Fandom ♛ Liar's Court ♛ - A Game Of Thrones RP

[QuirkyAngel]

Lady Judyth Umber

Judyth stared straight ahead as small hands worked through her hair, braiding them in ways which she couldn’t do if she were on her own. She didn’t need a mirror to know that Eren would make her look her best for the trial to come. Ten though he may be, the child was bright and knew all sorts of things from serving his former master—including the styles and dresses that would be appreciated by the fashion critics of the South. Not that she intended to arrive in King’s Landing looking like a complete Southerner. The blood of the North still flowed strongly in her, after all. She trusted that Eren would make her look exactly how she wanted.

“Thanks as always, Eren.” Judyth glanced back ,smiling at the boy when he was done. “I don’t what I’d do without you.”

Indeed, few aboard the Giant’s Lover were as skillful as Eren when it came to the small things. Most were seasoned warriors or seamen and knew little about the needs of a woman. Judyth would have liked to hire a female on the ship if she could, but finding one willing to brave all way up to the cold waters of the North was as hard as finding her a husband.

Possible, but difficult.

“Tis no problem, Milday.” Eren hopped off the chair, as Judyth added the final touches. Pearls and jewelry from the North. Her wares. There was no better way to advertise than to wear them herself. “Will Lords Jon and Jarl be coming?”

“If they are, it’ll be with Father—accompanying the Starks.” She could see Eren brighten at the news. He’d taken a liking to her brothers ever since his first trip to the Umber House.

“Isn’t it better if we go with them?”

“We’ll miss the trial if we do that.” Judyth replied. A place where so many lords and potential customers from all regions came together a peddler’s wet dream. “Afterwards, they’ll probably crown the next king of the Seven Kingdoms. Wouldn’t want to miss that either.”

“Did the queen really kill the king?”

No surprise that Eren had heard. Merchants gossiped like girls.

“I don’t know.” She’d only ever heard bad things about how Lucerys Targaryen treated his wives. “But if she did, it was a bad time to do so. Should’ve at least waited until her son was of ruling age.”

The ‘son’ was the key. If she had killed her husband for her son, then why was he missing? Unless she was in insane, or there were other factors involved, she had no motive. Then again, only the midwives present at the time could confirm the existence of such a son…and if there was no son, her reason for killing the king was obvious.

“Please don’t talk so brazenly like that, Judy.” The door opened and Talwin Nestoris entered, ledger under his arms. “King’s Landing is in sight. We should be docking soon.”

Eren dashed out the door, eager to see land. Judyth stood at a slower place, smiling warmly at her friend as he handed her the ledger for a final review. “Everything is accounted for?”

“Yes. We’ll stay on the ship while you negotiate with the nobles. Send a signal when you need us.”

“Don’t you want to see the trials?”

“What for? These things are always decided days before the proceedings anyway. ”

Judyth smirked. Of course Talwin would be familiar with how her kind worked. “Yes, but the trial hasn’t started yet, has it? How much do you think Lord Arryn would pay to have his daughter released unharmed? Similarly how much is Queen Ashara’s execution worth to her accusers? The answer will be revealed on the day of the trial.”

“You’re treading in dangerous waters, Lady Judyth Umber.”

“But of course. That’s where the money’s at.” Tossing her head back, Judyth straightened her gown and exited the room as a lady of noble origins should.

 

[RayPurchase]

Grandmaester Barrian
​

The flame flickered intermittently, sending shadows creeping down the long rows of shelving. Grasping hands and forked tongues could be picked out, twisting and darting along the walls as the flame danced. The shadows grew in the wake of the flame as it passed, spreading from the corners. The air was heavy with dust, and the lack of windows added to the heavy, oppressive air. The leather sandals slapped against the stone floor, the noise echoing through the darkness. The flame grew closer to the shelving, picking out rows and stacks of leather bound books, gilt lettering of the titles picked out by the light. A pale hand emerged from heavy black robes, and began dancing over the covers, tracing the lettering it. After passing several it came to a halt.

Justice in the Seven Kingdoms - An Academic Insight into the codification and implementation of the unified rule of law of Jaehaerys I - By Grand Maester Benifer

“Perfect,”

The tome was hefty, and for a moment he struggled with it, the candle in one hand, and the book in the other. The light lit up Barrian’s face, the shock of white hair almost reflecting the light, the shadows of the wrinkles and laughter lines picked out. A dusty tome, and not just physically. Benifer wasn’t exactly known for his prose. His insight into law and order was about as boring as it sounded, Barrian had nearly gone quite mad several times studying the book during his apprenticeship. But if there was a time that Benifer’s insight was needed, it was surely now. The time for mourning was coming to a close, the time for justice was at hand, the Crown needed it. The Realm needed it. The Lords may be the ones making the judgement, but he would be there to make sure protocol and procedure was followed. The trial had to be a fair one.

Having wrestled the book up the flights of stairs from below the Maidenvault (Barrian had often complained of the distance between his quarters below the Rookery and the library in the confines of the Maidenvault, it wasn’t as if anyone else had much interest in the library and its contents aside from himself), he emerged into the light of one of the corridors behind the Royal Sept, the early afternoon sunlight filtering through. He wrapped a layer of his robes over the book, protecting the aged leather and paper from the sun’s scorching gaze, and withdrawing a key from his sleeve, locked the door behind him. Knowledge was power, and no different from the rest of his order, he made sure such a thing was guarded. Despite his small stature and aged appearance, he made his way through the corridor with the speed of a man 10 years his junior. He had always been underestimated due to his size and slight frame, but it was something that he had accepted, and quite happily added to his arsenal. As he rounded the corner he almost barrelled into someone, near enough bouncing off the far larger figure, and found himself looking up at the High Septon. Even with Barrian pulled up to his full height as he was now, Celtigar still had a good 5 inches of height on him. The impact had somewhat knocked the wind out of Barrian. He rapped a knuckle against Luceon’s chest, it impacted the plate armour underneath his robes.

