#firedreamt

their arrival to king's landing is the first taste of freedom she's had in over half a year. the culmination of her father's plotting and supposed divine timing if you could believe it (she didn't). it took some coin and additional bribery to escape the constant surveillance. she had half a mind to make a sprint for the stables, steal a horse and ride as far as she could manage. the master of laws would have far more important things than one missing daughter.

instead seraphina finds herself searching for some type of library in the keep, anything to occupy her time. during her scout, she spotted a familiar figure. a wiser woman would turn her heel and walk away. but sera was so starved of entertainment. it'd be a treat, would it not, to revisit simpler days... before the deaths of her siblings, before the discovery of her private life, before the involvement in the realm's politics. when there was a young woman named phia who had no escorts and could eat, sleep, and wear whatever she pleased.

she wondered if talisein knew what that brief reunion in oldtown cost her. a mere insinuation that they were familiar with each other. oh the scandal. then an eight month imprisonment. there's a tension in their shoulders, she wondered if there was someone among the sick whom talisein knew.

"you seem troubled. though i'm quite sure, not as troubled as i have been these past moons."

* closed starter! ━━━━ with @firedreamt.

dawn  blooms,   whether  she  welcomes  it  or  not,   painting  the  world  in  cold  amber,   exposing  the  poor  decisions  darkness  had  concealed.     last  night,   she  had  made  several,   and  she  wears  their traces  openly,   like  a  badge  of  pride  rather  than  sin:     wine  lingers,   pleasant  on  her  tongue,   and  her  muscles  ache,   having  been  put  to  better  use  than  mere sleep.     the  unmistakable  scent  of  another  clings  to  her  skin.     she  could  have  stayed  longer  at  his  side,   she  thinks.     perhaps  she  should  have.     instead,   she  had  slipped  from  jorah’s  chambers  the  second  he  had  fallen  asleep,   slithered  beneath  the  cover  of  shadows,   far  more  accustomed  to  vanishing  than  she  is  to  remaining.    

the  apartments  destined  to  her  family  are  submerged  in  silence  when  she  opens  the  door,   carefully  closing  it  behind  her.     in  that  instant,   she  is  certain  that  she  will  reach  her  chambers  unseen,   be  able  to  steal  a  few  hours  of  rest  while  the  sun  rises  in  the  sky,   comforting  her  with  light.     it  seems  the  gods,   unforgiving  in  their  wrath,   refuse  to  make  things  easy  for  her     —     because  there  her  mother  sits,   already  awake,   already  dressed.     she  is  suddenly  no  longer  five  and  twenty,   no  longer  a  woman  returning  from  a  lover’s  bed.     she  is  a  stupid  girl  again,   standing  before  delfina  with  tears  staining  flushed  cheeks,   sobbing  words  she  has  regretted  ever  since.     old  habits  die  hard,   and  so  she  cages  the  unwelcome  memory,   slipping  her  hands  behind  her  back,   her  chin  lifting,   her  smile  tight.         ❝         you  are  awake  awfully  early,   mother.         ❞         there  comes  no  explanation  for  the  lateness  of  her  arrival,   for  every  loose  strand  of  hair,   and  every  wrinkle  in  her  gown,   those  obvious  clues  as  to  where  she  spent  the  night.     the  princess  simply  smiles,   wide  enough  to  disguise  her  discomfort.         ❝         if  you  will  excuse  me,   i  am  exhausted.     i  think  i  shall  retire  to  my  quarters.         ❞        

paper cannot hold fire. secrets are inevitably discovered. only the dead tell no tales. though that last one may be debated upon. with shizuka's help the past few moons, it may had been an arduous task but one that remained manageable, the secret of what began as weekly sleepwalks instead of nights that aligned with the moon to nearly daily wanderings. in raventree hall, the path was routine, familiar after more than two decades. yet in king's landing, there was no weirwood tree for her to find comfort in, to confide in, a faux godswood with a sorry excuse for a heart tree that leaves her wandering the red keep without destination and without a minder to stop her from roaming far from the blackwood's designated quarters.

barefoot and in plain white robes (for she long learned better than to simply trust a mere sleep chemise if she were to wander off), not utterly improper but still severely underdressed to roam a castle, mizuki takes slow, steady steps. onlookers may assume the lady was on some random leisure stroll from afar but the whites of her eyes tell a different tale. where she's been attempting to go, she has yet to find out with shizuka or ren able to intercept the older blackwood before she made it too far. yet on this night without shizuka's medicinal blend, she goes further than ever.

drifting through the keep, it's only when the presence of another registers in a sleepless mind that something within whispers fiercely: w a k e u p .

mizuki startles awake with a gasp, suddenly realizing that they had left the safety of her personal quarters. then she processes the presence of another watching her and slowly turns to face them still catching her breath, trying to swallow panic and tears, mind still reeling from the dream. the four dragons and their ire. the fire. the dreams have not ceased. she is tired. heavy is the burden to be the messenger of the old gods when she feels so far from them. was there a way to salvage it so it seem less suspicious that she stands here on the verge of a breakdown?

ever intentional about her actions, it was, in hindsight, easy to convince her family that she'd needed rest following the execution and retired early to the hightower quarters alone. poor seraphina and her frail constitution. it wasn't too much an exaggeration. it had been a hard sight to swallow, and the festivities felt in poor taste even if it served some larger political purpose, yet she was not someone who squandered opportunities. fittingly, it's well into the hour of ghosts that she slips out and ventures into the tourney grounds towards merriment and chorus of drunken debauchery, quiet as a phantom, carrying a carefully wrapped bundle under her cloak.

