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he sticks close, cerulean eyes no longer on the food displayed but on the woman by his arm; familiar confusion is sketched upon his features. he recalls days on the first decade of life he had been eager for a father's love and attention, until weekly meetings demonstrated that it was not in ronnet caron he could find his fill of affection. from the moment vysena announced herself with child, roy swore to himself that history would not be repeated on the children they bore, and yet… perhaps he does not lack love for his boy, but surely he lacks the time to show that (it is that that he focuses on, unbeknownst of a possible string being purposefully pulled; when it comes to their children, she must be above that, right?).

"your nightmare has come true, wife." a jest, for he has learned by now not to darken everything. "i believe there is time for both. for the three of you. this extended stay is not all bad," one would not catch him repeating this, of course; melvan's passing brought sorrow not only for the king, as he had known the lord hand for decades now, but grief comes tainted by a king's demands. "wolf's claws and lemoncakes," the lord caron repeats, parroting the order once more for the girl at the counter, who swiftly jumps to action at the sight of the heavy coin pouch. soon enough, the order is delivered, and he takes out one of the pastries, and promptly bites down a piece, before ripping some of the buttery pastry and offering it up to vysena's mouth. "i shall have this, as will you. there is many other bakeries still. we can have an indulgent meal with the children when we return. sugar is good medicine for any lingering upsets, no?"

a noncommittal hum is her only response, though the slight upturn at the corners have her mouth show she isn't so immune to her husband's humor. entering the bakery, she moves just out of his hold— though her own hand finds purchase in the crook of his elbow— and goes to look at the pastries on display. ❝ i do not believe it to be jealousy as the root of the issue; he may simply just . . . ❞ miss his father. there was a time where the words would have been said without hesitation and with little care for how they would hurt the man at her side. but above all things, royce is and always had been a good father, she will not make him feel terrible over bryce's occasional outbursts. ❝ he grows older, and as he does so perhaps he needs less of his mother's care and more of his father's. he wants to be like you, so a day of just the two of you would alleviate the issue, i am sure. though i cannot promise bryanne won't then be demanding your undivided attention next, ❞ with a gentle squeeze of her hand upon his arm, attention is turned to the pastries presented, ❝ i think the wolf's claws are a good idea. bryce will likely want lemoncakes. do you see anything you'd like, darling? ❞

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lady dominique lannister, edits. the gems of the north.

[ ... ] four names in winterfell, four ladies of westeros.    they say they were always together, one never too far behind another. four sister spirits, more beautiful than any treasure. the gems of the north. / @ivoryielded + @courageoussly + @wylldwoods

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lynara rolls her eyes, before returning them with a half-minded glare in her brother's direction. she had, in fact, often been like this — excitement had run deep, replacing longing and worry when roderic returned from the rebellion, still more a boy than a man, though it had not lasted as he preferred, instead, to wander around the known world. despite all of his worldly experience — which greatly overpasses her own — she could see him as nothing but the son her mother taught her to pray for, wishing for his well being wherever he was. "it won't be marriage that will change me." not that she would admit that, of course. "we both know?" lynara scoffs at the ridiculousness of his words. "so you're content just staying here? not being able to leave the city?" thin brows raise, half a dare, half true curiosity. as far as she knew, it was father that kept him in winterfell, who's to say he won't leave with everyone else as soon as he can?

at last, she relents, offering another petulant roll of the eyes before her face brightens with a chuckle. "she doesn't like supervision. maybe she imagines you'd become a big brother for once in your life," it's a tease, made all the more obvious by the smile that she allows to grow in her lips, even as it falters momentarily. "i am well, as i can be. the lord hand…" the smile trembles, and she has to press her lips together not to sigh out. this was not her pain, yet it ached as an echo of the loss of their father, still so recent in her heart. "what of you? have you presented yourself for ysilla's support?"