“Faith not good enough a shield I see High Septon. I’m not sure what the devotees thronging about the Sept of Baelor would have to say mind you. A High Septon having such close ties to his family is one break from tradition, but one that garbs himself in armour other than that granted by The Seven…”

Barrian tutted and shook his head, the lines of his forehead and at the corners of his lips creasing as he smiled.

“Positively scandalous,”

All Maesters had a general suspicion of Septons. The constant battle between reason and faith, but the last he saw the pursuit of reason had not resulted in nearly as much death and destruction as that of blind faith. Take Baelor the Blessed, held up by the Seven as near enough a living saint. The man was a fool, burnt countless priceless books, destroying the knowledge within, including Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History by Septon Barth, one of the few Septons that Barrian admired. He had read only surviving fragments of the now lost famed book. More progress lost to blind faith.

“Ah but you must forgive me. Clumsiness on my part, these eyes aren’t what they used to be, too many darkened libraries and indecipherable handwriting. The curse of Maesters everywhere,”

(Interaction JPTheWarrior )

 

[Hypnos]

Guy​

Glimmering like gemstones in the early light of the autumn sun, the pie dribbled juices like a newborn babe, fresh from his mother’s teat, the gold-brown crust barely able to contain all of the moisture that simmered within. Atop it was scattered several layers of chestnut, with a honeyed ham accompaniment, a dozen roast suckling pigs serving as miniature appetizers, though they were girthy enough to be considered whole meals on their lonesome, still steaming from the spit. For dessert was three platters of apple tart, each arranged to resemble a roosting dove, though there were also smaller options for those looking to hold onto their appetite until luncheon, the whole meal seasoned by the subtle flavours of saffron and nutmeg that had been imported all the way from Dorne just for the occasion.

Apple tart was Guy’s favourite.

Ever since he had been a lad, barely higher than his father’s knee, Guy Stokeworth had been in the possession of a rather remarkable sweet tooth, loving anything and everything with a little sugar coating.

When he was younger, the kitchen staff had always been kind enough to slip him an extra cake with his supper, or a tiny sweet if he had been good, though now that he was a man grown, he had found that such kindness was reserved only for little boy.

No one was giving him sweets anymore.

‘You’ll get fat.’

Like the crack of a whip, the words stopped Guy in his tracks, a single gloved hand frozen in place just above the platter of delicious sugar treats. Their speaker was a short woman, greying and hunched over, though her eyes pierced like the blades of a thousand trained soldiers.

Alicent Stokeworth was an imposing woman, even in her old age, her rugged face almost leathery in texture, though it was said that she had been a great beauty in her day.

‘But mother… It’s only one. I wont get fat from only one, will I?’ If his dejected look was caught by the elder woman, it certainly wasn’t noted.

‘That’s how it starts. Only one. Then it’ll be two tarts. Then three. Then four. Suddenly you’re so fat you can’t find your prick when you need to piss, you’ll need four squires to get you onto a horse, and your wife will have to roll you out of bed every morning.’

‘I don’t think… I mean… I’m sure it’s not...’ Her words made sense to Guy, even if he wasn’t eager to admit it, his hand dropping away from the platter and back against his sides.

‘You’ll get fat.’ His mother gave him a final triumphat look, herself delicately picking at a side of pig with her fork, taking only a single bite before she directed that her plate be taken away.

‘I only wanted…’

‘I know what you wanted, Guy. You wanted to gorge yourself on apple tarts until you were too fat to walk.’

Guy looked down at his feet, not able to meet her gaze

‘Now there boy, don’t look glum, you look like a fish when you pout. Do you think Princess Rhaenyra wants to fuck a fish?’

‘No, mother.’ Guy looked up, his eyes still lingering longingly on the platter of apple tarts.

‘Where is your dear wife anyway?’

‘I don’t know, I think that she’s been spending a lot of time alone with her father’s passing, I wanted to give her some space. She’s delicate.’

‘You think or you know?’

‘I... Think?’ Guy questioned, his mind trying to comprehend whether this question was a trick.

‘So you don’t know, then?’

‘I guess I don’t.’ Guy replied, as sheepish as the lamb embroidered on the breast of his doublet.

‘You are her husband? Are you not?’

‘Yes. I am.’

‘And is it not a husband’s duty to be able to care for and look after his wife?’

‘It is.’

‘And how are you supposed to do that if you don’t even know where she is?’

‘It’s hard, mother. Rhae-Rhae is a free spirit, she likes to go out on her own. She’s very independent, like a Queen.’

‘Is she a cat?’

‘No, she’s not a cat.’ Guy scratched his head, ‘She’s a person.’

‘Then why are you treating her like she’s a cat?’

‘I didn’t think…’ Guy was confused.

‘You’re right, you didn’t think, did you.’ His mother paused for a moment, breaking into a new stream of conversation. ‘Is she pregnant yet?’

‘Is who pregnant?’ Guy was struggling to keep himself together.

‘Your wife. Is she pregnant yet?.’

Guy blustered. He had come to breakfast expecting apple tarts, not to be grilled so thoroughly by his own mother. ‘We’ll have our son when the Seven are ready for us. I always told Rhae-Rhae that I wanted to name him Glendon, after father.’

‘You would curse the child straight from the womb.’ Lady Stokeworth snorted. ‘You know why this is important, Guy?’

‘So that I can carry on the family name?’

