⌗ VERITHAUNT. dependent & private blog for 103ac, as written by val ( twenty3, no pronouns, jst ). non-affliated blogs dni.
A 𝒮𝒯𝒰𝒟𝒴 IN: kindness is wasted upon evil: feed the dog and it will still bite, "i'm a strange new kind of in-between thing, aren't i? i'm not at home with the dead nor with the living." the eternal hunger, that aches and yearns and claws for more. this is a dog eats dog world; the rotten earth bears rotten fruit, the wronged will always come back for more. i dreamed of you, on a midsummer day. you smiled at me; something pure and lovely that i'd never seen before. so i knew: ivory-born and honeyed, that this would never be mine .
𝒜YBÜKE RIVERS * of harrenhall . she / her , #twenty4. ( eylül kandemir )
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“ now, now. don't move too loudly or they'll catch you. ” for a person visiting the sick wards out of the kindness of their own heart, the little smirk ( aimed down at the floors, washed clean of sickness for now ) tells otherwise. a cloth pinned over their nose and mouth prevents breathing in any of the similar air here, a tremble in their hands disguised with the folding of another damp cloth, recently used to pat against their sibling's brow. pacing in a circle around the room, rolling shoulders in sockets, to come to where a window allows some light in and staring out at the distant shores. silence follows. enough for there to be a ticking overheard from rooms further on, the pestilence in the throats of most and so taliesin sighs. “ i believe it was my shoe, my lady. or someone's … feverish mutterings to themself, the dreams this makes you have are ghastly. ” another smile. this time, without mirth, even serious. he juggles the cloth against his palm as if weighing it. turns chin over shoulder to gaze at her through the dark of his peripheral. “ do you need help getting comfortable? my sister is stable, thank the … ” they gesture. flicking lithe fingers up towards the ceiling. “ … whoever you want to thank. ” tenor of voice muffled, observing her over the fold of the face cloth, prying and curious as to exactly what she hopes to get up to when weaker than a reed in wind.
can do nothing but simply glance at him, give him a once-over, then a twice-over. " they? is there something i should be worried about? " the idea of getting caught by whatever it seems to be is unappealing, immediately halts all action to simply stare in puzzlement. the formality comes as a learned habit: too many days has she been reprimanded for when slipping her mind, slippery enough to rival a rabbit escaping the clutches of the wolf, skittering away without a second thought. there is a quiet acceptance to his excuse, or reasoning for the unexplained; does not fully believe, but does not bother enough to try to find a reason to believe, to have faith in such words. there is a fascinating quality about him; the white cloth that is so insistently draped to cover his face ( perhaps she should have a maester fetch one for her too, the serviette seemingly being imperative to him staying in the sickrooms ) was something she'd wish to inquire about, in the next happenstance that their paths would intersect. “ ah, there's no need. thank you for offering, though. ” it's a constant reminder of the lack of a panacea in her reach, to immediately clear the fog that wrapped itself around the world. " why do you cover your face with that cloth? seems awfully tiring to keep on holding it up. "
「 ⚔ 」 STATUS ﹕ semi - closed.
「 ⚔ 」 LOCATION ﹕ pestilence, the hightowers are arriving.
「 ⚔ 」 WITH ﹕ @firedreamt, @toothd, @theygods, @verithaunt, @woundedstatue.
“let me at them ! ” despite steffon’s attempts to look tough, to shape himself into something bordering intimidating, they simply clucked and chirped like the small bird they were. pacing the now - empty halls of the keep, all others bedridden or tending to the sick or isolating from the threat, his thoughts had been set alight ; the hightowers may have been arriving with tinctures and balms to rid the spreading illness, but to steffon their arrival was poison in itself. “if they talk to me, if they look at me, i’ll — well, i’ll — ” it was then that they stopped, motionless, spying the shadowy figure emerging from one of many doorways. no longer was it simply them and their unruly thoughts. they wondered how long the other had been there, how much they had heard, whether they saw the threats as empty and thin or would turf steffon out into the streets for such an outburst. so instead of saying anything further he simply stood, hands at their sides, waiting for inevitable consequence.
