to an anomalous species of terror, i found him a bounden slave.
lady sabitha tully of riverrun { intro | inspo }
ser davos swann of stonehelm { intro | inspo }

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@tearsofalyssa
to an anomalous species of terror, i found him a bounden slave.
lady sabitha tully of riverrun { intro | inspo }
ser davos swann of stonehelm { intro | inspo }

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their mouth goes flat. their sister's hand explores their face, searching for signs of the illness. but mor barely had eaten, and hadn't drank a single drop of the wine on its own, so with the news breaking of poisons and antidotes, there was no surprise it had not affected them. ( but who poisoned his wife? … if the symptoms were the same … no, no. no. enough. you're seeing things. ) a breath which brushes upon the roof of their mouth brings them back to the present moment, and theirs and sabitha's sterness almost stamp-matches the other. “ yes, could you imagine. i doubt this would take him. he would banish half the houses and sit on the iron throne in the fever it brought on, and this would solve all our problems. ” this does not come without its wedge of sarcasm, but most of it is cloaked in exhaustion. they do not wish to play the games of houses, of thrones, of crowns or whatever. hand it to someone else and be done with the whole thing. shaking the realms for house and home, how senseless was it? and there she went with her conspiracies. they sigh, wearied. “ don't let those houses hear you speak that within these walls. i won't have you be next. ” a warning as much as a flush of concern. her spitefulness and her stalwart brow could get her in a very certain kind of trouble, and mor wishes he could have warded half of the trouble that found her out of her sight. that her life could look much different, and she could be somewhere else that none of this mattered. “ how could mara lannister have wanted this when the hightowers seized the chair for themselves? you think the lions and stonefires in cahoots? ” a bit incredulous. but if she wants to talk of these things, then mor wants to adjust her towards tactics. “ this is such reckless hate, sabitha. hatred throughout families. ” in the end, we're becoming no better. but they do not wish to make her downtrodden, or be called a … party pooper. she was the apple of his eye, after all. “ the ironborn know one thing, and they've made a reputation of it. but it may be too obvious to choose them. ” ( was this part of her ploy? to draw them out of their sullen silence? well, it was working. )
"How will they hear me speak, dear Mordhred?" Her eyebrow rises with her pitch in question. "Are they eavesdropping? Is everyone standing with their ears to the doors of our chambers? And even if, what shall they do of it? Punish a lady of House Tully? Father would never allow it." Only he may do what he wishes to the members of his house...And even Sabitha understands that. She may push and pull at her nieces as she wishes, but no man may ever be allowed to touch a strand of black upon their spoiled little heads.
"I know you are smarter than this, Morah." A silly name she had picked up as a babe, unable to say the whole thing. She wields it like a weapon when he becomes like this...Mordhred may be similar to her person in many ways, but never in all. "Master of laws is not the only position to be coveted. Seven, we are here for a kingsmoot. The position cannot be inherited. But Warden of the West? Queen of Westeros? Who can say no to that? Perhaps she has decided to put a stop to the gossip with her own claws. Perhaps Lady dowager Lannister is next." She realizes the expression that has slithered over her features, consternation, disapproval, unhappiness. She sets to right it immediately, for him, only for him.
Her fingers return to their face, fore and middle finger stroking under one of his desolate eyes. "I know that the grief holds you prisoner, my dear." Her words are a whisper; perhaps if she lowers her voice, it can slip through the bindings the Stranger has tied upon her older sibling's chest. "You must not worry so. Lord Father, Lord Brother, myself...You know we will see to the end of this ordeal peacefully, yes?" The lies pour from her lips with a confidence in her family she has never had. "No more grief will touch our hearts, so long as we remain vigilant." And then, more sternly, "But do not allow yourself to be blinded to the nature of those we are dealing with."
