#oflcgends.

𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍.

looking  upon  the  roast  leg,  alys  could  not  conjure  an  appetite.

earlier,  alysanne  had  rubbed  her  skin  to  point  of  pimpling,  wanting  to  resemble  a  raw  chicken  in  a  waterbath  moments  before  being  seasoned  and  cooked.  even  once  she'd  reach  the  point  of  pink  skin  growing  irritated  and  red,  the  baratheon  insisted  that  the  servant  burn  her  the  dress  she'd  worn  to  the  boat  races  -  declaring  that  no  amount  of  scrubbing  could  get  the  misery  of  a  brothel  out  of  it  threads.  alys  was  hardly  distraught  to  see  the  yet  another  red  number  meet  its  fate.

around  them,  the  food  hall  surges  with  stories.  young  ladies  and  old  lords  sharing  where  they  had  been  when  the  boats  caught  fire  and  where  they  had  rested  their  head  during  the  days  they'd  been  undersiege.  only  some  dare  to  voice  their  outrage  at  a  lady  lost.  alys'  own  chest  ached  for  the  woman.  an  almost  sister,  a  dear  friend  to  her  brother,  someone  who  believed  in  their  cause.  this  was  a  severe  loss.

𝒅𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒇𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝒔𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒆, 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒓.

it  had  in  the  recent  weeks  since  her  husband's  passing,  bronwyn  found  it  difficult  to  look  at  his  daughter,  for  she  was  plain  proof  that  baelon  had  not  been  as  good  as  a  man  as  she  wished  to  remember  him  as.  good,  still.  but  she  was  forced  to  remember  his  faults  next  to  her  fondest  memories  of  him.

𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒎'𝒔 𝒆𝒏𝒅, 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕.

"darian—!"  kaela  calls  out  sharply,  running  after  the  boy  —  scared  witless  that  he  might  leap  directly  into  stormbreaker's  bay  without  a  second  thought.  he  did  not  have  half  as  much  caution  as  she  was  raised  with,  but  perhaps  that  was  the  difference  between  boys  and  girls.  she'd  wished  him  bold,  and  he  was  nearly  as  daring  as  his  namesake.

𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑.

at   six   and   twenty   years,   selyse   could   no   longer   recall   what   her   father   had   once   looked   like,   remembering   only   aemon   when   one   spoke   of   lord   estermont.   it   was   a   tragedy,   yes,   but   it   was   also   a   joy.   for   her   brother   had   taken   such   precious   care   of   the   youngest   estermont   that   she   had   never   considered   what   had   been   missing.

the   last   two   days   had   felt   much   like   war   had   upon   greenstone.   once   the   night   transitioned   to   day,   as   far   as   selyse   was   concerned,   the   only   two   who   mattered   in   the   width   of   the   world   were   her   siblings.   she   grew   sick   with   worry,   hiding   away   with   her   cards   until   the   doors   had   cracked   open   and   for   the   first   time   since   the   rebellion   did   selyse   feel   safe   with   the   city   guardsmen.

"brother!"   she   cries   -   her   voice,   unused   to   speech   now,   cracks.   

name: lord orys "reese"" estermont of greenstone

general appearance: any son born of the hellknight of the rebellion is fated to look much like his father, sharing his extraordinary height and strength. in his childhood he was known for the wideness of his eyes - the only trace of his mother clear in the baratheon blue against the golden tan of his skin.

personality: he would be warm and happy, raised in the same way that the estermont siblings are: with family above all. he is a bright-faced boy with an easy laugh. the spirit of the storm is in him, sending his sails from place to place.

special talents: a talented sailor who claims to have conquered shipbreaker's bay at the ripe age of thirteen. now! the definition of conquered is loose, but he certainly sailed it with a little bit of help.

who they like better: aemon for sure! he’s simply better with kids!

who they take after more: thankfully aemon fifjfjfj

personal headcanon: although free in spirit, reese will always answer when called. he will drop everything in a moment's notice, redirecting the sails back to greenstone for births, and weddings, and everything in between. when it is time for him to lead greenstone, he will do it happily with his heart full of stories, satisfied with his time at sea.

𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐫.

she'd been surprised the lady of the house had let her leave the house dressed in the fashion she had. the antlers attached to her mask had been so large, alys had knocked against the roof of the carriage, cramping her neck so that she might not drive a hole through the wheelhouse's roof. alysanne cradles the goblet by its body, drinking the burgundy wine every so often. storm blue eyes rove the floor, puzzling out how she might impale one of these traitors on her antlers - imagining herself a stag in the forest, bucking and kicking and rushing. her dark thoughts were unclear beyond the murkiness of her cold stare, looking perhaps like a lady hoping she might be asked to dance.

mielle hasn't seen fear in some time - cutting it down with her sword in a decisive stroke, no sign of it in the mirror when sharp eyes peer in. unphased as ever, the kingsguard pats the sheath of her sword, charm dangling as she does, "trust in my sword, my lady."

𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.

she’d chosen to wear her new necklace, gifted to sofina by the head of the house, wanting to show it off at the event of the season. why should their new king be the only one to wear new jewels? she was never one to be outdone. dark emeralds float delicately like stars above the sage trim lining the edges of crushed black velvet. the fabric hangs off her shoulders, keeping the necklace framed between her exposed collarbones — spelling something of a chill for the lady which, perhaps, could have been rectified with a different cut of dress.

“my, what a treat! it is so lovely to run into you!”  she chimes, regardless of whether or not this is true. gentle hands reach forward to shake, or embrace, or press a kiss against their cheek, whichever she recalled was their preference. drinking in their appearance, her head tilts as she considers them  —  “you’ve changed something! has your hair grown out?”