hands find grip in mortar joints, lifting herself along with the wall close enough to be in earshot but far enough without intrusion. ill-advised decision to leave her room by the one maester that she'd bothered to ask, suggestions of maintaining a safe recovery and whatnot unheeded. squinting produces knowledge of just who was soliloquizing, curiously observing their appearance. “ yes, you'll...? “ common sense not to pry into these sort of matters, though did not care nearly enough to stop now. steffon had been a well of knowledge for her, always with such interesting stories about his own travels. didn't matter that such tales usually attracted raised eyebrows and excessive sighing from those who were unfortunate enough to hear them retold by aybüke, were entertaining enough to last her for years without boredom. “ whatever you say, i swear i won't tell another soul. ” voice is thinner than usual and pitches awkwardly at the wrong moments, unwanted product of sickness unshakeable despite innumerable cups of tea drank. useless suggestions, those maesters loved handing out. ” the thought of gossiping makes me nauseous, anyways. ”
"It was a cat, Aybüke, nothing more." The Red Keep is littered with felines, their whooshing tails and pert whiskers a continuous sight, but it was not a cat. Not this time. Not in truth. Balon was well aware of the insidious truth of that but, with a fond smile, he brushed the fine hair back from his rival niece's face, and smiled fondly down at her. "I'm watching over you, little one. There is nothing to fear." But she was still hot to the touch.
Theirs was, perhaps, a strange bond -- a strained bond -- but a bond notwithstanding. Had he not whispered these same words to her as Harrenhal sighed and moaned on windy nights when she was but a child, her little hand holding his tight? And had he not said the very same, voice tight in anger, too, when his sibling had sent brother and daughter out into the Riverlands together -- a spectacle of heir and heir to be gawked at, laughed at, even, behind their hands? Yet, for all the strain, he'd not see harm come to her. Rivers or Strong -- did not the same blood flow through her veins, an unbreakable covenant?
"Do not let these folk see you gasp," he added, with warmth. "We're of braver stock, aren't we? What was our upbringing if not a lesson in courage? You're no stranger to banging in the halls, hm? And what can truly become of any of us, away from home?"
It was a strange belief in him -- there were those, to be sure, who did not put any faith in the supposed hauntings of Harrenhal, but Balon could not be counted amongst their number, no. He believed a stranger truth: the house had claimed their souls, long ago. There would be no seven hells to greet them at the end of their days, nor any heaven, either -- only the crumbling walls of their ancient, accursed home. They would never leave it. But, because he believed this, he gave little credit to the notion that they might die elsewhere -- the house would not let them.
"Show them you are brave, Aybüke," he said, softly. "Show them you are Strong."
not fully convinced by his words, but doesn't want to pry further ⸺ would have to push and shove in order to know the truth, exhausting herself for only a few meager words. she'd find out ONE WAY OR ANOTHER, if not directly said than through an overeager mouth or whispers meant for one, then another, then for all to hear. she is glad that he has visited her, when she lays in the sickbed and is starved for entertainment, to divulge her interest in. balon is her uncle, if not in name than in blood ( just like all her kin were: perhaps in the annals they will write that aybüke rivers, the strange girl who lived in harrenhal, acted as one of their own would simply always be the bastard of strong. the name strong did not befit her, and that was the way of things, and she was rather sure that he did not want such to change. ) " yes, but i did not think that even the red keep was haunted. " winces then as pain ricochets through head, though shoulders are loose and grip of sheets slackened at the presence of somebody ubiquitous since childhood, a ever-present figure in life despite the ebb and flow of proper familial love. in those familiar black stone walls, this type of discordance could only scare away visitors with hackles raised. heads at the dining table would not raise at crashing in the distance, of winds that howled so harshly started to sound like screams. all born at harrenhal would perhaps die there, for the castle could not let one go so easily, should she not fear of the looming threat of death unless in the walls of home. aybüke could rest easy, knowing that the knight of two swords would protect her from all nearby felines during her convalescence. " yes, i will. " fiddles with hands behind her, twisting blankets into fabric spirals. " be strong. brave. of course. " nods, and breaks into a smile mixture between something grim and duchenne.