"half a day as a married woman and you already sound like mother scolding me like that." he jokes, being careful as he takes a step closer to his sister. "the way you're saying sounds like i've never stayed at home. which we both know is not the truth." not when he had spent the last three years at home, traveling only when their father or older brother found it important. and rodric never had freedom on those types of travels, that's why he was enjoying so damn much being at kings landing this time. "i could. but i do not think the runt wants me to travel with her. i think she's ashamed of me as all younger siblings are." it's his time to pout, making it look like he is sad that nikara wouldn't want him to travel with her. "how are you?" he asks, this time there's no sign of amusement in his voice. the last couple of weeks had been very complicated for lynara, he knew that. but the events of the last day were more than anyone could expect.

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the memory of septa anyssa, a woman from south of the neck brought to winterfell as the lady stark's attempt to prepare her children and those she had harbored to the ways of the south, makes lynara's lips tremble — smile only comes to fruition, even if discreet, at the sight of olynna's own. "she had also said better one another than one of my brothers." she meant men, for that purpose, but that seems an outdated lesson when lynara wuld do better joining her husband's bed rather than an old friend's. one more thing for her to ignore, it seems, lynara decides, sitting cross-legged on the place offered, facing olynna. "thank you. for the tea. i do not know how you recalled it amidst your sorrow, but i appreciate it greatly." a hand reaches forward to take one of the arryn's, which lynara brings to her lips. "have you eaten at all today? try not to lie to me."

Olynna had been in her night gown since the sun had began to go down, after a long bath that had relaxed her tense body and warmed her soul. undone she laid prompt up by one one arm, her free hand gently tapped her lips with careful fingers. her thoughts were in the dark corners of her memory, how she had asked for a distraction and they had more than delivered. the arryn could not stop replying the scene over and over. she does not hear the careful steps, nor the doors opening. it is not until she speaks that she snaps in her direction. "no, i am not, it seems our septa was right. we would grow badly accustomed to each other." a small smile creeps to her lips as she taps the other side of the bed.

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bewilderment, bordeline on offense, is plainly written on her features for a moment, before lynara remembers to school her face into pleasantness. "how so?" still, she queries. "i can think of nothing worse to bless a wedding than a murder." it was the most horrible omen she could think of, in fact, save only perhaps to the death of her spouse, which, despite the willing distance, she couldn't begin to consider. of course, self-centered as she is right now, she misses the dismissal of the king's pain by his own daughter — though when it is brought up again, lynara finds it difficult to remain only consternated. of course, it should be natural that a daughter would stay by her father's side.

"i would not like you to go, princess," she is quick to correct herself, not wishing argella to feel unwelcomed or displeased with her, when it is clear that the baratheon is trying to strike some sort of friendship with her — she should be grateful for this, after all. "we have had so little time to become acquainted with one another, with your duty to your husband in greenstone. now that he is gone — and may the seven protect his soul — i suppose you, too, must be looking forward to getting to know the capitol, even if it is in such… circumstances." lips purse. "of course," the stark agrees readily, with a dip of her head. "i have never been the bravest between my sisters, i must say. i can only hope the king's justice shall prevail and the killer will be unearthed."

❛ on the contrary, i dare say the gods would find it all rather amusing. ❜ amusement rose beneath her bosom and was subsequently expelled upon breath. of course, argella was not the most pious of devotees and so some may wish to contradict her statement, as was their right, but one need only glance upon the fates of many within westeros to fathom that those they worshipped had a twisted sense of humour. any amusement held within her features slipped at the mention of her father ; her countenance darkened, a frown firmly set upon her previously smirking lips. she did not respond to the statement , unable to trust her own tongue around those she scarcely knew, yet there is more she is eager to say but the likelihood of lynara being willing to provide any salacious tidbits to her musings seemed somewhat fanciful.

