#you'll always be my hero even though you've lost your mind (arron&guinevere)

[gcuienveres]

who: @arronlannister​ where: the apartments of the lannister prince, shortly following the news of prince arron lannister’s incident with the river king. news and rumour spread considering the level of shouting and the threats that were bellowed, and guinevere is made aware three days after the incident.

there was no ghost walking the hallways of highgarden’s apartments, within the rooms that had been allocated to the lions den; only the sound of pacing, with a step that seemed to echo andb ounce over the walls. the pace she used was deafening, almost mirroring and echoing the sound of her footsteps as she ran the night the sky turned black and the kraken emerged from the sea; golden curls shaped her frame and her hair, golden curls that shaped and framed her marble face. 

it was a mane, and in this moment guinevere lannister was no lioness - the servants and attendents in the hall paused, quickly dipping into a low curtsy as thunder seemed to roll on by them. she were no lioness. she was the lion. the king’s rage had pushed his way into the forces of the trident and swore chaos, swore bloodshed and anarchy and all other matters of unholy degradation in an attempt to force her hand. force her hand to the river king. force her hand for not signing the falsehood that was the act of supremacy, force her hand by threatening to murder and unleash seven hells. 

“inform the prince i am to see him.”

her stature straightened at the doors of her brother’s apartments, steely emerald hues fixing upon each of the guards as she awaited for them to grant her entrance. in the very back of her mind she heard the distant sound of something crushing and thundering that drowned out all other minor noises surrounding her, the sound of footsteps, the heavy oak doors opening to grant her view into his chambers. where was he? 

it were almost as though she had begun to stalk her way across his chambers to find him, and find him she did. from one room to another, nothing but ivory lace and unruly golden curls; and yet still, as she stood in the doorway, she remained fixed on the spot. merely looking at him was enough for her to feel the pace of her heart begin to slow. only for it to pick right back up again. her ears felt hot, and she felt as though something burned at the very tip of her tongue. 

“are you mad?” and her voice was low, a slight quiver within it. “have you lost your mind? need i truly tell you what you have made of me?” and suddenly, it were as though she stalked forwards. one step, another step. then she paused. her pride burned. her pride, her pride - it burned. there was fire in her eyes, that same unstable shake of anger that swept over her that night in dorne where the king’s wrath had come face to face with his sister. how it felt like the gods or the devils sat in the room with them. “look at me. look at me. do you think you need to threaten a man to wed me?” 

[gcuienveres]

who: @wcrdsarewind​ (arron farman, lord of the fair isles) where: the lion’s mouth, casterly rock, the westerlands

The familiar sound of drums rung across the Lion's Mouth, echoing and booming off cavern walls filled with all disdained glittering gold; a tune she had found herself quietly humming to herself as she pulled the brush through golden curls, wild, unkept, like a lion itself. Quietly humming to innocence itself wrapped within a blanket, her hand gently moving aside the small wisps of dark curls that were already beginning to form upon him; those words that were mere scribbles on the side of a prayer book had turned into something else entirely. Washing away all what felt like was left of her, as strong as the current of the mighty Trident, in hearing those drums and violins play.

And mine are long and sharp, my lord As long and sharp as yours.

Her posture had been fixed and poised against the soft wind of the sunset sea as hues of orange and pink slowly came to spill like paint itself over the skies of the heavens, crowds of the common folk of Lannisport and all surrounding areas cheering what felt like thunder itself over the sound of the drums. Perhaps it hadn't felt real until her emerald orbs glanced over blade after blade of the men that stepped from the galleys, almost as though she were trying to visualise the crimson blood that once stained it. Perhaps her own mind hadn't felt real as she felt a sense of inflated pride at the mere thought, her back straightening slightly against the wind.

She knew not if it were the Seven she felt in her presence as the sun continued to disappear beyond the horizon of the sunset sea; or seven devils, watching nobleman after nobleman leave with a nod of her head. Marbrand, Serrett, Westerling all crossed an alabaster statue, the very essence of duty; how far she had gone, only to return to these docks and be such an image once again. Emeralds fell upon the giant longsword first, and she knew before rising her gaze to the sight of her blood stepping upon the fertile Westerland soil once again.

The statue cracked, her skirts of glittering gold and the rubies hanging around her neck moving with each of her movement as she moved towards him; slowly, and then all at once. What was it when a volcano met a tornado? Her arms were around his towering frame, and his arms fell around her just as easily; how having her face in his chest even for a moment felt like she had been granted some mercy, some salvation from the Gods. Was it the Gods or the devils holding them together?

“What is it?” Her voice was hushed as she looked up at him, remaining close to his chest; because between the blazing trumpets of victory, the sweet release of duty done, there was tragedy. There was betrayal. “What is it, Arron?” Her hand had slipped to his jaw, bearded over the months of bloodshed and glory. 

But now the rains weep o'er his hall With not a soul to hear.

[gcuienveres]

@wcrdsarewind