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#OPEN, THE SEVENTH DAY . AT THE RED KEEP'S SICKROOMS, WISHING TO LEAVE AND BEING A PUBLIC DISTURBANCE TO THE NEARBY POOR SOULS . ( 3 / 4 )
it's a familiar sight, when there's nothing to do or observe: swinging her legs off a usually precarious ledge where she shouldn't be, bird-watching or soaking in the sun. there is no view of the sky here, only endless stone that if stared at long enough could be thought to be the walls of harrenhal, if only more well-kept, less dusty, and with far less cracks in the walls. she's taken it upon herself to continue her routine, kicking her feet against the wood of the bedframe in an almost-rhythmic cacophony of thumping. it distracts from the lingering pain in her head to a certain extent, if not also to relieve boredom. a far louder sound echoes from down the hall, crashing of wood against stone raucous. she can feel the tide of her irritation lapping at higher shores, face twisted into an almost-scowl as legs contract back into mattress. her hands grip onto the haphazardly pushed back sheets by her side, interest peaked yet armed with the wish to have nothing to do with it ( the eternal standoff: should she poke the bear, watch somebody poke the bear, or go back to sleep ? ), & can only lightly sigh. " just what was that? " anything can be of interest, distract her enough from the ache in her body is a welcome thing. " do you know? "
LOCATION: the streets outside of the red keep, before the day of the feast.
the wheelhouse stopped once again, the third time in a couple of minutes, to amerei’s candid despair. it was to be expected when most of the lords of the realms were expecting to enter the keep at the same time, eager for glory or for the chance to step out of the scorching sun. all amerei cared, though, was how humid it was inside. summer may be ending but before the sweet chill of autumn could descend it was leaving its own powerful impression. and it didn’t make the city smell any sweeter. amerei was left to enter alone in one of the tully’s wheelhouses, alone with her thoughts and the sweat dripping down her neck for no cooling breeze would come through the window.
still stuck in the middle of the line, she was suddenly overcome with boredom. impulsively, she put her head out of the window, her brown ecstatic eyes falling on the first person outside; if either tending to their own ride or outside of a carriage, she would not care to observe. ❛❛ — would you like to join my caravan, my liege? this line is moving so terribly slow, some company would be mostly appreciated. it’s boring at these roads. — ❞ she smiled her bright smile, the one that tends to convince her grandfather of acquiescing to anything her heart desired. surely this noble company would not deny her such a simple request. opening the door before even receiving an answer, she continued her friendly chatter. ❛❛ — interesting what it takes for most of the realm to come together. not a nameday celebration or a summer tourney. but the death of a king. rest his soul. and the promise of a kingsmoot. woe that they would chose more joyful excuses. — ❞ kingsmoot. even the word even tasted bitterly in her mouth. what a ludicrous idea, by the gods. she would let the big brains with ambitious hearts get drunk on the idea of power, if it resulted in a lively trip to king’s landing before the weather turned to worse. ❛❛ — but by the mother, who cares? all these silly details will be resolved one way or another. how were your travels, my liege? — ❞
half-believing for a spilt second that constant lack of sleep has begun to take it's toll, unable to differentiate dream from tangible. she's already long a stranger to basic manner as the hours fly by, elbows resting upon windowsill, hands cradling face pointed towards sky. there wasn't much to see, she could admit ⸺ the sun remained all the same no matter how far they traveled. aybüke does not return the smile, instead only points a single finger at her. it's a matter of poor impulse control: she should sink further into her seat and ignore her momentary neighbor, hope that one would assume she simply did not hear any of the words spoken and find another hapless pedestrian's neck to sink her sugary-sweet words into. “not today, my liege. i doubt either of us would enjoy the experience. " the implication that a different road would be chosen in the hereafter of this day is wholly false, doesn't even bother to indulge in the realms of fantasia needed to even entertain the thought.