❛ leave ? why on earth would i leave king's landing ? ❜ argella is aware, after the fact, just how stern her tone sounded and whilst her stoic look of perplexity remained, she made the conscious effort to lighten her tone. she could, on second thought, understand why lynara would voice the question. argella was a mother and whilst she would always do what she needed to protect her daughter, her maternal instinct was often to closely entwined with her ambition. so what might have seemed like the natural course of action to another woman, another mother, seldom appeared that way to argella. ❛ i shall not abandon my father in his hour of need. ❜ it took a great deal of strength mutter the addage, even if he was not there for mine, but lynara would have to discover her begrudging pettiness another day. ❛ we must all stand united and not show any form of cowardice, besides, i do not think we have anything to fear. ❜

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your highness, with the most grating tone — the one she'd known for mockery when lynara had, rather callously as characteristic of a silly fourteen year old, rejoiced at the opportunity to marry a prince down south. now, the words receive a glare from lynara, who promptly halts her steps. "do not make me curse you out." she so rarely did, much less in a place of holiness, as false as this one is. unlike river, who had seemed fixated with its human, lynara opts not to gaze at her sister anymore, not at her spite, nor at the confusion that follows. "sacrifices bring forth good things. it can not be called that anymore." the words slips out from her lips before she can stop them; shame colors her cheeks at the admission, something she had never wished to share with alara of all people, so the eldest continues to walk, gravel prickly under way too soft satin shoes but better than the certain judgment that would come in its heels (it is her misfortune that she does not see the stretched out limb, a branch she unwillingly twists, at least for now).

"it is not your approval i seek, alara," an exception perhaps, but she had learned not to concern herself with most of her siblings' opinions of her — she was so very different of them, and held so many expectations already, she could not hold lara's and nika's too (their love, however, is a different story; the words are always enough to poke the bleeding wound that is lynara's heart). "i do care for your love, as well as your company, for as long as i may have it. i know you wish for a swift departure, but i do not know if i share the sentiment."

"yes, your highness." the response was as reflexive as it was characteristically blunt, catching even alara off guard at how venomous and snappish it sounded to her own ears. up ahead, stirred by her partner's tone, river cast their own silent rebuke back upon her. "no." she relented after a moment wilting under the weight of those golden eyes, "not really. not with you, at least." this place, these people, herself... that was another matter entirely. taking her pain out on lynara had been petty. more so when her sister had shouldered more than her fair share already. and yet she couldn't bring herself to offer the apology she had spent days rehearsing. not here, not at the scene of the crime, not while the thorns pricked her still. it was fortunate indeed that there were no gods here to judge her cowardice. she and she alone had that task. "i understand why you..." her voice wavered traitorously as it was want to do of late. if she looked at her sister now, she would be undone yet again and once was enough for this lifetime. "why you made the choice you did. the sacrifice it was. is. do not ask me to approve of it, sister." though she kept her gaze locked on the direwolves ahead, her hand reached out, blindly seeking the kinship of her sister's own. "but never think i do not understand, nor love you any less for it."

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ah, yronwood. something sparks the memory — a wedding of sorts? likely of this lady and her husband, a sparse tale scribbled some years ago in letters of great distance between winterfell and godsgrace. "though my half-sister has wed to a dornish man, my knowledge fails me at times, my lady, you must forgive me." smile stays, still, amiable, and a nod accompanies it at the mention of olynna. "yes, she has been my company since we were girls." she pauses. "this is a day of great sorrow for her, and, as thus, for me." she dips her head, though gaze raises at the mention of dorne. "how unfortunate it is that you must see this, rather than more joy. i can only hope this does not soil your opinion of the crownlands." it certainly has stained hers, who only knows this place for a couple of weeks. "is the way of mourning much different in dorne, my lady?" they worship the seven too, lynara thinks. "i must hope you have not much experience in the rites, however."

