threadedjade

[threadedjade]

her hand recoils at the touch - the warm kiss of skin against hers leaving her innards in a lurch. the feeling was almost foreign. for over a decade, mielle had taken her vow solemnly, committing to her abstinence with a rare gravity unheard of by most men. bright with surprise for a moment - meaning to laugh it off - until kaleidoscope eyes meet the lannister’s. darkening.

what a plague history was. while laurentia’s fierce gaze honed in on the womanly curve of the performer, the white cloak could not help where her traitorous eye was drawn. she could not manage the same detachment that laurentia was so expert at, speaking at her with an aloof gaze. mielle could never be so uninvolved when the lannister's claws had pierced her sentimental heart, scarring its softness.

“only the dead would change so wildly,” she replies carefully. thin fingers reach for the chalice once more, going for the embossed grooves in the gold, mindful to avoid the warmth of her skin, trying not to be selfish. “give it here and call for your own wine.”

closed starter: @threadedjade to: mielle yronwood.

the feast had swelled into revelry, the vaulted hall alive with clamor and candlelight. at the center of it, a troupe of lyseni dancers took the floor. bare-armed, their colorful garments glinting with bronze threads. they moved with serpentine grace, staffs lit at both ends tracing burning circles through the smoky air. sparks leapt and hissed when torches struck together; flames spun close enough to make courtiers gasp and lean back, laughter spilling as the danger thrilled them. one performer tipped back her head and spat a plume of fire that roared orange and gold toward the rafters. the crowd clapped and shouted in delight. the performer's generous curves hightlighted by the torch of each blaze, as sweat trickled down her bare back.

laurentia had been watching this particular lyseni dancer too long, too intent on the arcs of fire licking across the hall. she only half-registered the cupbearer passing, hand darting out-- meeting someone else's hand there, tanned fingers brushing hers at the stem of the goblet. laurentia blinked, the spell of the spectacle breaking, and her mouth curved. "drinking while on duty?" she murmured, voice pitched low enough for only lady yronwood. "brave." laurentia claimed the goblet anyway, raising it as if in salute before tipping it back. the taste hit: sharp, sweet, not wine at all. she laughed, sudden and soft, covering it behind the rim. "ah. blood-orange juice. of course." her eyes flicked sideways to mielle, sly. "suits you better than wine, my love."

[threadedjade]

as much as she claims a disdain for court politics, mielle’s memory serves her well, clocking the lady as a wife of some rebel house. had she been married? oh, who knew! mielle believed that once you were betrothed you were as good as gone, your maidenhood revoked. joining the kingsguard was like that too, in a way. she'd lost the girl she one was to the cloak. “being dornish is hardly the worst thing to be." you could be a rebel, after all. "mourning is far crueller of a cruel mistress,” mielle offers, with a shallow bow, no way to curtsey in her armour without an uncomfortable creak. although in line with her summation, the lady is only here because she must be — as per royal decree. but, “she tolls her bell, demanding your attention at every turn. it's a tired practice. pray that the coronation will be something enjoyable.”

As quickly as was appropriate and as deftly as possibly, Marida had quietly removed herself from the Sept of Baelor and retreated out into the fresh air. Hearing so many weep for a tyrant, and knowing roughly half those in mourning were feigning their grief left the raven haired lady frustrated. To be fair, she had shed a socially acceptable number of crocodile tears herself, appearances had to be kept up. But the way some individuals were carrying on after calling for the man's head mid-rebellion not too long ago was excessive. Finding herself not alone on the grand steps of the setting, a polite smile etched into her face as the Blackwood nodded. "I don't think I'd be cut out for life as a Dornishman. I enjoy a bit of warmth, but preferably of the natural sort-" The lady broke off, gesturing towards the Sept. "And, easy to find reprieve from if need be."

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"you are too humble." to guide the new king into his tenure on the throne was one task, having to guide an ailing man to his grave was another. even mielle could acknowledge that in spite of her loyalty, although it often felt pointedly blind. "i am but a sword in the hand of the king, whereas you are the hand." despite the number of the small counsel members and while glaring pointedly including the rest of the kingsguard, it often felt like the two of them were the only ones with a head on their shoulders. something of their dornish blood. "my words are in jest, of course. i shan't ruin the day for our convenience. however, know that you could say the word and i would raise my sword for you at a moment's notice."

Keegan leaned his head against his hand. "Every one in the small counsel and the King's Guard deserves rest this week" He gave Mielle a tired smile "I'm not that special " The Hand wondered if Gaemond would allow them both rest, but knowing he was already on thin ice with the new King it was probably better to not ask and finish his tasks quietly.