retracts her hand but not her words nor her head, borderline delighted to take another stab at the long-lived rancor of theirs. " it does makes sense, doesn't it ? tragedy is one of the most effective ways to bring people together. " it's too kind to call aegor's death a vicissitude in any way, nevertheless any inkling of true thoughts would remain unspoken. they did not come together, to the capitol and palace where no sovereign sat on the throne to mourn anyways, only to take what each thought rightfully their own. can only hope that this theatre will pass: as all things will in time, but for her it is only a fragile hope, easily shattered and expecting the day to be anon. " perfectly fine so far. you? "
「 ⚔ 」 STATUS ﹕ open.
「 ⚔ 」 LOCATION ﹕ the arrivals.
「 ⚔ 」 WITH ﹕ everyone ! ( 3 / 5 )
their banners still flew. if it was up to alysanne, they would stay aloft forever. targaryens had warmed the seat of the throne before, and they would continue to warm it forever — did the corbrays, lannisters, baratheons really think they could bear such a cross without so much of a lick of the dragon's blood ? she hoped they saw it, the plum - colored cast of her eyes in the waning light. alysanne may not have been born a targaryen, but the dragon's wrath had coiled deeply within her and held her heart hostage. those who jested at the idea of her kin upon iron would have quite the ordeal of it. that was a promise.
king's landing may not have been theirs, but she walked the steps of the red keep as though they belonged to her. as though it was home. as the visitor approached, she remained straight - backed and focused. she watched the muscles in their face for any strain, any glimmer of doubt or reluctance ; then, she smiled.
“i trust your journey went well ? we wouldn’t want any catastrophes before the wine even starts to flow.”
the carriage ride had been filled with silence, and only once had the fragile silence been broken: with pointed fingers and biting words, devoid of the need to be unheard just yet, a single thing was clear. stay away from the targaryens. she's looking at the other with bright interest, wringing fingers behind back. SHE MUST NOT KNOW, a small voice says in her head. few recognize her, let alone know the name but not the face. " yes. little hindered our way. " her words feel unbelonging, mind grasping for better words, fighting ten different battles to look passive and be polite, not letting a single part of her own traitorous wonder show. she is no good actor, but it is a learned skill of hers to remain painfully placid in the want of sentiment. screaming, she was used to. small talk, she was excruciating unfamiliar and dreading to become so. at what point in her now, very everchanging life would she become comfortable with chatter and mindless gossip with anybody supposedly a competitor, on a different side of the dream for the throne, of power and glory? she would never, perhaps when the god's eye dried out and the land went barren. " i am quite liking it here. it is fortunate that the gods have granted us all safe travels. " half a mind to continue, say the red keep is beautiful⸺, but it did not seem bode well to say such presumptuous words, fearing to be interpreted as if the castle were soon to be hers. which was the ruling lady's desire, unbelonging to her.
THE GRACE OF WILD BIRDS, AND LOVE GLORIED IN HER PULSE.
stats.
full name: aybüke rivers . nicknames: none. titles: none, “lowborn”. date of birth: july seventh. age: twenty five. birthplace: harrenhal, the family seat. home: harrenhal, north shore of god’s eye, the riverlands. gender: cis woman. pronouns: she and her. orientation: bisexual, biromantic. monikers: the bastard of strong, aybüke the ghost daughter. languages: common tongue ( fluent ), old tongue (understands but can only speak brokenly)
faceclaim: eylul kandemir. ethnicity: first men and andals. hair: black hair, pin-straight. eyes: brown, big and naturally glossy without being anywhere close to near tears. height: one hundred seventy-five (five foot nine). build: lissome, shoulders relaxed. long legs lead to seemingly constant ease of movement . scent: sweet, of ambergris and fruit. dominant hand: right. allergies: none. scars: on thigh. a particularly nondescript one; has almost faded in both color but the skin is raised. things of note: soft eyes and brows, almost doe-like. often blank or sideways stare, where she’s looking at nowhere and thinking and does not actively stop until somebody else points it out or looks at where she’s staring (usually a wall, the windows, or most embarrassingly, some random passerby). has good posture but a subpar manner from the few things about etiquette her mother has taught her, bites the inside of cheek when disappointed. clothing: “simple” gowns, a few are nicer and bolder ( from her mother ) but usually wears plain things with minimal jewelry. wears primarily cool colors, green, blue, light blue, gray, cream … avoids red like the plague for whatever reason, convinced it looks bad on her. usually whatever she can get away with without attracting too much attention, but the small details of: bodice usually has a cut at the side which reveals the fabric of the dress, subtle threading patterns usually close to the color of the outfit itself, sleeves are long enough to cover up half of her hand and also purposely very loose.
