the air ; kaltain rompier, throne of glass ; margaery tyrell, a song of ice and fire (had to do em boys — she's the blueprint) ; teruhashi, saiki k
HEIGHT: lithe-limbed and graceful, standing at a respectable six inches and five feet HAIR & STYLE: long, silky tresses often unbound falling perfectly over the tan of her shoulders as if effortless and not by a meticulous control of her image EYES: a warm, gentle chocolate brown — edges sharp with curiousity NOTABLE FEATURES: a bright, perfect smile FASHION: loose, flowing silk fabrics of cream, and emerald, and gold; paired with fine jewels and chains SCENT: a warm vanilla smell, with sweet caramel notes
𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙏𝘼𝙇𝙀.
eyes are drawn to you. naturally. this is simply the basket where your talents lay: a given because you’ve always been beautiful. anyway, this is the most boring thing about you.
the second born of house tyrell, but the first daughter. you are a precious thing.
because you are refused nothing, you love to collect things. you have boundless collections. dozens of wardrobes, mountains of jewels, clipped butterfly wings, interesting stones, stacks of card decks you find particularly well drawn. if one is in want of something, they ought to ask you. you may gift something from your stores. you have so much, you do not mind giving away a little. exceedingly generous, they call you. your tyrells are so good.
though, they should be mindful of what they receive from your family. every good deed should be paid in kind, if not in full, then at least in adoration.
you are a perfect case study in patronage, charity, and the arts — the guide on how to be the paragon of grace. you are warm, giving, kind. you play the role you were assigned with great pride — ensuring not to take a step out of line, ensuring you keep your uglier emotions in check.
you watch them all with a careful eye, as if above it all. though, you are a tyrell. you are.
this is why your hand should not go to simply ... anyone. you are only deserving of another great house. if not that, an ancient one. monied. you should not like to see your beloved brother stifled by a poor man's wishes, unable to fund his wife in the same manner you were raised to expect.
𝙄𝙉 𝙎𝙀𝘼𝙍𝘾𝙃 𝙊𝙁.
beloved friends! ladies in waiting, ladies of her station, ladies who warm her bed, men who warm her bed <3 past and potential betrothals — subject to her family's approval, if you make it past sava's incredibly high standards. those who she does not like, but would never admit it to your face.
#NOBLE // the seven beckon LORD DAEVAN BARATHEON toward them; vainglory, the gilded storm of HOUSE BARATHEON. the 4th born child feels their soul flay open just as judgement is shackling to a venom-laced pride, gripping it tightly as mercy fights with a hunger to be undeniable. traits guidance sees in the dreams of a rebellion with an accompaniment from strength and courage as they offer a longsword kissed by thunder. all while innocence encapsulates memories of them — a blade kept not for glory, but for necessity — lightning unraveling the heavens in jagged veins of gold, illuminating the black sea below for only a heartbeat before swallowing it whole again; silk cloaks torn loose by stormwind, snapping violently against stone battlements as if trying to take flight; the distant roar of waves breaking endlessly against storm’s end, relentless, unyielding, eternal; rings glinting faintly in candlelight as long fingers drum in quiet impatience against carved armrests — so they are remembered when the unknown flickers into view, dragging them towards their end, to be rendered insignificant, to bow where he believes he should stand, to become nothing more than a forgotten echo beneath another’s name.
# 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.
and if the world expects thunder from a baratheon — noise, fury, spectacle — it will be disappointed. because daevan is not the storm that announces itself. he is the one that builds slowly on the horizon, darkening the sky, until it is far too late to run.
❁♞chai hansen, male, he/him, thirty-three … #NOBLE // the seven beckon LORD MATHOS TYRELL toward them; a golden, dancer of HOUSE TYRELL. the heir to highgarden feels their soul flay open just as judgement is shackling to a crafty nature, gripping it tightly as mercy fights with spiritedness. traits guidance sees in the dreams of a rebellion with an accompaniment from strength and courage as they offer a saber, curved and delicate, with a golden handle on one end, and a touch of venom on the other. all while innocence encapsulates memories of them — tourney crowns of molten gold, peacock feathered fans flaming years old rivalries, bundles of hemlock dotting the altar of the mother, laughing knights riding through endless mazes — so they are remembered when the unknown flickers into view, dragging them towards their end, death. just death. anything else, he is certain he can bear for the world is not so harsh. death, though, is unknown.
basics.
NAME lord mathos tyrell.
TITLES heir to highgarden and the reach.
AGE three and thirty.
MOTIVATIONS win some tourneys, have some kids, rule the reach upon his mother's death (may the stranger keep it far, far away).
visuals.
HEIGHT tbd.
EYES dark brown, always sparkling with life 👁👁.
HAIR just above shoulder length, black in some lighting, dark brown in others.
NOTABLE FEATURES a mustache and light beard he is quite fond of; light freckles from ages spent in the sun; multiple scars across his body from tens of tourneys; a peach colored birthmark along the left side of his neck.
connections.
PARENTS lady lynesse & lord othell tyrell.
SIBLINGS lady sava, lady leyla, & one more.
AUNT queen consort jeyna tyrell (deceased).
COUSINS a gaggle of dragons and their pet humans.
WANTED a former squire turned knight by his sword; some exes of any gender; others who squired in king's landing or were ladies in waiting during his boyhood; any type of connections within the reach; a bitter rivalry he hasn't let go of.
cw lowkey mentions of death and injuries and drink
there is nothing one must know about lord mathos tyrell other than the fact that he is charming, gallant, knightly, and, of course, handsome. he loves a good bit of fun: a goblet of hippocras, a walk through the beautiful gardens of highgarden, a tourney won, a hunt with friends...
if some of these activities lead to the brutal end of any of his friends, that may or may not leave him with a scarred mind and some secrets to keep. it happens to the best of us, and mathos is, in fact, among the very best of us!
the title of heir to the reach may have been given to him based on nothing but the woman he was born to, but mathos will have you know he has worked very hard during his years squiring in king's landing, and that his knighthood was earned and not gifted. now, tourneys also have their sacrifices, a scar here, lack of mobility there, some brutal ends if you are not good enough...mathos is good enough.
nothing can weigh him down. he has never fallen into the throes of sadness, and he never will. life is peaceful, wonderful, meant to be enjoyed. he will enjoy it to the fullest. his mind is not a horse running in circles with plans of anything, at all, ever, actually. only think of the good. he loves his family (his mother is the most beautiful woman in westeros; it is known.); he adores his friends (all of them, even those who are no longer with us..............). the world is the garden in his backyard.
if you see a knight laughing, dressed in armor of gold, say hello! he may give you something beautiful.