by all accounts, sera could be shameless, a flirt, and someone who did not languish over love songs or intimate gestures. but for taliesin and in preparation for this joust, she'd spent days gathering flowers from the gardens, in the market when she could manage, weaving it all together in stolen moments while publicly making a few, much simpler ones. she had mastered the gentle arts with grace and ease in girlhood but never had she taken such time and care to truly craft a favor from the heart. the design began simple enough but a mere stroll through the gardens changed that.

a wreath woven with an ask for blessings from the old gods and the new. sera knows taliesin isn't a believer but in these moments, she falls back to faith and wishes for some type of protection from injury more so than any senseless victory. she crafts messages intertwined through the language of flowers. seven colors for each pointed star. fern for the base to speak of their secret bonds of love. for red, her own words to falyn echoed in her mind at the sight: i ache for him, so red carnations for a love feeling so deep, one's heart aches. sera picks nasturtiums for orange, a symbol for conquest and victory in battle, yarrow for yellow, a call for healing, protection, resilience, a symbol of everlasting love. she weaves thyme for courage and strength, dill to protect against evil, sage for protection and wisdom. blue forget-me-nots, purple heliotropes for devotion, violet irises for trust, hope, and valor. stitched hidden in the ferns, auger shells instead of the scallop shells per the westerling coat of arms. taliesin was more deserving than rejection from the rather pitiful lord alester. so tower shells for courage and protection.

and now that the project is done. it's too much, isn't it? now that she's standing along the edge of boisterous messy celebrations, holding a bundle of cloth covering a wreath with too many elements and too many colors sat atop her white veil with myrish lace trim from their first meeting, seraphina considers disposing the package into the bushes. wonders if she's been foolish. maybe passing touches and brief conversations are all in her imagination and taliesin will think her mad.

aila grew stir crazy as the days dragged on. the news of any sickness is hard to swallow but there are mny among the ill who aila worried for in particular, aybüke, lady helvis and lady arryn, makoa's sister as well. while not particularly religious, they would pray if it'd help. may the gods old and new protect the bedridden nobles, may each of them survive and have a full recovery. but prayers did not work that way, did they? if sheer will could keep someone alive (though their grandsire may be that exception for their iron will had them far older than most in the realm), then her aunt would have been spared. perhaps her birth parents would have to. if you could simply beat the stranger in a game of sheer determination.

it'd been days with no improvement and they understood the need for precaution but there was nothing aila hated more than being useless, powerless, forced to sit idle when something, anything can be done. uncle mor had mentioned in passing of wanting to aid the sick, keep them company at the very least. but aila could see the toll on the older tully. their aunt's death had been devastating to the family, their cousin and uncle most of all. but of course, it would not be proper discussion and life went on. though there are days, aila swears it seems that their uncle is stuck in the grief. it's not something she can understand, not really. too young when she lost her parents, too inexperienced to know that type of love, too afraid and too sheltered to witness her aunt's deterioration. that is a nightmare exclusive to others.

the proper thing would be to take a page out of aunt saby's book. but when has aila ever done the proper thing?

"i don't know how... but i'd like to help too. if you teach me or showed me how, i'd like to do something." anything. aila fiddles with the edge of her sleeve, summoning the courage to ask the harder question. "... are you alright, uncle mor? i know it can be..." they don't know though, not really. hope to never know.

this plan was likely the largest risk she had taken since arriving in king's landing, pulling an assortment of favors and connections to arrange a private place of meeting. septa coryanne had spent decades at court before taking their vows, knew how to keep secrets in ceasepool of king's landing, taught sera to have some of her own. seraphina can't be sure what taliesin thinks of this arrangement when they received the message to meet here. she doubts he could have guessed the truths she intends to spill both of them being uncharacteristically quiet in this septa approved love-nest mere steps away from the great sept. how scandalous. it was unsettling how it felt slipping into old hooded robe and seven-color belt. she'll wear the disguise again when leaving on the morrow. but for now is left in her chemise and opening a bottle of wine.

"... i need to be sure we had this conversation with absolute certainty there'd be no prying eyes and unwanted ears. you asked to be included in my causes of rebellion. so..." she knows their world has shifted with the undisputed reality that the previous hand, their father is dead. a much bleaker future but sera hopes she can return the smallest bit of hope or at least have this conversation with all cards on the table. "i cannot begin to imagine how you and your siblings are faring. if there's anything that i can..." she stops herself. she doesn't wish to offer empty platitudes. they promised one another honesty and here she is to give it. all of it. sera exhales heavily and gulps down her wine before speaking.

jocelyn had been informed that it would be a poor show of sportsmanship if they did not show their face for the final rounds of the melee, considering they had advanced to the final rounds of the archery competition, which was set to follow soon after that ─ a small consolation following their rather humiliating defeat yesterday but one that they were determined to win, even if it had placed them against their own sister. whilst they would deny any err in posture, they trudged towards the spectators stands with a slump to their shoulders, waving off any calls from the stormlanders still in the game, and would have made for a sorry sight had it not been for a familiar face fastening his armor. granted, jocelyn had last been looking up at taliesin waters from the dirt, but his was a face they were not likely to forget anytime soon. jocelyn was not sure what madness seized them as they stomped over to where he stood, hands reaching out before they could stop themselves to push at his back with the intention to see him face down in the dirt.