Lale gives the other a gentle curtsy that her stacion demands, "lady lale yronwood, your hingness." she offers, with with sweets disposition, she did no expect the other to know her, she had always been better at blending in the masses than standing out in them. it had been a skill she had used in pass life. "you and the lady," she pauses rattling her mind for the name, "lady olynna? are quite close, am i right?" she offers with a smile, it was good the other lady had such a loyal friend. they were hard to come by. the ones that matter anyways. "i did not, this is my first time venturing outside of dorne you see." she gives the other a wary smile. "i never had much a need to go beyond the lands of my people. i came only to accompany my dear husband at the kings calling." she confesses. "but i have heard the tales of the lord, a good aid to the kingdom." and a sort of negative things, but there was no need to repeat those.

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if relief allows the youngest to crumble, it strengthens the elder's foundation, porcelain hardening to marble, unwilling to brittle and eager to offer comfort to someone whose pain she knows well of. ysilla's question, though, renders her quiet for a moment. "praying make me feel not so lonely." she had not always done so by herself, quietly begging for grace and strength as she stood as good a distance allowed during the worst bouts of harlon stark's illness, as well as wailing in another's arms, but it was all the same to her. of course, no amount of prayer for strength from dead starks had done her father any good, but if lynara was to dwell on this, she'd lose her wits, and this is something she couldn't have afforded then, and she can't afford now.

her heart is wrenched at the arryn's words; much as she had when her father wasted away, she knows little of how she can be of help. if anything, she can only commiserate, imagine how miserable her father would be if he had not found his eternal rest on the stark crypts, alongside all of the others of their house. "it is so very awful," at last, she says, squeezing ysilla's hand in heartfelt sorrow. "but it is so soon. the king shall not deny his greatest friend a return home… one day." a sutured, heavy body, with meat still rotting would be a difficulty — bones, however, may find easier travel. "i know little of how convincing i can be, but i shall speak with his majesty… that on the anniversary of this day, your father shall be home. and in the meanwhile… have you seen that his statue is commissioned, silla? i know it is of no replacement but…" none would ever be enough, not the only suitable one was lord melvan still breathing.

a soft nod is offered. "in the north, we have our trees with faces, faces that have known a hundred of my ancestors. it's like they still remain there, lending their strength to me." the tree in the godswood of the red keep does not have a face, nor is it the ancient weirwood she had known all her life — but the southern have their gods too, all with their own distinct faces (she chances a glance to the veiled figure of the stranger somewhere near the altar, the abhorred god of the death for those down south). "there is no hymns, i'm afraid. we only ask, earnestly, from our hearts, what it is that we need and they shall see that it will happen. i have been praying for your father, for both the old and the new, as soon as i have heard. but i can stay with you and do as you wish for as long as you'd have me."

hushed  conversation  was  very  nearly  perceived  within  the  quiet  of  the  sept  ─  her  ears  twitched  with  an  effort  to  eavesdrop,  to  find  fault  in  innocent  whispers  ─  but  whoever  it  was  that  had  accompanied  the  owner  of  the  approaching  footsteps  seemed  to  have  been  sent  away  to  grant  them  a  moment  of  privacy.  ysilla  remained  uncertain  if  that  was  cause  for  apprehension  or  appreciation  until  warm  fabric  brushed  against  her  forearm  as  the  other  joined  her  in  genuflection,  the  smooth  northern  timbres  of  lynara  stark  easing  at  her  defenses  until  the  young  arryn  visibly  deflated,  shoulders  once  drawn  tight  around  the  ears  dropping  to  an  impolite  slouch  of  exhaustion.  in  the  back  of  her  mind,  ysilla  knew  that  neither  of  them  should  be  in  such  a  position,  especially  not  the  newly  married  princess  consort  of  the  crownlands  but  her  knees  remained  weak  still,  aching  on  the  cool marble  tiles  beneath  her. ❝  ...  did  it  help  ?  ❞  as  soft  as  the  wind,  her  voice  carried  through  the  empty  sept.  ❝  praying.  ❞  ysilla  had  never  found  much  purpose  in  prayer,  falling  out  of  her  beliefs  sometime  after  her  mother  had  passed,  but  having  been  raised  in  the  faith,  ritual  came  as  naturally  to  her  as  breathing  and  there  might  have  been  some  comfort  found  in  performing  the  rites  to  lay  her  father  to  rest  if  the  whole  matter  was  not  so  public.  ❝  he  will  never  rest  in  our  crypts  ...  the  space  beside  my  mother  will  forever  be  empty.  we  belong  in  the  mountains,  lynara,  just  as  much  as  you  starks  belong  in  the  north.  how  will  he  find  his  way  home  ?  ❞  she  understood,  of  course,  that  the  logistics  of  carrying  a  body  across  land  or  sea  at  such  a  distance  would  be  a  folly  but  realism  held  no  place  alongside  grief.   slowly,  her  hands  were  unfurled  from  the  tight  clench  ─  blood  rushed  back  to  her  palms,  pale  knuckles  regaining  color  as  she  clutched  onto  lynara's  hand  as  though  it  were  a  lifeline,  a  distraction.  ❝  i  wish  for  you  to  stay  ...  teach  me  one  of  your  northern  prayers,  if  you'd  be  so  kind.  my  father  will  need  both  the  new  and  old  gods  to  guide  him  in  the  afterlife.  ❞

