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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.
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.
basics.
NAME davos swann.
TITLES ser davos, second sibling of the lady swann.
AGE seven and twenty.
PRONOUNS he/him.
MOTIVATIONS a good marriage, he says, but inside there is nothing.
visuals.
HEIGHT 185 cm (6'1").
EYES dark brown and dimmed, with the occassional glint when something piques his interest.
HAIR tight coils, always neatly cropped.
NOTABLE FEATURES white, feather like markings across his back and shoulders.
FACECLAIM victor alli.
connections.
PARENTS lord borros swann (father) (deceased). lady perianne swann, formerly bracken (mother) (deceased).
SIBLINGS lady tbd (older sister), liege tbd (older sibling), lady anora (younger sister), lady jerica (younger sister).
OTHER lord triston connington (trained under) (deceased), lady helvis baratheon (former host).
WANTED tbd.
tw: death, um. lightning?
your father believes the pen to be mightier than the sword, yet the weapon has been an extension of your limb since the day you turned four, your little hands barely wrapping around the grip of the wooden sword your stonehelm’s master-at-arms had given you, eyes sparkling with kindhearted laughter at the furrow between your brows (an expression drawn on your face purposefully, for it is the same one your mother has when she says she is focusing on something).
your lady mother says you require balance, in your life, so you take her words to heart: even if you do not wish to spend more time on your education than is strictly necessary, you still ensure you excel at such endeavors, for you are a little lord, after all, and little lords must know how to defend from both hand and mouth.
still, it comes as no surprise when at nine you are sent to griffin’s roost to squire for lord triston connington. carrying a lord’s armor, grooming their horse, following their orders…the dullness of these tasks is quickly overshadowed by the sense of adventure. nine and living away from home for the first time, learning the weight of a nonwooden sword in your grip, following your lord out to hunt and seeing the stormlands in ways you had never seen before, not when you were a little boy, begging to be released from behind your mother’s skirts. you miss her, naturally, miss her squishing your cheeks when you said something silly, miss her soft hands gracing your forehead whenever you fell ill or were injured. but you are becoming a man (and a knight, soon!) and you are as obstinate in your training as you are in every other section of your life.
at three and ten, a heavy storm looms over the keep you and your lord are residing at. he tells you to come inside, that you will grow sick from the weather, and you pretend to acquiesce, only to sneak off later with your heavy sword in hand, wishing to try out the new moves the lord of the keep had taught you. what can a storm do to me? you ask yourself, the storms run through my blood. your mother had always said that, both when she chastised your willfulness and when she praised your determination. you have your father’s blood. only three and ten, yet already with the hubris of a man, and it becomes your downfall. well. almost.
you do not remember much from the incident, only the trees billowing in the winds, the hard pattering of rain against the wide open courtyard you practice in, your hands gripping onto your sword like a life line before bright light flashes and tosses you what feels like miles away into the dirt. your eyes slip closed, at some point, but your ears pick up a deafening noise, a familiar sound from throughout your childhood but with the volume multiplied a thousand times. i should go back inside, your mind blearily supplies, but your fingers will not move, let alone your legs. or not. the fear grips you in a distant way, as if you are watching someone else trapped in their paralysis.
the next time you open your eyes, you are in a bed and your eyes are tearing up before you even register the pain. you do not recall the maester’s name, but you remember his ecstatic smile, his prayer sent to the father, as he rushes out. in moments, it feels as if the entire keep has returned, and your eyes go back and forth between the faces your migraine addled brain tries to register. you look for your mother, but she is not here. where is she?
they recount the story, reminding you time and time again of your foolishness, how you had been struck by lightning, how there were now patterns, white in both heat and in color, trailing up your back to your shoulders. the maester had to keep you down to allow you time to recover from the shock, and he fears for you, your future. someone young as yourself, could you handle the aftereffects?
but you did not die, did you?
yes, there is a permanent ringing in your ears. yes, sometimes (not often!) you feel confused, uncertain, not knowing where you are or who you are. the burns across your back are horrid and memorable. but, seven.
you did not die, did you?
had this not been the excitement you were looking for?
you know, now, not to train during heavy storms. but the feeling…you cannot describe it. all you can do is throw yourself headfirst into your craft. and your swordsmanship, shoddy as it is right now, is your craft. you know you have nothing to inherit; what is there for you? an administrative position within your keep? no. you are a squire because your parents wished for you to become a knight. no one can lock you up in the safety of a castle.