Lady Stokeworth snorted again. ‘The King is dead, Guy, and Princess Rhaenyra is his only living child. At least, Gods be good that little whelp does not surface again. That means that she might very well be Queen one day, you will be her consort. Your son would be King after her. You need to think about the safety of your future family. That’s why it’s important that you get her pregnant sooner rather than later.’

Guy hadn’t much thought about becoming King. ‘But mother! She’s not just a mule to be bred. Rhae-Rhae is gentle, and kind, and other than that still grieving the loss of her father. I don’t want to just use her. I love her, mother.’ A little smile came onto Guy’s face as he thought about the visage of his lovely wife, the one great blessing that the Gods had given him.

‘I despair for you, Guy. You’re as much a fool as your father, only the Gods saw fit to bless you with my good looks. Go and find your wife. I have to speak with the Hand.’

As his mother stood to leave, Guy checked to see if her back was turned, reaching over the table to grab a handful of apple tarts as he reclined back into his chair.

Sometimes all of this was too much for him.

 

[idalie]

Location: The Honeypot, Kings Landing
Interactions: High Moon ReverseTex TheFool
Mentions: //

Mags the Skirt​

Twisted in sheets, limbs strewn effortlessly with raphaelite beauty; Margaret turned her head to capture the face of last nights decidedly anti-raphaelite fuck. She ached, no different from most mornings, but not enough to refrain her from thwacking the customer in his side. Some of them weren’t rich enough to get the soft touch of wake-up treatment, a shame to the apprentices and street rats but means of further freedom to the working girls. Get them out quick and you could have a morning to yourself.

Rolling to the edge of the mattress to stand, Mags wobbled to her feet and stumbled about for something to drink. Her pretty lips cracked, kohl and pink tints smeared across her pale face like a haphazard finger painting with hair now tangled around pins. One of those days. Her fingers latched around the slim neck of a wine bottle, Kettleblack watered it down enough she might as well have pulled it from the well herself. Swigging to quell a parched throat, the cheeky smack that landed on her behind left a spluttering whore and hasty escape.

She should’ve stayed in that shitty town.

Having some of the younger girls collect water for a bath, not entirely the sort to submerge you but gods, it was good enough. Lukewarm, yet the grime came off and so did the touch of her patrons. Scrubbing under her nails and soaking her hands carefully, Mags used the rose oil she often saved some of her tips for to add a cleaner, personal touch. She’d given up trying to save for escape, of course, she had a little put aside for a rainy day but there was no way in hell she’d be leaving her profession for the rest of her sorry lifetime. Not unless she was lucky enough for a soldier’s wife, a mistress, or perhaps some unfortunate cretin who happened to fall in love with a woman who made money on her back. Pickings were slim, that was for sure.

Maggy draped herself in the sheer, easy dress of her work; the sort that clung like a carpenter working marble. It carved out her waist, hugged the hips and rounded her chest, a uniform with her trying to push sales. Mags borrowed perfume on a thankful whim, dripping it from wrists to elbow, collarbone to cleavage. Too much didn’t matter for a brothel, but too little was a dangerous path to take. Her job waited and her stomach growled - it was better off this way. Wine quelled your appetite faster than food, had the calories to replace it anyhow.

Her presence was welcomed, gazes drawn up to the office of their employer and away again as the Gold Cloaks entered. Kettleblack got to his feet quicker than when he’d heard that some poor girl was dead in the gutter.

''Red, come here for a second would you?''

Perfect timing, her tongue darting over her lips to wet them before curling with a well-practised smile. She approached with her hands poised and head bent, giving a small curtsy - eyes glancing up through the lashes at the guests they were playing theatrics for.

''darling would you get these gentlemen a bottle of fine dornish wine! and have the girls clean out the rooms, put in the best and cleanest sheets for my friends here!'

“Of course my lord, right away,” A soft, Northern lilt and quick but measured stride had Mags sweep across the floor and put in a word with the new girls. Always the ones stuck with cleaning, something you learned to miss unless you switched out with them. Dornish wine meant importance, but what business did a fool like Kettleblack have with the Gold Cloaks? Especially one he called good wine for. With haste she retrieved the vintage and returned, goblets set before she poured - leaning in low over the table. Accomplished, she stood back and grasped the ornate flagon. Both out of curiosity to listen and that of serving them again when needed; better than hanging back for other blokes to ogle.

 

[Mion]

Lord Cregan Stark
​

A bat flew overhead. Its midnight wings obscuring the shining light of the stars above, its shadow cascading down over the dark winter forest. A dead forest, the snow crunched underneath the heel of Cregan's boot as he charged forward, a grimace on his face. that damn howling again. He spun around on his heel, the damn noise was getting closer than before. His hand went for the sword at his waist. He could see the misty clouds of his own breath, it was not just because he it was so cold here, he was exhausted. How long have I been walking? His memory was fuzzy at best, almost nonsensical at its worst.

A pair of eyes pierced the darkness in front of him, the eyes of a wolf.

"Alright then..." Cregan broke his grimace with a cool smirk of disdain, he unclasped his cloak, letting it fall back into the snow behind him. The Lord of Winterfell drew his sword as the wolf drew itself closer, ever so slowly.

Another pair of eyes behind it, another, another, another.

A crude laugh, The Lord of Winterfell let out a dry chuckle, of course it would be like that.

"Don't keep me waiting." He spoke to the creatures, they were happy to answer his demands.

The wolves rushed forward, the first wolf lept straight towards him, Cregan crouched slightly and moved straight forward with his sword pointed at the animal, piercing through it in the air. That didn't stop the momentum of the wolf toppling the both of them. Before he could do anything the other two were on him.