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“the sea doesn’t care about you!!” ok well just because the ocean is unspeakably powerful and can’t stop the rhythm she’s held for uncountable eons just for one person doesn’t mean she can’t love you. loving and changing are two different things. we wouldn’t have life without the ocean…. and yeah, if you don’t respect her and treat her cavalierly, you’ll perish. but how can anyone say the sea doesn’t mourn when she holds so much life and beautiful secrets in her belly? why are we putting atheism on the ocean that loves us?

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"i shall not hear it again, fret not." manners are dismissed, though not entirely unappreciated — in the end, what would be the judge of this encounter and the possibility of another would be alys' usefulness, not her quickness to courtesy. careless of her discomfort, the blonde simply continues taking turns to guide them to their destination, though marilda does turn her head to scoff at the mention of the lady beesbury's beliefs. "before we were wed, i told uthor i would rather stitch his face together than embroidery a tower on a man's clothing. he still wedded me. embroidery shall hardly be your greatest asset." she agrees, even if curiosity strikes as she halts her steps in front of a moderate sized building; despite its name, reeking lane was not particularly filthy, or, at least, this one apprentice shop was not. after knocking, she looks at her young companion again. "and what do you believe you should be judged upon?"

"I must thank you again for letting me accompany you, lady hightower." alys burbled as they made their way through the streets of king's landing. streets; the word barely seemed to apply. For all the books, all the stories, that had been written about such a place, the supposed capital of the seven kingdoms and the proclaimed beating heart of westeros was… a dirty, dingy and wholly disappointing affair for young lady. how anyone lived in such soiled, sordid squallor was beyond her - really! hadn't they read maester garwyn's riveting treatise in 'cleanliness, hygiene & well being; an unsanitised guide to better living'? her nose wrinkled as they navigated another twisted alleyway that looked just as filthy as the last; finding her answer what smelled very much like the bowels of an over used privvy come feast day. philistines. if they merely devoted a little more effort to learning about the world, then perhaps they would not be so prone sinking to the bottom like this. "embroidery, most likely." a task that made even venturing through the streets of king's landing a pleasant escape. not that that stopped her from clutching her own heavy cloak around her like a protective shield as they passed the apparent dregs of society. "i believe mother fears i shan't find a proper match if i cannot stitch a flower on to a dress. as if that should be the standard by which i should be judged! really!"

