#dragonfire.starter

LOCATION: the training yard of the Red keep

A sister married and a battle fought but while superficial wounds and savagely tender brushes with death would fade soon enough - Elia wasn't foolish to the game. She had played it once before and it had failed to kill her and it would fail again and she would watch Obella thrive in an environment suited to her unique gifts. Elia would twist and contort in her beautiful shadows watching sunlight slip from her eyes to be the shadow and the elder sister who by no choice of her own was sword. shield, fangs, teeth and the pit viper coiled and ready to strike still full of poison. She was a result but Elia had learned to embrace it - to conceal it in a face that could launch ships and destroy weaker beings with a smile and wink.

Cracking a neck, the woman who had once been called the sun herself and still was the heavenly body breathed in deeply. Let her at another field of battle, at a worthy challenge to spend pent up energy- something to feel alive. She had scars. Her own beautiful marks for how many times death had failed to catch her. They never seemed to mar her figure and maybe even the god of death marveled at how she wore them. Flipping  a knife in the air briefly before leaning back against a fence in the training yard - Elia questioned the Targaryens ability to protect her, Obella, that was. Dragons were dragons but even dragons could be killed - the sun always burned. "What a honeymoon for my sister, marry a dragon and plunge headfirst into a war. No better time to train while enemies lick their wounds. They aren't going to stay idle long themselves" the Martell sun breathed. One more fluid flip of her blade and Elia landed it firmly in the head of a dummy.

her limbs ached with the weight of the day.

the flight from green fork had been long, the air sharp against her skin, but she had hardly noticed. her mind had been elsewhere—on the wounded strapped to grey ghost’s back, on the dead they could not save, on the cries that had long since settled into the marrow of her bones.

she had not rested. there had been no time. again and again, she had taken to the skies, her dragon’s wings beating against the wind as she ferried men from battlefield to home, from life to death. her gown was stiff with dried blood, some of it hers, most of it not. her hands, too, were stained, though she had long since stopped trying to scrub them clean. the mud from the riverlands clung to her skin, her hair, settling into the creases of her exhaustion.

when she finally landed, finally let herself breathe, she did not trust her voice to say anything of worth.

“water.” her throat was raw, her lips cracked from wind and wear. a small thing to ask, when her body felt like it might crumble beneath her. she did not care who heard her, who answered—only that they did.

It was strange being here, on the other side of this war. There had never been any doubts, that house Blackwood would support house Targaryen in the war against the Velaryons, but herself on the other hand, obviously had doubts of where her loyalties lie. Although, there was one thing that she knew for sure, she trusted Monterys, she was loyal to him and her happiness was with the man who was now carrying the title of Prince. There was still a hood on her head, doing her best to keep her identity hidden as she walked near the harbour. There were so many ships there, it was obvious that the Velaryons had the advantage when it came to the sea, mostly with having the support of the Greyjoys. She paused, looking out at the sea for a moment, enjoying the nice morning breeze when she heard footsteps approaching.

the halls of high tide had never felt so hollow.

the salt-laden air carried the scent of the sea, as it always had, but tonight it mingled with the iron tang of blood and the stifling weight of smoke from the pyres still burning. corwyn velaryon was dead. the battle at green fork was won—if such ruin could be called victory—but the cost had been steep, and the taste of it bitter on edric stark’s tongue.

he sat on his wheelchair at the edge of the great hall, the firelight casting long shadows across the stone. the air was thick with the murmur of voices, hushed but urgent, nobles and knights alike whispering of what was to come.

edrik had no answers—only exhaustion, only the dull ache of wounds yet to heal, and the knowledge that the war had not ended with corwyn’s death. it had only begun anew.

his grey eyes flicked across the room, seeking—what, he was not certain. a familiar face. a voice of reason. another survivor of green fork. or perhaps simply a distraction from the weight pressing against his ribs.

LOCATION: an ambiguous location ( eden couldn't pick )

His skin itched, longed for action and yet it had been his duty to remain here to watch and remain a guard to the lives of those in the landing, to the family he swore his sword to. To the targaryen. He knew while the inaction of the scene had killed him softly he built himself up as he build his house into greatness. Brick by brick. It was not done overnight and his ambitions were large desirous to be a lord greater one day than his father's father was. It was his only reason for not swearing the white knowing if it were for him alone he would've been part of the queensguard and one of its greatest members. The practical and ambitious being packed though he rolled up his sleeves. "The gods have favored us despite the losses I am told of. We should never forget their sacrifice. Good soldiers the lot of them unfortunate to have lost many friends."