your heart is large, and there is a cell within it for everyone you meet, with a large hall in the middle housing the members of your family and your lord connington, who showed you the world as you grew from boy to man. you will help others when you can, a kindness taught to you by your mother, but you do not hide any snide remarks or try to keep your brows from raising at what are, to you, ridiculous decisions. you may understand politics, but keeping your tongue in check has never been your strong suit. you win your first squire’s joust at four and ten, and inform your losing opponents of every wrong move they took. you see your older sister embroidering a piece you find particularly hideous, and you tell her exactly what she should change to better suit your tastes. this, to you, is generosity, friendship, love. it leaves you with the opposite of admirers, but you cannot bring yourself to care enough. in your own eyes, you deserve to be heard.
you are (finally, finally, finally) knighted at eighteen, and rather than continuing with tourneys, which you find fun in their own right, but nothing worth dedicating your life to, you hunt down bandits with lord connington, determined to keep your little pieces of the stormlands safe. (well, none of it will ever be yours, truly, not in a way that matters, only in that you find the lush trees mesmerizing and the harsh claps of thunder as gentle as a lullaby.) it is during one of these excursions, when you are four and twenty, that lord connington loses his life. you become closed off, then, your opinions barely register to yourself, all that is on your mind is the gleam of your sword and the fastest way to get a man to his knees.
each year since your knighthood, you have found a darkness seeping in, though it is not until lord triston’s demise that you register it. was it leftover, from your near death? replaced by a mighty search for adrenaline, only now finding its place within the valves of your heart when life starts to slow down?
you had already stopped seeing to the bandits at five and twenty, stopped looking for adventure and coin and bodies to keep you warm. the world feels so heavy, suddenly, and all you can think of is your fingers and your legs, trudging through molasses, twelve years ago, unable to move. the burns upon your back flare up, and you hold back your winces as you look into the sad little faces of your younger sisters.
this downtrodden persona persists, until your beloved parents pass, and instead of consoling your family, your struggling older sister, whom you have not seen in many moons, you turn your nose up at her, and the opinions are back, yet in your continued grief, they are harsher than they ever had been. she is not doing enough, she is hysterical, she is allowing this event to cloud her judgement. how can she be the ruling lady of stonehelm? how can she hold up what their parents had. no, no. she is doing it all wrong. she has to…she has to…
you do not know, for you have forgotten your parents’ teachings, by now, and all you have is a sword in hand and nothing else to give the world, to give your own family. with the kingsmoot in close sight, you find following your parents’ bid for the throne to be laughable, at best, and humiliating, at the worst. instead, you look to your liege lord, lord baratheon, and his new wife, a woman you knew for many of your formative years, and hope that, should their dreams for the throne be actualized, you can get them to remember you, their loyal subject, and ensure your weak willed sister does not bring upon the collapse of what remains of house swann.
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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.
basics.
NAME sabitha tully.
TITLES lady sabitha, third child of the lord tully.
AGE one and thirty.
PRONOUNS she/her.
MOTIVATIONS newly has an eye on a spot in the small council. her usual motivation is spiting her father till his last breath.
visuals.
HEIGHT 178 cm (5'10").
EYES a velvet dark brown, often rolling or narrowed.
HAIR a long, soft black with the slightest wave, usually pinned together or braided with accessories fitting her outfit.
NOTABLE FEATURES tbd.
FACECLAIM simone ashley.
connections.
PARENTS lord balan tully (father). lady hema tully (formerly dayne) (deceased).
SIBLINGS lord tbd (older brother), lord tbd (older brother), liege tbd (younger sibling).
NIBLINGS lady amerei, lady araliya, lady aila.
WANTED tbd.
you have had all of three name days when your place as the beloved newest member of house tully is overshadowed by your goodsister growing heavy with child, and four name days when you become an aunt in your own right. we are not so different, you think, she has brown eyes. i have brown eyes. she has black hair. I have black hair. Yet she is the first grandchild, the heir, evidence of the legacy continuing, and she has taken your place atop your father's knee.
a sibling follows, and your older brothers bring about three more children, pushing you lower and lower in order of importance, of adoration. the heir and the spare now have their own heirs and spares, and what does that leave you as? the pretty bait your father uses to lure the other fish of the riverlands. you will not inherit, but that does not mean you cannot warm a bed, cannot bring in others to boast marriage into the tully legacy.