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she gives him a hum, lilac eyes searching the room with a lentor that told she was not truly focusing on anything — for all of her self-engrandment, attention to detail has never been her forte. "do you believe melvan would have left something? or do you search for something the culprit may have interest upon?" marilda does not have qualms asserting her curiosity; for all of the play pretend, it comes as no surprise she is well-acquainted enough with the council and its business, at least roughly so. he catches her, of course, and marilda lets out a small chuckle, obnoxiously rehearsed in its gracefulness. "my pretty little mind is not all air, so yes, indeed. how could i not concern myself when there is a likelihood mine own husband could have befallen on the hand's fate? or yourself, lord goodbrother." marilda shakes her head, furrow between her brows, as if it is a most horrifying thought (uthor's death, perhaps, but not iravan's and certainly not melvan's). "and have you found any? clues?"

The lord goodbrother scratches his head at the sound of the familiar voice that he wishes he did not know, or that it simply it had not walked into the room. the lady hightower was not on top of his favorite list, and he was not foolish enough to think that he was on hers. if anything she managed to make him uneasy, that doll like eyes, angelic face, but every knowing smile. as if she could read right through someone with once over look. "neither did i, although i cannot say i am here for sentimentalism, lady hightower."

"cannot say that either, i am looking for answers, clues of any kind that perhaps i have missed in the pass few days." he groans, taking another swing of his drink. "i am wondering if this is an isolated attack to even a score between the lord and someone else, of it is a targeted one, and if that includes the rest of the small council" he ponders out loud. "surely that pretty little mind of yours has began turning with such thoughts," he finally looks at her, tilting his head to the side, finding his confidence against the ice of her gaze.

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marilda would never consider herself soft of heart, but she supposes she has grown somewhat after having her own children, and with the memory of loved ones upon rhaena's countenance, for she finds an easy, genuine smile tug at the corners of her lips as the youngest princess agrees with her sister's plea. "you could have been a septa in another life." the one she was not a beggar princess, destined for queendom, lies the implication. "or a mother." though, that, too, is something that awaits visella at some point, though marilda will allow herself the grace of not prodding about that for a long time to come.

perhaps something that did bring softness in her was the mention of her former mistress. the queen daenera had been far too gentle, too understanding, willing to placate the pest she was, even with moderate success. "i would say that what she has done the best has been the four of you." a pause. "though i am hardly humble myself, so i will accept it." the eldest grins, for her own ego, but also so the joy may infect the princess' moods into not faltering. marilda recalls her own mother's death, the ache that it had left, and better yet, she recalls the queen's, and for both occasions, she hadn't been entasked with anything as perilous and worrisome as visella had been.

"i am gladdened you've been enjoying the dark hair. you shall need to get accustomed with it. for a fortnight longer, at least." that is a concern that lingers, though she measures it not to spill on her features in front of anyone but her husband — even visella. still, there is some there. "not many, not while inquiries are still being done. it is not as if people shall boast of proximity to the deceased when that could lead them to the noose. 'tis a moment of fragility for the usurper, certainly, and orys has never been one to be entirely reliable when his head is hot." it was for his offense that he had begun a rebellion, after all. "he is not used to think on his own, however. melvan has always wormed his way in there, so i wonder who shall find root in that vacancy next. uthor has been thinking, you see." though that line of thinking, too, was one with risks.

"what do you find of the extension of your sojourn? do you believe you can keep… a leash? on your siblings?" words are threaded with care, passing gaze on the cat-sized fire-breathing reptile still in the room; targaryens never quite liked to be contained, after all.

                 ❝   they   are   surely   not   for   the   faint   of   heart,   ❞    visella   agrees,   much   to   the   youngest   targaryen's   dismay.   rhaena,   as   headstrong   and   determined   as   her   eldest   sister   at   her   age,   begins   a   mumbling   compliant   against   the   conversation   at   hand.   boredom   had   plagued   rhaena's   opinions   of   king's   landing.   despite   haunting   the   gardens   and   having   her   own   roam   of   the   merchant   streets,   she   hadn't   been   allowed   to   experience   the   city   she   had   heard   so   many   tales   of   from   her   elder   siblings.   promise   of   an   escape   from   these   rooms,   of   something   fun,   had   her   violet   eyes   alight   with   wonder.   small   arms   wrapped   around   her   sister's   waist,   pleading   with   visella   to   agree   with   the   lady   hightower's   request.    ❝   surely   we   can   arrange   something.   but   you   must   finish   your   lessons   for   today.   ❞    rhaena,   near   bouncing   with   excitement,   placed   a   reciprocal   kiss   against   her   sister's   and   then   marilda's   cheeks,   disappearing   from   sight   as   she   returned   to   learning   the   history   of   westeros   in   peace.

