#stormforgedrascal

Nine competitors bested but the victories felt more and more hollow each they were achieved. The first put up more of a fight but Valarr could not put that on his own skill or Abelar Hightowers since it was one of the first matches of the tourney. Seven more times and none had done anything to rouse the prince of any feeling to the tourney and made him feel it was a waste of time to participate if no challenger would bother. 

Only Lord Gawen Swann had given a hint of a challenge when it looked as if he would have been knocked at first tilt but Valarr had taken him down on the second with a quick yield following after. 

Sitting outside the black pavilion, Valarr’s gaze and thoughts had started to drift when it seemed as if no knight saw his shield. Instead, he was looking upon the other pavilions as he drank from his goblet and not even pretending to rise from his seat. It stuck on the Baratheon pavilion, unable to look away from the antlers on it. He’d been so lost in the sight of it, comparing it to his own, that he didn’t catch the sound of his shield being touched. 

                It    was    lively.    That's    the    reason    she    stepped    in.    Easier    to    get    lost    in    a    sea    of    people    from    her    fathers    harsh    thumb    and    high    expectations.    And    hopefully    in    a    place    no    one    knows    of    her    or    her    father.    She's    heard    enough    of    being    called    Black's    bastard.    She'll    admit,    it    flows    off    the    tongue    easily,    but    for    a    girl    like    her,    she    doesn't    know    how    much    more    she    can    stomach    of    that.

                Holly    takes    the    invitation,    digits    grasping    at    the    cup    of    ale    she    had    been    holding    like    a    lifeline    for    the    past    however    long    she's    been    here.    Escape    was    not    the    word    she    was    looking    for.    Well,    it    was,    but    that    sounded    too...    obnoxious.    As    she    settles    into    the    seat,    cup    is    lifted    and    she    sips.

                "    Good    drink,    m'Lord...    mostly...    "    Eyes    shift    from    Lyonel    to    the    crowd    of    people,    as    if    to    search    out    someone    in    specific.    "    Aaanndddd....    "    Word    is    drawn    out,    long    as    she    fixes    her    gaze    on    the    Stag    Lord    once    more.    

                Is  this  what  love  felt  like  ??  To  be  loved  and  held  so  delicately,  appreciated  for  who  you  are  and  not  what  you  can  do  ??  He  had  never  known  the  love  of  his  mother  or  father,  no  lessons  to  be  learned  from  them,  no  one  to  come  home  to  crying  about  his  first  love.  Duncan  can  only  make  assumptions  and  navigate  this  world  with  the  limited  knowledge  on  the  subject  he  had.  It  was  not  much.  Ser  Arlan  only  ever  made  love  to  the  women  in  brothels.  He  never  had  a  long  term  companion,  except  for  Dunk.  Even  then,  he  was  only  a  squire.

                "  I  would  not  ask  that  of  you,  Lyonel.  "  There  is  no  title  to  be  spoken  of,  only  his  name.  It  did  not  feel  right  when  speaking  on  feelings  of  the  heart.  In  court  or  around  others,  perhaps,  but  nothing  so  intimate  deserves  to  be  ruined.

ঌ 'reverse + 🗡❞ | @stormforgedrascal

The taste of iron and milk of the poppy burnt Aerion’s tongue. Every breath he took, Aerion could; he wanted to scream. The world around him was a haze of muffled voices and maesters tending to his wounds. Aerion wasn’t allowed to move from his bed until after Baelor’s funeral, but Aerion knew most were thankful for that. Maeker claimed it was to help him recover, but Aerion knew the truth. They all blamed Maker and his line for Baelor’s death and not the hedge knight who’d supported treason. The shame wasn’t enough to keep Aerion abed; even every step was a sharp pain in his sides. One eye still couldn’t fully open, but Aerion was determined to show he wasn’t fully bested. Only a few tents remained at Ashford. Some were still in mourning; others were raising their cups for the king who would never be. A dragon was slain, and this was the best people could do. It was almost insulting. No one moved for Aerion when he sat at a table; the only thing on offer was stale ale and tone-deaf singing, but it was better than the silence of his room. Then the jokes started. Laughing, some saying the seven kingdoms were better off with one less dragon in the world, and then Aerion stood. His movements were slow at first; each step was a reminder of Duncan’s blade in his side. Still, Aerion persisted, and then he saw the Laughing Storm. The Baratheon who fought against his royal house, and all sense was lost on Aerion. The dagger flashed up, and before he knew it, Aerion pressed it to Lyonel’s throat. “Say it again.” He demanded in a quiet, calm voice. “Whatever insult you uttered against the dragon, say it loud enough for all to hear.” Around them, the music stopped. No one moved as the tension in the air thickened, heavy as stormclouds. “Or shall I carve out your lies one word at a time, Ser Lynoel?”