Crunch. Crunch.

Blood poured out of the now missing chunks of his neck and side.

The Lord of Winterfell lay bleeding in the snow as the wolves continued to take pieces of him away. The bat took its place on a branch above him.

"CREGAN!"

His eyes shot open just before the palm of her hand met his cheek. SMACK.

A soft groan escaped his lips, it was not one of pain or annoyance, but rather one of odd amusement.

It would appear he had fallen asleep again... After he said he wouldn't... For the second time...

"Sorry Eliza... I told you this damned carriage wasn't for me." The Lord of Winterfell beamed a smile at his wife who was smiling back at him.

"Where are we right now anyway?" Cregan continued as he opened the shutter to his side, the streams of sunlight instantly threatening to blind him. He did his best to shield his eyes but momentarily he was forced to close them altogether. Ah hells.

Well truthfully it didn't matter much where it exactly was, ever since the journey began he felt that nothing could truly annoy him. To be back down here again.

Cregan took in a large, drawn out, exaggerated breath of air. Sitting relaxed in his seat without an ounce of tension in his body he let one of his arms hang lazily out of the shutter as his eyes slowly became adjusted.

"We should be arriving at Kings Landing shortly I believe." Eliza spoke with a pleasant smile on her face, both of their moods had seemed to complement each other on this journey.

A toothy grin sprouted from Cregans face. "Ahhh finally, I was beginning to wonder when it was I could escape this miniature prison properly! Did you really have to invest that much money in a cage for us! I thought it was that Arryn lass that was on trial!" The only person who laughed at the joke was Cregan. "HAHAHAHA!" And a rather unbecoming laugh at that.

Eliza got a little flushed. "Pack that in Cregan! You would never act like this in front of your family so don't you dare go doing that in front of mine!"

Cregan nodded his head purposefully. "Of course of course. I am very lordly like you know. I have quite the reputation or so I hear." Yes yes, the stick in the mud Lord of the North. The boring silent Wolf of Winterfell. All that talk made him sound like a shut in weirdo afraid of outsiders to him. And well what made it more awkward is that he seemed to be respected for it...

Cregan purposefully waved his hand out of the shutter to call for a momentary stop.

"How about we stretch our legs one last time before we get stuck in this city huh?" Cregan playfully booted the door open. Before jumping down out of the carriage. He turned around to help his wife down after him of course, in a very gentlemanly manner.

The two took a leisurely walk a fair bit away from the small convey that formed the Northern Party. He wondered for a moment how many of his friends and kin had actually deemed it worthwhile to come. He had not explicitly invited anyone but he had tried to encourage them to come and experience the south in his own subtle ways. He could be very charming when he wanted to be! He thought... No one had ever called him that though.

The two enjoying each others company in a comfortable silence. Scanning the fields and trees of the crownlands seemed to bring a relaxed, content smile on both of their faces. Cregan brought one of his arms around his wife in a rather natural manner and drew her in close.

"What is it Cregan?" Eliza looked up at him with slight bewilderment on her face, it wasn't concern or worry or anything like that just curiosity.

"I don't know Eliza... I guess. I don't have the best of feelings about this whole thing." Cregans face grew a little more serious although he was still very much in a relaxed and joyful mood.

"Cregan, there is nothing to worry about. You will do your duty, you will do it well even. And then we can go home. Or..." Eliza blushed a little.

"Hmmm? What is it Eliza?" Cregan enquired.

"Well I was just thinking we could even go down to Highgarden, maybe even Oldtown or Lannisport and Casterly Rock. Or well, anywhere you know?"

Cregan smiled another toothy grin.

"Now that would be something, We might have to go there then huh Eliza?"

"Which one of them?"

"Well all of them I suppose!"

Cregan held his wife's head to his chest. She was right. This would all be over in a flash when put into perspective. Just a little speed bump in their life. Who killed the king? Why did they kill the king? All that will be cleared up and the people who care can be left to deal with it!

Yet, he still had a ominous feeling welling up inside him.

"Cregan, we shouldn't hold up the rest too long. They are probably getting antsy themselves. Lets get to the city already huh?" Eliza spoke earnestly.

"Alright then, you are probably right. I will have to apologise for this stop later no doubt."

He slowed to let her make some space between the two of him. Once more he briefly looked over the sight of the beautiful fields and trees so different from the landscape of the north. He shook his head in a very slight manner before continuing on back to the carriage and carrying on with the final stretch of their journey.

 

[ReverseTex]

​

Syero Essaar- "The Crow"​

​

​

The rendezvous location was The Honeypot: a sticky tavern with even sloppier wenches. Syero never frequented Pox Keep himself, it was far below his standards for whores as well as ale. But it’s location held vitality as a information source. Often enough men who needed grimy jobs done came to the inn, which meant more illegal crime to settle. Nonetheless, he caught eyes with his Commander. The man stood lazily outside the inn, likely bored from the wait. “I apologize for the wait, the Sun and I have a love-hate affair I’m afraid.” His pearly white teeth glistened in the rays against his darkened skin. “Now now, let’s enter the belly of the beast eh?”

Immediately upon entrance the stench of mold and mead filled the drab in. Despite the beauty of the day outside, the interior of the Honeypot felt suffocating. He felt invisible in the sense that he could easily blend with the tones, yet he felt every eye upon him. Glancing around the inn, he spotted a wench with flames for hair. An intriguing piece of property for the keeper of this inn, yet not his type. Hearing a loud thud, likely a door shutting, drew his attention away from the whore.

A little man descended from the stairs beside the pair. His frantic nature sent a trigger through his head:

He didn’t expect us. Good. He’ll likely make a mistake.

