#group thread.

when: set after the dornish ball

she will never understand why her cousin had decided to deliver her a traitor. he had outright threatened her brother, mocked the death of her mother, and clearly wished for her throne. it just doesn’t make sense that he would give her something so important. a lord at the heart of the rebellion. 

there is no time to dwell on the why though. with the man’s death, surely the flames of rebellion will die. their leader is gone and the little underlings will scatter. any still wishing to dedicate themselves to the dead end cause will face the same fate. the queen does not wish for bloodshed but it is the only suitable punishment for treason. hopefully those of the stormlands will see that she is not here to be a tyrant. if anyone within the crownlands were to commit an act similar, the punishment would be the same. there is no favoritism.

she looks down upon the man, brought to his knees by queensguards. “do you wish to express any regrets, lord caron?” not that it would change the outcome of this. what’s done is done, there is no atoning. he will die for his crimes. house caron will face consequence in the form of stripping of their titles and lands. he has only himself to blame.

by 6:45 pm on thursday, october 13th, the last of the daylight had bled out over moorside, leaving a state of deep, damp gray ornamented only by fog — the town's true owner. behind shelley hall high school, in the forgotten space where school grounds gave way to the woods, conveniently hidden from view, sat sweetheart's bench — an old wood picnic table scarred by generations of pocketknife carvings of initials and hearts. mini lovelace and sonia zając, the now sole members shelley hall supernatural society, occupied the bench. they sat rigid, with little space between them and hands tucked under their thighs to hide from the cold. they didn't speak, just watched the dark spaces between the trees in anticipation. three weeks. that's how long their third member and best friend, their president, ethel byron had been gone. the official posters said MISSING. the unofficial silence said worse. one by one, the dreamers showed up alone, driven by their private, shameful fear. no greetings were exchanged. no nods of recognition. they simply arrived, and then they stopped, standing apart in a loose, awkward circle.