where: the sick rooms where lady baratheon resides when: days after the antidote has been administered with: lady helvis baratheon ( @liver-y )
There is nary a doubt about it; Davos has been avoiding the entire wing of the keep where the sick lie dying. He knows it is poison, now, but he cannot stomach the idea of men of women lying upon beds of white, sweat trickling down their foreheads to their necks, raspy voices stuttering upon heaving coughs, the smell of....of pestilence, as it were. The picture his mind's eye paints is based upon not the current reality, but the one he had stumbled into moons ago, unable to do anything but hold two bundles of pure desolation, one in each arm, days before-
Anyways. He is not needed by the sick. There is only one individual who takes residence among them who is of any importance to him. He takes a seat on an old, rickety wooden chair by her bed. The sun streams in from the glass windows, opened to let the bad air out. Her sickly form is, well, sickening, but he tries to hide the swoop of his stomach with the hint of a smile, "Even in your sickbed, your eyes sparkle in the sun, Lady Co-" A pause. A grave mistake, in that it adds another memory to his already miserable state. "Lady Baratheon." He puts a hand along her side, upon the bed; available, should she wish to take it. She used to take it many times when he was a boy essentially under her care, her late husband's squire. "You have given the entire realm quite the fright." An exaggeration, but who will look into it? "I beg you to tell me: the antidote has worked well?"
where: a balcony of the red keep when: a day or two after the announcement of lord lannister's death with: open! closed! (4/4)
It is not his intent to dress in funereal colors, neither now, nor moons ago, nor three years ago. House Swann boasts a sigil of white and black, and white can be oh so difficult to clean, especially when one spends...spent their days riding through the stormlands, rounding up bandits, making due with filthy inns and filthier roads after the heavy rains caked the ground in mud. Here, however, upon a balcony hanging off the Red Keep, he stands in pristine condition. Even better, he blends in with the heartbroken noblemen that have filled his field of vision for the better part of a fortnight.
"Despite the somber veil hanging over the Red Keep," He speaks, fingers moving in circles along the hilt of short sword, now almost permanently attached to his person (Though, how he means to fight off poison and illness with the sharp end of a blade is not something he wishes to ponder), "The ruckus of the keep remains ever the same." Servants scramble around the courtyard beneath his perch, their commands and alerts to each other rising up, building into a cacophony that swirls into the ever present ringing in his ears. "Will a funeral be held here? That would certainly postpone the kingsmoot. Giving way to more tragedy, I should think." His mind's eye conjures a vision of rushing after his mother's white skirts, never with a speck of dirt upon them, so that he may pull at them and tell her of the great troubles that face him. Poisoning. A dead Lannister. A dead paramount. A dead master of laws. A dead mother. How trite.

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aila knows better than to make a sound and remain still as a statue as their aunt examines them, yet again. a regular routine since the illnesses have spread, or rather the poison. it felt a little unnecessary now but if it would ease aunt sabitha's mind than no one would hear any complaints from the youngest tully. there was always the added pressure to bite their tongue around their aunt who liked them much and aila tried not to take it personally. they knew the different expectations upon their grandfather's children than herself. even though the age gap was not significant, it was clear that the heir's two children had much more leniency, and it showed no clearer than the reality that both her and amerei had regularly made visits to their grandfather though, again, not something aila cared to admit to.
"i think lord desmond merely knows that merriment in stressful times can reduce the tension. but the rest of his siblings, i don't think any of them would have malicious intent, especially not when lady vaiora has taken ill."
the youngest tully chose not to make comments about their aunt's assessment of the ironborn, personally not having observed any type of rejoicing or celebration. even if they didn't want to participate in the speculation, a nagging worry demands to be voiced. "it is... uh peculiar, is it not? that none in our family were sick. that none were targeted. it sets us up to be suspicious."