Syero gave a polite once-over of the man; intriguing facial hair and unattractive characteristics elsewhere. Perfect to wrangle prostitutes. Extending his gloved hand for the man to shake, he began the pleasantries.

“My name is Officer Syero Essaar, and as you likely know Commander Darklyn. I sincerely appreciate the offering of your services, but we’re here for business, not pleasure.” He allowed the man a moment to register his foreign presence, knowing many Westerners needed the time to piece some of his words together. “The issue is of extreme importance, so I do suggest a private meeting space. Do you have a office or possible enclosed room we can further discuss our visit?”




High Moon TheFool - with

 

[TheFool]

A Fish Out Of Water



“The world is changing.”



Her mother’s words excited her.
Though the same could be said for any set of words, said by any simple one. It did not take much to make a stir in Mariya Tully. Her just being out of that stone tower of hers was, in itself, stirring. Exciting. Now, do not get her wrong -
She did like her tower.
And it wasn’t as if it was in the middle of some deep wood, surrounded by woodland creatures and critters both friendly and unfriendly. The tower was one of many attached to the castle she had always called her home. Riverrun. A charming place. A nice place. And though it was hard for her to admit,

Mariya was sick of nice.

Sick of charming.

And, most importantly, sick of being sick.

Though her sickness still lingered,
Especially due to the bumpiness of the road they traveled on.

She tried to smile upon hearing her mother’s words. Did she truly look miserable? To be fair to her, she had not ridden in a carriage in… well, almost forever. They hit a stone and she shook. This was something she would have to get used to and she would not be getting used to it any time soon. Not a chance.
Still,
At least she was here and not out saddled up on some mare. That would have truly killed her. She hated horses as much as she hated fish. And she hated fish almost as much as she hated this blasted road. And she hated this blasted road almost as much as she hated Almos.

He was a thing in her life that most definitely contributed to her sickness.

His very presence made her want to chuck up any day’s breakfast.

Thankfully,
She hadn’t done such a thing in such a while.


There was much noise outside.

Noise similar to that of the courtyard in Riverrun on a busy afternoon, but amplified tens and thousands of times over.

It was it.

It had to be.

King’s Landing.

She could not contain herself. She peered out the small window hole she had. Though her mother and her brother and likely everyone within their retinue gave the city jeers and insults - she saw…

A certain prettiness. A certain wonder. It was something so great and so big and, well, she did not even seem to mind the filth and the dirt. The dirt was new. She welcomed it.

Of course a city that housed so many people would be horribly filthy.
That’s how it worked, no?

Mariya could not help but giggle at her brother as he announced his arrival.
As if it was some grand gesture. Some blessing by The Seven themselves. She guessed that it was, in a way. Tommen was now Lord Of The Riverlands and he would, in due time, be heir to Dorne.

He was important.

She was as well.
Wasn’t she?

She continued to spy through the window.

Her eyes taking in the city.

And its people.

Its many, many, many people.

She watched them go about their day. The Septons, Seven bless them, preached to the masses. Some Septons looked very funny, wearing robes of red instead. Some even wore skimpy black rags. One of those in the black holding up a severed goat’s head. She shut her eyes at that. But opened them again when Tommen took her hand and told her sweetness.
She smiled, ear to ear,
At the children running around in circles and squiggly lines. Playing games, more carefree than most. She took note of the merchants and the wares they tried selling in their stalls. So many stalls. So many merchants. She saw men in goldcloaks carrying swords. She saw women throwing waste from windows and passerbys down below shouting at said women when they’d get hit with a splash.
She took in the girls that wore fancy dresses.
She took in the girls that wore little to nothing, as they leant against darkened doorways.
Her sight spotted one man.
With silver hair.
Like a dragon prince’d have. He quickly disappeared from her view however.

As much as that disappointed her.

The carriage stopped at a corner to a more elegant looking streetway. At this corner stood a man. A beggar? Blind and almost lunatic from the looks of him.

“And the whores!”

He chanted,

“Oh, the whores. Is it The Gods who strike them down in the dead of the night? Or is it the men who pay for them, thus sinning equally as they do. Is it The Kettleblack? A man who treats them as investments? Is it the very same person who may have murdered our Ki-”

“Shut up, ‘ya twat.”

A head of cabbage flew threw the air and pelted against the old man. He stumbled back into a few empty barrels and onlookers laughed.

That was not very nice, Mariya thought.

That was not very nice at all.

His trying mention of The King made her think of Ashara. Her friend. One of her only friends. She hoped that she could see her. Tommen would save her, wouldn’t he? She looked at her brother. She looked at her mother.

“I-I-I…”
She stopped and took a breath. Remembering the technique Maester Lymond taught her as a girl. “I-”

Curse this stutter.

She had, for the most part, conquered it in the last few years. But maybe the excitement of being in a new place and being surrounded by so many people had brought it back. Back with a vengefulness.

“I’ve never… seen anything l-like it before.” She finally got out.
Commenting on the city.

“How long until we reach The Red Keep, Tom? Mother?”

She was curious.

And Mariya Tully could contain her curiosity as well as she could contain her excitement.

Spoiler: MENTIONS

ailurophile
Braddington

​

 

[BELIAL.]

Lyanna Manderly
The Lady of White Harbor​

location: carriage to KL, North Fam Convoy

with: Dorren Stark

tags: idalie

When Lyanna was a child, she dreamed of living in a pearly white castle. Perhaps it was spurred by the ocean-sprayed white stone of New Castle, but she also found herself drawn to the purity that such a dream-home would mean; to be married so happily, and to be warmed by the fire of a hearth and a family. This idealization of the future would explain her reluctance to leave home, when the next stop in her life journey was the ruinous towers of Harrenhal. Dorren had obtained the castle some years ago, and if they were to be wed, she would no doubt be forced to live there with him. The idea terrified her-- and living in the haunted estate was another fear as well.

