#dracoregni.starter

the lanterns cast soft gold across the garden, painting shadows over clipped hedges and marble statues. nobles drift past, laughter spilling between the trees, masks glittering in the evening light. laurentia steps onto the gravel path, her ochre-gold jacket catching the glow, embroidered with naath's feverish butterflies that shimmered along its length. her porcelain mask, edged with golden lines and adorned with tiny fake sapphire-blue butterflies, hides her identity perfectly. tonight, she could be anyone. tonight, she could be… foolish.

her cousin’s card had been clear: join the game, find a partner, and let the hunt begin. normally she would scoff at such frivolity, but for felyx-- her cousin, her constant ally--she allows herself a small, reluctant smile. and, admittedly, one or two goblets past sober, she feels lighter on her feet, her mood brighter, a little playful in a way she rarely allows.

the game itself is simple enough: the nobles are paired and sent into the garden maze, the paths winding past fountains, statues, and bursting summer flowers. at each turn, a station awaits with a small puzzle, a riddle, or a hidden token. collect the tokens, follow the clues, and the first clever pair to reach the heart of the maze wins a favor from lord felyx himself. it is a game of wit, observation, and just a little charm--perfectly suited for a night like this.

a small card is pressed into her gloved hand. she examines it, eyes flicking behind the intricate mask, reading the riddle aloud: “where the water flows yet speaks no word, seek the lion who roars unheard.” she rolls her eyes faintly, amused, and, with a sigh, laurentia lannister extends a hand, letting a masked noble meet her gaze. she doesn’t know who they are, and she doesn’t care. tonight, she can laugh, tease, and indulge in a little game without consequence. for felyx, for herself, for one rare evening, she will join the hunt.

pinpoint    the red keep, welcoming guests to the needlepoint circle just outside of the gardens .

how did a queen carry herself?  out of the corner of dark eyes, ysabel watches the dowager queen, adjusting her behaviour in turn. she tilts her chin upward slightly. she holds her hands clasped together neatly at her waist rather than at her hips. how many years would need to pass before these things came naturally? how many years would pass before ysabel was no longer herself? in the distance, the procession to the hunt forms a thin line towards the kingswood, the king at its helm. she envies him so. in her first queenly concession, she denies herself the freedom of the woods in favour of the tedium of needlepoint. " — welcome, " she shakes off the last vestiges of her daydream, noticing the approaching noble perhaps a beat too late. " i've just seen that lemon cakes have arrived, if you cannot be enticed by the thrill of needlepoint alone. " she herself would require some kind of added incentive, if roles had been reversed.

For years, Floris had always loved a good ball. Listening to the tunes being played, being swayed around and around by men and women eager to please her. And the gowns, oh the gowns. Gold had been her favorite color, one of the two colors of house Baratheon. She had tens of gowns made in gold, shining under the light of chandeliers as she passed from dancer to dancer, all deftly made and coming to finish with elaborate embroidery sewn in by her own hand.

She had no gowns now, however, and no admirers to parade her around. Instead, she sat at a lonely table to the side of the grand hall and feasted on little lemon cakes, a pariah among the party goers in her mourning robes.

Lest anyone forget, black was a Baratheon color as well.

The legs of a chair scraped a few seats away from her, and she finished up her little dessert, not bothering to look near them.

"If you have come to forsake me or turn your chin up to show the dragons your support, you needn't bother. I already know what I am to everyone here." Little lady traitor, lucky to be alive. But this was not a life worth living.

𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐚𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐫.

her respects to the king are paid in full, neck lowered as mielle rises from the ground. silver creaks - wailing for loyalty of the king, matching the ache in her chest. an entire war waged in his defence and yet, failure meets them here at the foot of their hearth. in spite of the warning signs, in spite of what she could see, she kept her sword lain at the late king's foot. what a plague loyalty could be - wearing heavily on her bones. the kingsguard itches to rip off the breastplate and peel off the needless layers pressed against her skin.

the best she can do is step out of the sept - claiming she is tiring of the warm, stale air, leaving the rest of the kingdom say their goodbyes. feeling exhausted, mielle finds a spot on the grand steps, leaning against the railing as she watches the crowds make their way through the doors. the air helps a little.

"feels warmer than the dornish sands in there," mielle grunts, fanning herself with a palm. "as if i never left."

status: OPEN!!

location: the masquerade ball

ever since receiving the invitation for the lannisport ball, viserra had been preparing for this event. always a lover of the foreign and the exquisite, she begged for seamstress and fabrics imported from pentos to dress her in their essosi fashion; scandalous as it may be, she was a princess and princesses deserved happiness wherever they can find it. she was drunk on music, and laughter and other lively things. she was having fun being lost in the crowd, easily identified as a valyrian princess but not which one. she definitely could have done what her siblings were doing and dying their hair, but she loved her hair so much, she could not see herself without it. ❛❛ — oh, everything is just so marvelous, I just love balls! and that’s exactly what the realm needed. — ❞ she exclaimed, twirling in the crowded hall. it was full of lords and ladies but not enough to not hear each other. viserra looked at the figure closer to her, unable to decipher who it was because of the mask. ❛❛ — and who are you, mysterious stranger? and from what land do you come from? — ❞

"It does worry me though, that a touch of consumption would kill such a healthy young man. It makes me concerned about the health of their bloodline.....the security of our new overlord's and how well they can keep the Stormlands secure, no?" He raised an eyebrow at the person he was talking to, curious of their response, if it would be agreement or offense.

"I'm sorry, you were speaking to me?"