Mielle had been a welcome confidant during the events. Since they both worked closely with the small counsel and the king, she was one of the only people around that got the full picture of what went on behind the events. "As tempting as that sounds, I still made a promise of protection " Keegan said with a small chuckle.

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in many ways, mielle didn't understand her loyalty either. what invisible threads bound them to their futures? the slights she faced as a girl. choices she made at nineteen. or, was it sealed before? was it a knot tied from birth? the noble nature of their births demanding payment for their privilege? perhaps the future had been cemented before she'd even realized - the loyalty to the crown not becoming foundational to who mielle was, but a pillar that had already been built for her temple. "i would hardly compare my grief to that of your family's," the white cloak says quickly, not trying to overstep. having spent the greater part of a decade keeping the king alive, it was disappointing to see him succumb to an enemy she'd no weapon against. "you are too kind to think of me, lord edmund. know that your solace is appreciated, but this shall only be a day." it was a tidy ending to the story. a peaceful end to the ballad for a man so tied in controversy. one could only hope that the future would follow suit. "there is no need for a boon for it is an honour to offer my sword to your cousin, and your house."

Edmund knew the truth about mielle. He knew that she was captured by the late king and brought to king's landing. Forced to become a part of the kings guard to survive and she was supposed to spend her entire life serving king after king. She had been brought up by his to do as she was commanded and most importantly she was obeyed to be ever loyal to house Targaeryn. He didn't fully understand the reasons of her loyalty. He had assumed she would have betrayed them by now or would have been happy that the king was now dead. If he was in her eyes then he almost certainly would have. And yet she kept her loyalty to the late king at all costs. Edmund simply couldn't figure out why exactly. He offered her a faint smile as well before gazing at her softly. He wanted to offer her support and kind words but he wasn't certain exactly how to do so. He had always struggled with words but he wanted to offer her some comfort. "I know exactly how you feel. I understand it because I feel the same way. Which was why I came out here as well. Wanted to get away from all the people and the constant mourning. I have done my mourning and I am certain it shall be over soon." Edmund paused with those words and looked off into the distance. He then turned his attention back towards her once more as he slowly spoke to her. "In the meantime if there is anything me or our family can do for you feel free to tell me. That's the least I can do for your loyalty despite everything you have been through."

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oh, it is a relief to breath in the familiar scent of her friend, a blanket of familiarity wrapping around her in the embrace. like a bowl of a childhood stew, or the softness of your sheets after a long day.

it's only to get a better look at her face that the estermont pulls away from the hug, scanning the young lady's features for harm, ensuring that the martells were a gentle hand. it was a comfort to see floris almost as well as the day she'd last seen her smile.

"we are!" her head bobs as she laughs, giddy to have her friend her in flesh and bone. dorne was a no man's land, across waters that selyse had no talent to sail. "we are well! we are together still." but it feels cruel to boast of such things when floris' family is decimated and scattered to the winds, the only one of them to truly suffer indignity beyond loss.

"this is the only blessing on this dreadful day. i did not dare hope that they would allow us to set eyes on you." selyse breathes, eyes alight with wonder, unable to stop the dimple in her cheeks. "tell me everything. are you well?"

Floris sits at the Sept, in front of the Father, hands clasped together and eyes closed in prayer, humming a quiet hymn so that he may judge her house's foes justly (And harshly.)

She had not expected anyone barring the Septon to come here, not during the celebrations (Which Prince Maron's guard had graciously allowed her to leave, as long as he continued to follow her.)

Behind her, however, stood a familiar figure, a familiar face. Selyse Selyse Selyse! Her eyes widen in recognition; a friendly face who remained loyal, who had not given up, she was certain of it!

"Selyse?" She calls, her breaths deep and unsteady, "Is that really you?" She spares not another thought to the situation, nor to the guard standing still next to her. She grabs the edges of her skirts, lifting them up slightly, before running to the other woman, crashing into her with her arms up to wrap tightly around her. Friend friend friend. "I did not think I would see you. I was told nothing of House Estermont's fate. Are you well? Is your family well? Selyse." She does not let go of her, merely lowers her chin to rest her head on her old friend's shoulder.