"A sibling," Sabitha starts, making certain to hold Aila's large brown eyes, similar to her own, despite not one drop of blood being shared between them, "Is easy to use when one's greed takes hold of them. No one knows what happens within the privacy of a keep, Lady Aila," She hardly ever uses titles for her nieces, but her intent is to alert her to the seriousness of the matter, "We may be a united front," Well. No, but. "But not every house is the same. Lady Vaiora may have simply been the victim of Lord Redwyne's desires. And even then," A brow raises, "We cannot be certain she had no prior understanding of the events that would transpire." Her hand reaches for Aila again, this time to press firmly upon their shoulder. "If the Redwyne had poisoned their gift of wine, and they are as likely a culprit as any, mind you, for there is a kingdom to be won, they could have simply had her drink it, knowing they had the antidote in hand to save her life in a timely manner."
Aila who loves to play with swords in the mud, and whose wide eyes hold show nothing but the gullible mind behind them, needs her aid in understanding the harshness of the world, naturally. Of Westeros.
Her fingers spread along her niece's shoulder, flicking off unseen dust, her own lips turning down at the worry. "We are far from the only family to remain unharmed. House Swann is well. House Celtigar are unphased." If one does not counting the younger's betrothal, "Perhaps they are worthy of suspicion as well, in fact...We must observe them. Two betrothals with House Redwyne is surely a sign of..." Something. The thought has only come to her now, and she needs ruminate upon it. "We were much more mild with our drink. I know you did not disgrace us during the feast, hmm?" Her smile is wide, though without teeth.
VICTOR ALLI as LORD JOHN STIRLING Bridgerton, Season 4 Part 1
#Their Child Was Born A Yearner
where: within the guest chambers assigned to house tully within the red keep
when: after the death of lord cerion lannister
with: any member of house tully
"Hold still." Not a request, but a command, as Sabitha presses her hand, fingers first, then palm, against her relative's forehead. A moment later, she trails it down to wrap around their cheek, cold rings, practically sparkling with gemstones of deep, dark Tully blues and reds, digging into their flesh. Appeased, for the moment, she draws her hand back, face almost blank if not for the typical stern furrow between her brows. Her arm now hangs limply against her midnight blue gown, the darkest she could find within her packed trunk; she had assumed they were journeying for a kingsmoot, not a funeral, after all.
"No fever." She informs them, as she has done daily since the first bout of illness was announced. "Though, continue trying your best to stay away from Lord Father, lest he fall ill." A silly thing to say; the spread of news a long time ago had already alerted them that it was poison rather than plague that afflicted their fellow noblemen. He can survive a few days by his lonesome, however; she is certain it would do him some good. "And the Lannisters....That Mara Lannister is quite suspicious; who knows which of her brethren would have jumped at the chance to," Her next words come as a whisper, though no one but the gods can hear the pair within the Tully guest chambers, "Slay kin." A pause. "And House Redwyne, naturally. I hear some of them were quite insistent on everyone partaking in the merriment." Her dark brown eyes roll, then her neutral expression is immediately replaced with a sneer, "And do not even think of getting close to the ironborn! Of course, they would rejoice during such terrifying times. They would have all of our heads mounted atop pikes on the morrow if they could have it their way."
Truly, the only ones worthy of trust were her own kin....Simple, though they all were.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆ the hand of the late king welcomes davos swann, the lord of stonehelm, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be protective and sincere, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their uncharitable and willful tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of the light of the moon catching steel striking steel; a large heart with its gates sealed shut; the pursuit of perfection in a craft till mastery or death, whichever comes first; tension in the shoulders unravelled only under deafening thunder and blinding lightning. they themselves dream of house baratheon on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.

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⋆✴︎˚。⋆ the hand of the late king welcomes sabitha tully, the lady of riverrun, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be resolute and purposeful, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their dissonant and touchy tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of a tine of a trident bent out of shape; memories of giggles and sweet words overshadowed by the clink of coin; a defiance obstructing no one but yourself; dark velvet waves pinned meticulously away from rolling dark velvet eyes; the father and the maiden with hands of stone at each other’s throats. they themselves dream of someone outside of house tully on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.