There was potential in the sprawling size of Harrenhal; but it was a shambling wreck if you looked above the treeline. There had been some attempt, perhaps many years ago, to get some work done on the portions closer to where the main stretch of the castle was. Builders had abandoned it, however, and nothing was done since. It almost made things worse, especially when the bats shot out like arrows into the fading daylight. It was a home to ghosts, and Lyanna was uncomfortable at the prospect of joining those spectres.

Prior to arriving at King’s landing, following the tragic demise of King Lucerys, Lyanna had been spurred to go visit her betrothed at his castle by her brother. Cley was determined to get Lyanna out of New Castle, and out of White Harbor entirely. She played the ignorant, and hurt, fool to arouse some pity from her older sibling. Cley had been unmoving in his determination to get his sister moving on with her life. His own wife had passed, years ago now, but still the sore on the man’s heart. The daughter they had shared before a sickness whisked her away remained in New Castle, getting along swimmingly with her Uncle Alaric. Things were fine at home, but Lyanna had been finding issues and miscalculations for two years now. She convinced him that numbers were wrong with trade manifestos, and that she needed to check the logs every day. Two years. Cley caught on eventually.

She hadn’t really fought against heading there, but there was a worrisome bug nesting in her gut. Most of her time had been spent outside, a head tilted to the direction of the sea. She missed the way home smelled, but the grounds outside Harrenhal were fertile. Plentiful in the roots and flowers that grew naturally, Lyanna was in an element perhaps better than White Harbor; in that regard at least. Well, she couldn’t lie either-- she adored Dorren.

Her head tilted toward the carriage window, she rubbed her thumb over his knuckles. It was a small movement, something he’d appreciate and probably return in full. He was a subtle man in his expressions, the outlier being their bold kiss that one evening at New Castle so many years ago that cemented their feelings for each other. Lyanna could understand, but it sometimes frustrated her. She wanted to be young and touchy in private, like children first in love. She held back however, for her own dignity.

Turning to Dorren, seated next to her, she gave him a small smile. “I’ve never been this far south. If it were better circumstances, I’d say it was nice that we got out.” She shook her head, pulling herself closer to him and wrapping his arm around her shoulders. She rested her head on his chest and closed her eyes for a moment. Her back hurt from sitting so long, but she was only praying they’d get there sooner rather than later. She’d do plenty of walking when they arrived, if only to spend a moment of her time truly alone.

“I’m no good in courtly talk, but you knew that. I am… worried, if I can be honest. What if I end up locked away, but for saying something wrong? That poor woman… granted that she didn’t commit the crime, you know. The babe too…” Lyanna’s gaze flickered out the window, lost in the memory of her own mother perishing after the twins’ birth, and then her little sister right after. A bloody, monstrous affair. The way the babe looked so sickly and frail. It was a hazy trip to recall it all, and for once she was thankful for the muddy effects of time. Her fingers danced against the ring on her finger, twisting it feverishly.

She caught herself and blinked a couple times. It was not worth it to think about awful things like that. There were no obligations now, right here in the carriage. Lyanna straightened her spine to meet his gaze and pressed her face closer to Dorren’s. She pressed a slow kiss to his lips, one hand pressing against his cheek and pulling him a bit close. Chaste but hot, she could feel the way her gut swirled at his touch.

Lyanna pulled back, a flush lighting her cheeks. She smiled again at him, searching his eyes. Her hand did not leave his cheek, but stroked it tenderly. "Keep an eye on me, won't you?" she whispered.

codedbycrucialstar​

 

[RayPurchase]

Lord Ormund Baratheon - Lord Paramount of the Stormlands
The Coming Storm

King's Landing

​

Ormund chuckled to himself. It wasn’t a particularly funny statement from his brother by any stretch. Arguably the chance for justice had slipped through their fingers with the death of the king. With the guilt party gone arguably there was only revenge left to be had. Not that Ormund had discounted achieving such a thing, the day was still young afterall. He clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“If they are plagued by such bad memories, then perhaps it would be best to remind them that we have returned. No need to be pulling any punches or slipping into the city in plush carriages like perfumed whores. Unfurl the banners and sound the horns, let them know who’s back,”

Two of the riders had been carrying two sizeable wooden poles, the ends securely wrapped in cloth. The strings holding them in place were loosened and the covers removed. Near enough springing out in the wind, The sun caught the sea of yellow that surrounded the crowned stags, nearly glowing in the light, whilst the wind took hold of the material, the stags cavorting on either side of the Baratheon brothers. Crowned stags. Descendant of both the lineage of Durrandon Storm Kings, and the Dragon Seed of the Targaryens, Orys Baratheon sharing the same father as the Conqueror. The very heraldry appeared to be a challenge of might and legitimacy. Who would meet the mighty stags, the cripple? Or the girl? Dragons only in name.

A smug smile appeared on Ormund’s face as the party began to trot down the hill, the traffic steadily getting heavier as they approached the King’s Gate, though confronted by such a heavily armed party of nobles, the peasantry and nobles soon cleared a path, aided by the horn sounded by one of the men at arms, the low note verberating down the road, and echoing off and around the city walls. Simple geography would have dictated that they would have come up the King’s Road and made the river crossing to the River Gate. There would be no Mud Gate for them however, mixed with the fishermen and merchants, befouled by mud and the smell of fish guts, It had added another day to the journey due to the lack of bridges in the immediate vicinity of the capital, but as they approached the city, the mighty gate and walls looming over them, Ormund knew he had made the right decision. He turned to his brother as they were about to cross the threshold of the gate.