a   sigh   slips   from   pink   -   painted   lips,   heeding   the   words   of   her   trusted   friend.   time   spent   in   king's   landing   had   allowed   for   festering   of   poor   thoughts.   of   wishing   mercy   had   the   wing   span   to   fly   high   above   the   red   keep.   of   making   a   meal   of   the   old   stag   who   inhabited   her   throne.   smile   crosses   briefly   sullen   expression   as   the   princess   lingers   too   long   on   the   thoughts   of   another   of   the   baratheon's   rule   falling   victim   to   his   own   karma.    ❝   thank   you,   marilda.   you   know   your   kind   words   always   bring   me   peace.   ❞    pause   holds   the   dragon's   tongue,   gaze   settling   on   marilda's   own   violet   hues.    ❝   for   the   few   things   my   beloved   mother   did   right,   you   are   the   best   of   them.   ❞    visella's   voice   nearly   betrays   her   ——   a   subject   she   chooses   to   avoid   for   sake   of   hiding   her   emotions.   to   confide   in   someone   who   had   always   been   like   family,   to   hear   her   comfort   in   continuing   to   aid   the   queen   who   believed   she   was   going   mad,   visella   was   grateful.   lord   and   lady   hightower   had   brought   peace,   eased   the   minds   of   the   eldest   three   siblings.   they   had   reignited   hope   that   was   squandered   beneath   the   sand   and   the   dust   in   pentos.   they   had   given   them   opportunity.   and   visella   would   be   indebted   to   them   for   as   long   as   she   may   live.    

visella   is   comforted   by   marilda's   jests,   cheeks   displaying   her   dimples   with   the   sheer   weight   of   her   smile.    ❝   i   believe   dark   hair   suits   me.   i   have   received   many   a   compliment   during   my   outings   in   the   city.   ❞

❝   what   news   have   you   heard   of   the   lord   hand's   demise?   ❞    the   princess   asks.   king   aelor   had   always   called   the   ruling   lord   arryn   an   '   old   fool,   '    not   to   be   trusted   as   far   as   his   moon   door   would   allow   him   to   fly.   but   if   his   death   meant   something   more   for   the   dragonlings   hiding   in   plain   sight,   directly   under   the   nose   of   the   king,   visella   wanted   to   know.   if   lord   uthor   believed   this   to   be   a   moment   of   weakness   for   the   usurper   he   served,   visella   wanted   to   hear   it   from   his   wife. 

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mindless nod is offered; with her head torn between so many thoughts, his touch and heat beneath her seems to be the only thing grounding her. still, the thought of an interrogation is less than a pleasant possibility. "i trust visella shall not slip," the little princess never did, even as a girl. with a click of a tongue, marilda implies the same can not quite be said for the other two (three, but how could she even count rhaena) targaryens. "but the more they stay in the city... i do not know." but she supposes there is little else to do but to stuff them with pertinent information, hoping that details should be key to disperse.

fair brows raise after his inquiry. "so he has not asked?" of course not. as if orys could see reason, driven by his wills as he is — he would wallow and drink and scream and fuck away his grief first before taking care of the kingdom. "you are the senior member of the council, my love. and the position of the hand... while it would bring you many headaches, do you not find it to be useful? it was the last hand the one to plunge a knife in the dragon king's back." tybolt may have not done it himself, but without the lannisters, king's landing would not have fallen so horribly. "you would have to stay here, if he did." distance was not a problem for them, even if marilda was certain that she would not mind making permanent residence in court should he need her. "but eagerness... would not bode well. we may not be the only ones who would gain from that winged rat's death, but if you rise further, who is to say orys won't find it fit to cut your wings to find a culprit?" no, that could not be. she pauses, pulling back to glance at him. "do you wish for it?"