story.
a living tragedy comes from another: born in the ruins of harrenhal, in the arms of a mother who still mourns somebody still alive. you are given the name rivers, a second blow. the castle must weep alongside her, outside a clear night yet tears patters down the walls. nobody bears witness to this sight, none but one hears the screams of a child with a head of raven black hair and her agnate’s estival, painfully kind eyes.
your closest kin, the ones whose existence is not spoken only in hushed words and whispers, in pitying gazes and everyday gossip, treat you as another. the occasional kindness, sometimes a smile when nobody else is looking too closely: you are nothing more than a stranger in their home, aren’t you? the godswood becomes a second home, the weirwoods and conifers much like a mother’s embrace, curious animals your friends. you belong here. it is not safe, your mother reprimands you the first time. the second. the third. you do not stop, because it is the only sanctuary here.
it does not take long, to grow tired of the word bastard. there is an unequivocal, simmering rage that comes along with it, a tired smile and choleric eyes. the painted mask of your happiness accompanies: you are a bright thing, willing to look at anything monstrous with a kind eye, but this world is not kind enough to accommodate you. young, naive girl in an ancient house: stare into the darkness of the candlelit corridors and there could be something more. in the winter you wear thick furs, the hundred hearths seldom stay lit for long. in the summer you escape your familiar cage out into the trees once again, and if anybody notices: they don’t bother to stop you, now.
the red keep is beautiful: it is both unfamiliar and breathtaking and dangerous. despite your silent objections ( you have never once smiled at the mention of this unwarranted, foolish bid for the iron throne, never once spoke out when the dinner table erupted in another spat, venomous words thrown all around.) the bastard, fool, blinded by power, keep on coming up like a never-ending carousel, over and over again. the trip there is long and monotonous but new and exciting, and the thick and disgruntled silence does not end, but you do not mind it much. the last stretch of kingsroad is when a traitorous seed is planted within you: perhaps, you wouldn’t mind staying here for a little longer, or forever.
wanted.
FORBIDDEN LOVE.
the present and past mirror each other, don't they? the general idea of it is that despite how much they would and do work together, but simply can't. it's a match made in heaven, except the gods forgot to make them able to be her's. lots of staring at each other from across the room, stolen moments etc. maybe they've tried to distance themselves from each other, to save themselves for the inevitable fall when they both fly too high: but their paths continue to pass, to their chagrin or delight.
FRIEND.
nobody ever visits harrenhal willingly, but she probably has half a mind to bring them there. this friendship can't have been going on for long, because she's never been outside of the riverlands area until the kingsmoot, unfortunately. maybe this friend has been taking her outside to see the sights this world has to offer? anything works.
LATE NIGHT GHOST(S).
they are friends, in the sense where they talk a lot and know so much about each other yet also simultaneously very little. they also don't talk to each other in normal, proper social settings and instead choose to talk at midnight-adjacent times. in my head i really like the idea that they actually have never told each other their names or identities, so when the inevitable reveal happens there might be angst potential. sorry i'm a sucker for sad stuff. platonic to antagonistic or romantic, i just want this to happen so badly ok.
MIRROR.
a one-sided hate ( not for long lol ) where she probably hates them for something hypocritical and is also very prevalent in herself and therefore they start hating each other mic drop. i like to imagine it's very complicated and messy and amazing ( not for either of them though )
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