“Put your antlers on brother, let them all see who they’re dealing with here. Le them know the storm clouds are brewing,”

Ormund leaned back in his saddle, one hand on the reigns, and his own head free to the elements, the sunlight only accentuated the inky blackness of his closely cropped hair and beard, his dark blue eyes punctured his grimly set features, his eyes dead ahead and set on the Red Keep, even now rising above the various crowded buildings in the city, paying no heed to the smallfolk who even now were scurrying in the wake of the black destrier which carried him towards his goal.

(Interaction: Yahhah Jon Baratheon, Anyone within earshot of the obnoxious hornblowing)

 

[TheFool]

The Honeypot



Kettleblack’s inn was silent. Dead silent. Like his women now were.

‘His’ women.

Garon Darklyn looked around, scrutinising each and every patron that sat and drank and would merrily sing before it was even - but - noon. Lowlifes. He thought they should at least wait until the evening time to let loose. Though he guessed that the hour of the wolf was a dangerous time as of late.

Mayhaps the citizens of King’s Landing guessed that as well.

“Nonsense, Officer Syero.” Garon waved his hand at him, The Essosi, before he took a seat on top of an empty table. It creaking slightly as he did. “Business and pleasure are two of the same for some, aren’t they Ser Gwayne.” He watched Kettleblack’s face.
Studying each smirk, and each blink. Each crease of the forehead and each lowering of brow.
Garon was going to get information out of the man,
Whether by his words or by his expressions.

Garon turned to the young girl who had hair as red as one of the previous victims. “You the only red head here, lass?” He asked.
She added to the quiet of the inn.
Garon picked up one of the goblets that she had poured and raised it to her, as a thank you.
He did not take a sip however.

“We can talk somewhere more private as my good man suggested, Ser Gwayne. Or we can talk here. It does not matter to me where you talk… as long as you talk. How is business?”

A casual enough question.

Though he continued,
“I am sure it has been quite tough. So many girls of yours missing and all.”

He sniffed the wine.

It smelled unpleasant. Almost rancid. Like rotten fruit had been used to brew it. Either that or it was a vintage from Dorne.
There was little difference.

He continued to look at Ser Gwayne.

And as he did, Garon held out the cup and slowly turned it over. Letting its contents spill upon the hardwood flooring,
“I prefer my wine from The Arbor, I’m afraid.”

He offered a smirk as the inn became impossibly quieter.
The only sounds being crackling flames and the distant blasting of horns.

Spoiler: MENTIONS

High Moon
idalie
ReverseTex

​

 

[JPTheWarrior]

Naerys Celtigar - Mistress of Coin​

"Lord Aemon" she greeted, not noticing the presence of another soul other than the two elders and shaking the deviant's hand, the palm of her hand barely touching the Lord's skin. "It has been too long, my Lord. Ever since we all last gathered to council our King, may he rest in peace" she pressed her hand on her black sturdy skirt, long enough so only the tip of her small golden heels could be seen, when the freak turned around to invite her to his office to somehow feel clean again. Of course that feeling was quickly overthrown by the hideous smell that her small nostrils caught when entering the room.

"I think we both understand that shipments are secondary, at least when we have such a... troublesome situation. The King, denied of his life while resting by his wife's side, found with a sword pierced in his body." The woman raised slight her hand and shook her head, denying the piece of candy given to her. Naerys almost let out her discontent with how he was treating her like a child, but instead she continued. "A cup of tea would suffice, thank you. Now, you know why I am here, we both are good at what we do and that's why we have stayed in the Small Council for over twenty years. So... as old comrades serving the Realm together... who committed regicide and why?" she asked up front. Aemon might be a childish aberrant who has the elegance of an essosi elephant in a room of porcelain, but he was rather capable as Master of Whispers. So she did give him a genuine compliment, even if it was brief. "The girl couldn't have done it, unless she's an idiot, but then again, how could someone have passed through the kingsguard or the golden cloaks undetected? My guess is someone who has the necessary trust or excuse to be there at such late hours. But if such a person is in that situation, then it is someone known in the palace. Unless the guards we pay so much for are as efficient as Ashara, if she's found guilty." Naerys now leaned backwards and rest her back on the wooden chain she was sitting on, her left hand firmly grappling the golden cane. "And you have known me for most of my entire life and you know how much I hate money spent unwisely"

"I trust you will give me the truth, won't you Lord Aemon?" she ended, now waiting for Lord Hunchback's answer. 'Why would I give you an answer?'; 'The truth will be revealed at trial'; 'Why should I trust you'. Possible answers that passed through Naerys, but all of them futile. Aemon knew Naerys better than all of those living inside the Red Keep and she knew him much more than most. Two old geezers who have seen three different people put on the crown, sit on the Iron Throne to rise as the mighty Protector of the Seven Kingdoms and fall as everyone does, back to the dirt. He knew she had not done it. She knew he had not done it.



Interactions:
Braddington - Lord Aemon
Mentions:
BELIAL. - Wylla

 

[Braddington]

The Seahorse

He grumbled under his breath. To deny a treat was a sure fire sign of a bad egg. When one did not even deign something so low, how could they see further than the end of their nose? Perhaps she had tired of his sweets twenty years ago. For it had truly been that long. Though he despised everything she stood for, he could not help but respect how far she had gotten. How far she continues to stay. Master of Whispers is one thing, Mistress of Coin is another.

He stood once more, the creak of his chair reverberating in the tight space of his office. More things fell off his desk with a loud bang.

“Apologies, Mistress. I am sure your office has much needed space. Mine doesn’t.”