,

He feels secure in her arms, safe not that there is an issue with safety or a worry over his life despite the fact someone had slain a council member. Too much was coming to a head far too quickly; murder wrinkling finely fleshed out plans even as there were moving parts pending change and or confirmation of other players revealing their hand in the game. Half angered and half pestered by this turn of events there was a feeling of loose ends that caused him to feel adrift. Her arms pulled him back, rescuing him from a sea of thought. Reaching a hand upwards he attempted to brush a finger along her cheek. His touch would be tender if his wife allowed him the moment of tenderness. "Thank you wife for taking the initative to reach back out to cedric - cedric does need to be kept informed. We must consult with our princess to give her further details on your cousins so that they may blend more seamlessly. Names, dates, information only the cousins would know and have need to know that you have heard. If Orys the maddening stag intends to do what I would and that would be to interrogate the guests that had contact with the hand the dragonlings will need that assistance from us. I will write letters to our contact in essos on their behalf to have her majesty pen so if a handwriting sample is requested should things go further awry that they match." Uthor breathed well aware of those in his own house and those connected knowing some tragically were supporters of orys. Closing his eyes he took a deep breath again. "I do not want to seem imprudent and ask for the dead man's position but as one of the older members of the council and with as firm a support as the king believes I am if he asks - what answer should I give him. To refuse is understandable a man is killed at the foot of his bed. To accept though - I need your council my wife not that he has asked but if he should I need to prepare an answer. "

[ivoryielded]

HAVANA ROSE LIU in NO EXIT (2022).

[ivoryielded]

@thcrnedhearts

despite the king's demand to send all houses but those most necessary to the city rather than the walls of the keep, the castle was still crowded with familiar and unfamiliar faces upon the call for the interrogations. even those who had already performed their duty tended to linger around in gossip circles — that was precisely marilda's position right now, of course. until the sight of one of the latest released from the interrogation chambers catches her attention. "lady marbrand," the lady hightower greets, high-spirited. "isn't it just dreadful the council is also being interrogated? one would think our majesty does not trust those who serve him most loyally."

[ivoryielded]

@iechor

her humors are rotten, spoiled beyond grief for the fatality and marred with anger over a few last encounters, but she had told herself none of it could be transparent when she was called to one of the dining rooms of the baratheon wing, the one that had been given to her should she wish to entertain. obviously, she didn't, but the call had come from her husband's own hand, which is as well as saying it had come from the king's mouth, so there was little to do but to comply. now, sitting some ridiculous distance from her princely husband, lynara bit more the inside of her cheek than the venison on her plate, laid almost forgotten. "is this your favorite?" they had started a game of sorts, that fateful, damned night — a bridge to friendship over the most ordinary questions. then, it felt like something that could almost grow into its intention but, now, with the both of them dressed in mourning cloth over the death of someone they should both be saddened for, it just falls flat.

[ivoryielded]

@scarletblcd

as expected of the queen's closest kin, the lannister quarters are of the most lavish sort, perhaps short only of the royals themselves (though, knowing of tybolt's temper and daven's ego, she wouldn't doubt if either of those pompous fuckers had tried to up themselves in here); enough to house all of the lannister born and now bred, it gives the youngest of the hightowers — orys, ceryse and bryndon — plenty of room to run around alina's own brats. one, however, stays steady in marilda's arms, who smiles down at the babe, one eyebrow raised. "she's lost the new babe smell, lina. damn you for taking her away from me," voice is sweet, naturally flippant, lilac eyes focused on cassella. "i think she's forgotten all about me, already. all because of those ugly rocks."