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the young estermont sits, cradling her throbbing her head between red palms, throat aching. her heart screams, echoing her frustration, still raging wildly in spite of the calm seizing her muscles in contemplation. the vacuum of her embarrassment opens into a maelstrom — stuck on an endless loop of every sign she might have missed. idiot. idiot. idiot.

it wasn't as if she was naïve in her large age of six and twenty, believing in something so childish as love. no, that was a wives tale. something commoners believed to make the bitter misery of their lives go down easier. their marriages were trade negotiations, no less valuable than a field of wheat or fleet of prized mares. but here was cupid: staring her down the barrel of his pink tipped arrow with a smug smile.

outside of the crimson flush of her cheeks, once the murmurs of pity subsided, selyse had the capacity to be happy for theo. how could she not? he had been so kind. if not for the circumstance in which the contract had been threaded, one could make no complaint of the man. but of the targaryen who held his affections? she had little love for the king - not only for her family's opposition, but the lack of care for her. no one cared where she fell in this equation. selyse, the third party, was the unwelcome variable in their happiness.

it takes her sometime to override the catatonia seizing her but she does, hobbling to the door eventually, needing something to quench the rawness of her throat. the wood betrays her, conjuring the lord, as if her very thoughts had summoned him. it's like she swallows sand. it'd been hours since she'd last seen theo, and truthfully, she'd preferred days of distance. weeks. months. the kiss had felt much like a dismissal that even the headstrong lady could not ignore.

"oh, if only speaking to me had ranked higher on the day's list of priorities, my lord!" any progress to soothe herself grinding to a halt, suddenly hyperaware of the boil beginning in her veins once more. selyse attempts to measure herself, meeting honesty for honesty in the tightness of emotion in her chest, "perhaps then i might have believed your sweetness still. for i may be this evening's fool, but even a fool cannot overlook a wound such as this."

the corridors of the keep had fallen into that uneasy quiet that follows a feast, when music has died away but the taste of wine and words still lingers bitter on the tongue. theo walked them alone, his steps unhurried but heavy, like a man pacing the deck after a storm, searching the horizon for wreckage. his heart was restless in his chest, a gull caught between sea and sky, torn between shame and sorrow for the wound gaemond’s announcement must have left in his betrothed.

when he reached selyse’s chamber, he lingered too long at the threshold, palm pressed flat to the wood as though the grain itself might forgive him. he remembered the girl who had once smiled at him across sunlit gardens, who had spoken of futures as if they were a tapestry yet to be woven. and tonight he had let that tapestry be torn in two before the eyes of half the realm.

the door opened, and there she was. he bowed his head, a shadow of the playful man the court knew, his brightness dimmed to something quiet, almost raw.

“selyse,” he began softly, the name carrying something closer to reverence than routine, “i owe you more than this pitiful timing, but i couldn’t let the night pass without speaking plain.” his voice wavered with the strain of unspoken guilt, yet he steadied it with care.

he lifted his eyes at last, letting her see the truth in him, stripped of charm. “i hope you’ll believe me when i say i held you in respect, always. and i still do.”

@threadedjade

[threadedjade]

bleary eyes follow the velaryon's gaze, yawning once more. although she could pretend to be the pious, mirroring the hive as they sob into their palms, selyse can’t conjure the mood for theatrics. she tries to remain somber but it only makes her tired. selyse looks over at the valyreon, plainly, “because i have no interest in standing with the crocodiles trying their hardest to prove their fealty.” the pyre was already alight. must they stay until it was ash? why pay respect to a king who did not deserve it?

Raela had to seal her mouth as she watched King Aleyx burn on his pyre. It was elating seeing that old tyrant that forced her family to do unspeakable tasks finally meet his demise. It felt as though weight had been lifted off of her shoulders.

She heard Selys's question and looked up at the sky, gauging the position of the sun. "I'd say it's a little past noon" Raela looked back at Selys and kept her voice low. "Is there any reason why?" If other nobles were sneaking away, then there was no reason why Raela couldn't.

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it was such shame to see a great house such as that of the baratheons fall from the heights they had but, ambition is waxy. a resolve melts when brought to a boil, temperature too high to remain unchanged - having no choice but to burn itself until the only evidence remaining is a slick pool.

her fan slides shut with a click, each of its plumes falling neatly back into place the way she prefers it. "lord jasper, we shall not hear a single utterance of this terrorism your bloodline so loudly demands on such a blessed day. flattering the princess as your queen of love can only purchase so much clemency, and even then, your credit is with her."

which was an unkind way to say: there was no room in the tyrell's carriage for a stag's pride when put next to sofina's. but, even against her, jasper had an admirable coolness to his person. the roguish smile might have had some effect on her if he boasted even a sliver of his previous inheritance but it simply shoots a shiver up her spine.

"if you so crave to be removed from - as you say - oaths, allegiances, and stifling loyalties, then i assure you there will be no shortage of swords at the coronation. surely death by white cloak might grant some legend to your name?” be he so desperate to follow after his father, that is. if not for the rebellion, he would have lived an easy life (as easy as the game of thrones would have allowed them to be).

jasper leaned back against the polished wood of the carriage bench, letting the subtle sway of the wheels set a slow rhythm beneath him. his gaze flicked to the fluttering black lace of sofina’s fan, each delicate beat a mocking echo of the decorum she seemed so desperate to maintain.

