#violetamaisonx.

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.

𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑, 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒂𝒚𝒔.

her  head  still  pounds  -  thinking  she  ought  to  call  for  a  physician  to  take  another  look  at  the  long  gash  along  the  left  of  her  face.  usually,  she  would  be  far  happier  to  preen  at  the  attention  that  came  with  a  bit  of  dramatics,  but  frankly,  sofina  would  prefer  no  one  discuss  the  ugliness  beginning  to  marr  her  features.  however,  she  knew  she  would  not  offer  the  courtesy  of  privacy  herself,  hiding  the  scars  under  bandage,  dark  locks  favouring  one  side.

name: prince vaelon targaryen

general appearance: fairheaded, but in a honied tone - his mother's dark locks ruining the silvery coolness his cousins boasted. at least he bears violet eyes over the blue storm, but he feels some brand of resentment over his inability to truly look like a targaryen.

personality: although arrogant and sometimes cruel, young vaelon finds himself never alone. he loves to laugh but the ladies find his humour somewhat perverse. he hardly cares. it would be a greater challenge to find something he was interested in.

special talents: he can eat any quantity of meat pies. he loves them. better not blink or he'll eat the entire plate. i hope you didn't want one because there will be no seconds.

who they like better: he prefers his nursemaid, if he had to pick between the people who raised him, thank you.

who they take after more: oh, both of his parents are so ruthless and obstinate, it's only natural he is cut of the same cloth. you could not pinpoint which on he resembles more - end bleeding into the beginning.

personal headcanon: born of the unfortunate universe where his parents ended up in an arranged marriage, prince vaelon is an unhappy child made in an unhappy home. afraid of the same future awaiting him, he's something of his father's boy - a casanova too, running from the gravity of an arranged marriage.

𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞.

twany arms are full of long stemmed lillies, the bells of their bodies tolling the end of days for the king. the bundle of flowers rests snuggly in her arms, as if the tyrell should always carry a bouquet. sofina had hardly noticed in the carriage but she grew more aware of the weight the longer it took to lay them down, having to fight her way through the throng of people paying their respects. sofina had elected to wait in line, listening to the stories of grief being hung along the walls. although some had insisted that the tyrell take their place in line, she had humbly refused, citing that she should be happy to wait along side them.

it paid off it someway. she spies the targaryen, allowing her to choose to step out of line now. she cranes her neck, curtseying as protocol requests, before sofina reaches for the prince's palm with her free hand, genuine in her care as she says, "my deepest condolences, viserys.” she dared not to make assumptions of dragonstone's thoughts on the king but generally, she found that with grief, however long you had with them - in spite of the affliction taking them - something within you would change. "my thoughts and prayers are with you and your cousins."