your family is a happy one, and you think you are happy too, even as this bitterness stirs inside your heart, claws at your chest. you manage to find your own circle; even if you are heir to nothing, there is no shortage to young lieges whose parents wish for them to get into the tullys’ good graces. you find attention in your gaggle of riverlanders, in the teachings of your septas and maesters (you are an excellent learner, they tell you, and you tell yourself any compliment must be true), under the eyes of the gods within the sept. how wonderful it is, to have the adoration of such large beings, hearing your prayers, offering you their wisdom, their kindness.
best of all, perhaps, you find comfort in the arms of lady walda wode. you grow from giggling youngs girls to mischievous teenagers, rubbing shoulders during dinner, holding hands under the table in the library, sneaking kisses in the gardens around the sept. she is yours, and yours only; your cousins and your siblings and your father and the riverlands cannot have her.
at twenty, you asks your father, again and again, to allow you to marry her, but all your pleas and convincing fall upon deaf ears. why not, you implore, my brother has married a bastard! why can i not marry a lady? he holds a grudge against her father decades deep, and tells you it is mercy enough for him to have allowed her to be your lady-in-waiting. but a wife to his daughter? out of the question. so, together you hatch your plans. she returns to her family’s home, so that no one may suspect a thing, and write to each other of plans to escape together. you will not be able to live on the streets, highborn as you are, too spoiled to fend for yourselves. but the sept, well, what an honor it would be to join there. perhaps you will not be women and wife, but you can live together as you learn the teachings of the faith, and you will figure out how to be stationed together, somewhere that requires two septas, where you can live together for the rest of your days.
it is a foolish plan, you realize now. the night you grab the few belongings you have decided to take with you so that you may take the wheel house (its driver handsomely paid to sneak away with it without a word to your family), the guards descend upon you and drag you to your father’s study. he is calm when he calls you an idiot, to think you can make such plans under his nose, as if every person within riverrun, within the riverlands is not pressed directly under his thumb. quiet, as he tells you he forbids you from leaving the keep for the next year, so that you may think upon your foolishness, your audacity to go against him and what good it has now served you. but you can feel it, the anger simmering between his solemn features and his somber tone. you must remember that, in the end, any choice made by your family has to be approved by him. any marriage, any adoption, the stranger; everything goes through him, first; he has not held this house together by being so easily disobeyed.
moons later, you find that lady walda had found herself alone at the sept, and with her own father’s angry with her as well, continued in their original path to become a septa. you spend your year watching everyone coming and going within the keep, your depression creating a field of misery around your person that no one wishes to encroach upon. but when the year ends, and some of your freedom returns, you are not left alone long enough to plan again. the suitors come in their multitudes, from all over the riverlands and even without. he cannot leave you to think for much longer, you know. an attachment to his benefit is for the best, for him.
but you….you are his daughter, and you can hold your own grudges just as long. every suitor or charmer or wellwisher is shunned away; you make your stance explicit: you do not wish to wed them. you do not wish to wed anyone. arguments break out between you and your sire, about the little molehills (your dress, your pickiness for food, your seclusion in your room) and the mountains (how you are humiliating him, unwilling to accept your place in the house, what your place has always been, a pretty face to bring the vassals closer to their lieges). your mother dies amidst your combined reign of terror, and it makes you all the more sullen and horrid.
years after, your uncle, a fully grayed man a decade younger than your father, demands you make yourself useful. he teaches you of coin, how to balance the family’s ledgers, where the gold comes and where it goes. you were always a good student, and so the knowledge grips onto you like a barnacle. your nieces’ dowries, the staffs wages, your father’s medications (for he is quite old, and the hammer of age will soon fall harshly upon him), any information of the keep’s money is now within your hands. when that same uncle retires himself from his position, stating he is much too old to follow every dragon coming into and out of the house’s coffers, you gain full control.
your father is unhappy with your position. he tells you fine, run off and become a titleless septa then. and perhaps if this was years ago, you would have, but the timing is too little too late. you had loathed the lack of control you had over your life, but now you have this, the strings of the family almost wrapped around your fingers, if not for your father’s final say so. the feeling is addicting, and you were always one for obsession.
he continues to breathe, and you continue to hold your grudge, though now with the king dead, your eyes are leaving your keep, the only place you have truly ever known, and looking up king’s landing, upon the position of master of coin. surely you, in your brilliance, your meticulousness, your sternness, would make a good candidate for such? you await the kingsmoot with baited breath, but do not tell your family of your ideas. the seven bestow their blessings upon you, you know it to be true.
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