“ah, the joys of propriety,” he murmured, voice smooth, measured, though sharp enough to cut through the polite silence. “one might almost envy the fan for the freedom it has to move about, unburdened by oaths, allegiances, and stifling loyalties.”

he let his eyes trace the curve of the tyrell girl’s posture, noting the perfect poise, the faint tension in her shoulders that spoke more than any polite words ever could. “i can assure you, lady sofina, my talents for causing a scene are… well-honed. but i promise, for the sake of your afternoon’s tranquility, i’ll keep them… restrained.” a ghost of a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, sly and unapologetic, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

jasper shifted slightly, letting the leather of the bench creak under him, a subtle assertion of his own presence. “though, i must say,” he added quietly, eyes glinting, “it would be a shame if the day were so perfectly civil. one wonders if perfection isn’t itself a kind of tyranny.” the words hung between them, a challenge wrapped in courtesy, and jasper leaned back once more, arms loose at his sides, savouring the unspoken friction. the tyrells expected obedience. he intended to enjoy defiance.

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" why can't you look me in the eye? " (to mielle)

an unfamiliar heat crawls up her neck, marking her red. having grown in the dornish heat, the yronwood was hardly one to succumb to the heat of the moment but she cannot bear it today - the lannister constantly coaxing a rise out of her in every capacity. trying her best to maintain level, mielle meets the lion's piercing gaze, "my interest in the kingsguard has never been a secret. i lost sight of it momentarily but... that was temporary."

[threadedjade]

“ may i have this dance? ” to mielle

the only thing mielle can liken the feeling to is being pinned to the ground, foot pressing down on her chest as she tries to maintain her breathing. falling in love feels a lot like defeat: surrendering into the racing heart, losing grip because of her clammy palms. she's never done anything like this before, never having ever felt like she can fit into the role of a lady before: blushing and beautiful.

shyly, mielle slips her palm into the lion's. her heart beats faster, more furiously. "as long as you lead."

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❛ I’m sure you did your best. ❜ (from jessa to mielle)

the kingsguard resists the urge to roll her eyes. if you asked mielle, the grown children of rebels had not been cut down to the knees with enough force - reminding them of their place. deigning not to reply, the yronwood tosses a towel in their direction.

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"i'm afraid. " - ashara for your choice !

mielle hasn't seen fear in some time - cutting it down with her sword in a decisive stroke, no sign of it in the mirror when sharp eyes peer in. unphased as ever, the kingsguard pats the sheath of her sword, charm dangling as she does, "trust in my sword, my lady."

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❛ They will underestimate you, and this will be your advantage. ❜ mielle, from maron

the weight of this feels heavy on her shoulders - mielle never having had much responsibility before due to the lack of interest the late bloodroyal of dorne had in her. she's used to being underestimated. the nerves come from being one to cause potential disappointment. but, it's only letters. simply something to update maron on her tenure in the kingsguard (there's a hawk flying home anyway, and sunspear isn't too far off). i shall do my best to be the pride of dorne, she pens in reply.

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❛ Sometimes, we have to pretend. ❜ ( allyria to mielle )

mielle dislikes the politics that she's gotten herself into - her youth blinding her all those years ago, having not realized that the white cloak came with a responsibility beyond protecting the crown. "and that should be a lesson in and of its self, lady jordayne. i find that i lack the ability to speak in king's landing second language of riddles and lies."

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❛ They wish now not for the good of the realm, but for the petty satisfaction of vengeance. ❜ (from wyatt to selyse)

the harlaw lord has an apt turn of phrase, finding herself agreeing with his calculation. it could have been worse for all of them but it feels especially cruel to strip the baratheons alone of their homestead. "i'll believe the new king's sentiments when the lord paramount of the stormlands belongs to a lord i can trust."

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❛ What we must do now is… terrible. ❜

it is terrible. to be asked to wait patiently while their lives hang in the balance, thumbs twiddling while they play these games of war, gambling with the fate of the stormlands. "it's insufferable!" the estermont groans, hands all but dragging down her face. "i almost wish i knew how to string a bow - let me be of some use!"

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❛ Sometimes, we have to pretend. ❜ (from diona to sofina)

her lips quirk upward, smile sympathetic, "i know i'd be displeased if i were you, lady diona." rings change hands like children and their musical chairs, as if these alliances are as flippant as sweets between children. if she had been as close to being wed to the baratheon heir her family's ward... "gambling with your future is one thing. gambling with your wife's is another."