She was not panicking. No, absolutely not. Thumping heart, sweaty palms, rapid blinking, there was no world in which Arya Stark would be panicking simply because she was separated from her brothers and cousins. Though perhaps an exception could be made as she moved through the crowded tourney grounds, weaving through drunkards and spirited knights and merry attendees.

Her cousin Benjen had insisted on finding better ale and goaded her brother William along, leaving her with Artos, who on a typical day would be her ideal companion. But the brother who taught her how to wield her blade, the one who conspired with their great Uncle Lonny to have a blade made special just for her, would also most certainly be the one enthralled by the jousts and now she couldn't find him either.

Arya didn't typically feel that her height was a disadvantage. On this day though? A few inches taller wouldn't hurt. She thank the gods for their poorly thrown together scheme, chopping her braid off and putting her in Benjen's old clothes. It felt much safer without leering eyes and long skirts dragging through the mud.

The best plan (the only plan) she'd been following was popping her head into the various tents to see if Benjen and Will found their way there. Benjen had a taste for the finer things so it seemed smart to check the grander pavilions. Entering the tent quietly, keeping small and close to the edge of the tent, the jovial festivities were already in full swing. After watching for a short while, she couldn't spot any familiar faces and thought it best to try her luck elsewhere.

As she backed away, she knocked into someone, throwing her balance off, landing awkward. "Sorry!"

Oh. Oh no.

                Head    tilts,    watching    the    horizon    as    the    sun    fades.    The    sky    is    painted    with    oranges    and    pinks-    a    gorgeous    sight.    Much    finer    than    any    piece    of    art    she    has    ever    seen.

                "    I    do    not    think    I    have    an    answer    either,    ser.    Sunsets    bring    the    night,    and    with    it    drinks,    party,    fun,    but    it's    nice    t'    forget    what    the    day    had    brought.    To    close    your    eyes,    sleep.    "    Eyes    blink    lazily.    Holly    inhales,    digits    wrapped    around    the    cup    she    held    in    hand,    ale    close    to    finished    at    this    point.

                "    But    the    mornin'...    I    don't    know.    Sometimes    I    feel    like    I    don't    exist,    watchin'    the    sunrise.    Like    formalities    and    ranks    and    stations,    like    none    of    it    exists,    y'know    ??    It's    a    good    thing.    "    Holly    lifts    her    cup    and    swallows    down    the    rest    of    the    ale.    She    smacks    her    lips    once.

hair prompts | accepting | @stormforgedrascal

Candles burned low, their flame small against the dark of the room and deep within the night hours but it wasn’t noticed by the prince who was too focused on the pages before him and scouring over some old history with three other texts a touch away. Different names scrawled on papers, some half thought out sentences followed before tiredness claimed him, the table an ill-suited place to rest although it happened with ease. 

The dream brought images of a breezing wind with him standing on the shore of some stormy place and unlike storms one would normally think of, this one felt that it ran through his head, easing his breathing into relaxed and serene easy exhales. It was too calm, too peaceful. 

Softly his eyes opened to see it wasn’t the wind that had been in his dream but a different kind of storm. A person. 

                "  I've  seen  some  men  soon  as  piss  themselves  first  before  they  do  much  of  anythin'.  "  Brows  raise  at  that.  A  jest,  certainly,  but  he  does  not  laugh  much  at  it.  It  is  also  the  truth,  unfortunately.  Those  who  do  not  have  courage  would  rather  tuck  tail  and  run.  Duncan  has  never  been  one  to  do  so,  even  if  he  knew  the  odds  were  stacked  against  him.  Even  when  others  told  him  he  had  to  run.