There was a twinge of bitterness in his voice. His head crouched low as he walked towards a small pot. Various leaves boiling in a pot of water.

Wylla must have already been here. Wonderful girl. She knew him quite well.

“Any sugar?”

He set the pot down with two wooden cups, taking the splintered one for himself as he poured the liquid into them. A spoon shoveling in four measurements into his own drink. Sweet things taste better.

His back grew straighter at the question of the King, his smile fading as his hump bumped against his chair.

It was her he was most afraid of talking to. She had been around a long time. Too long. Perhaps he had as well. With her, platitudes would not work. With her, he needed an answer.

He would provide one.

“You’re of course right. Ashara, sweet girl, is many things. A murderer? Certainly not.”

He began penning another letter as he talked.

“Our dear Queen worked hard for our King. She finally had what she always wanted to provide. An heir for her husband. To throw it all away now? Ridiculous.”

The chamber was being watched.

Wylla

A good lesson for her.

“You wish to know who took good King Lucerys from us? I simply cannot say. Though I am compiling evidence of the Queens innocence ...and of many suspects guilt.”

He sipped his tea, popping a small sweet into his mouth with a crunch.

“And there are so many suspects.”

With every line he wrote on the parchment, a name came forth from his lips.

“Ser Gwayne, perhaps? The whoremonger wouldn’t meddle in such affairs.”

Another line.

“The Hand? He would benefit would he not? But of course, he already benefits by his very position.”

Another.

“The Lannisters?”

A smirk.

“No, no. Lord Lannister is far too busy to arrange this.”

He finished the letter, attaching his seal.

“There are many spiders in this web, my dear Naerys. Many high, many low. Many rich, many richer. Sooner or later the spider will be caught. Perhaps they already have, perhaps it does not matter. We have but to wait.”

He stood, placing the letter on his desk before returning to his seat.

“Trust that those who bring injustice will be punished accordingly.”

JPTheWarrior BELIAL. ​

 

[ailurophile]

​

Rhaenyra Targaryen​

Princess
​

His words made her cheeks burn and her blood turn to ice.

Sit back.
In the shadows, like always. Just out of sight. Forgotten and insignificant.
That was what he was asking her to do, to back down and maintain the position she already had. To accept the cards she was being dealt and do so gratefully.

How dare he?

When he let go of her hair, Rhaenyra defensively tucked the lock behind her ear. Once again, her face broke into a smile, and she unleashed honeyed words upon him, words that would have dripped with venom had her position been strong enough.

"I'll always be behind you, of course." Rhaenyra purred. "We can bring the realm back to stability. Provide a rock to cling on in the fierce sea of these troubled times. Or rather, you will. While I give you my full support."

She sighed. "Unfortunately, I have other matters to attend to before the trial. Trivial things, people to greet, you understand. I hate to leave you so early, but duty calls."

Rhaenyra turned and began to walk away, but as she did, she paused and looked back over her shoulder at the man left standing there.

"Do remember how fickle the people really are, Uncle Jaehaerys."

-

Everything had very quickly become too much. Her skin crawled as though infested, her necklaces felt as though they would choke her at any minute, and her bracelets -- her shackles -- were becoming too heavy to bear. One by one, she shed them as she walked. A few of the ornate roundels rolled before the clattered, but all were left discarded by the time she reached her destination.

A pathway of silver and gold.

When she arrived, she did not knock. There was no need to. What could possibly be so important that she would not be welcomed?

It was unthinkable.

To her relief, so great a relief that it actually surprised her, he was there. Just sitting there, supposedly without a worry in the world. That irritated her a little. Why was it fair that she had to bear so many burdens, while her husband could sit and eat at his leisure?

Her annoyance boiled for a moment before it melted away as she came to a realisation. Guy's main worries were all centered around his wife.
And a man who was so focused on her, who would give her the attention she craved, that satisfied her to no end.

She leaned against the door when it closed and let out a sigh, waiting until he was looking in her direction to even speak.

"I'm sorry I haven't seen you very much these past few days." Her voice was small.

To elicit sympathy.

Rhaenyra crossed the room and lowered herself into his lap without warning, throwing her hands around his neck and burying her face into the crook. As she did so, her uncle's words replayed in her head, over and over. Her jaw clenched, but he wouldn't see. She dug her nails briefly into his back to release her anger, but stopped abruptly when she realised what she was doing.

"It's been so hard. I hope you understand."

A pause, and she pulled back to look at him. Both her expression and tone of voice had changed.


"Guy, be honest with me, now. Would I make a good Queen?"




TheFool Hypnos

 

[Yahhah]

Jon Baratheon
​

"Revenge sounds fine by me"

Jon agreed. The sounds of the horns had never once failed to get Jon's blood boiling. Even though this was no battle field it had the same effect. The giant of a man got into position to spur his horse onwards. Charging down the hill to keep pace with his brother, Jon took in the sights. Ormund had made the right decision on going the more extravagant route. Though Jon had never been one to put on a show he was no stranger to shows of power and intimidation, those were something he was quite good at actually.

"MAKE WAY"!

Jon bellowed as they passed, though there was no need to. They got the message to move by the loud precession around them. The gates that surrounded King's Landing were certainly large, though Jon had never been one who was impressed by large doors and walls. Though he knew that past that gate was a den of backstabbers and betrayers matched by almost nowhere else in all the seven kingdom. Jon reached onto the side of his horse's saddle and pulled out an antlered helm matching the colors on the Baratheon's flags. Jon rested the helmet atop his head and narrowed his eyes through the gates.

"Let's show them our might, brother".

Showing might was a saying Jon used often. Whether there was any battle to be had or not it seemed to suit him. This den of snakes may as well be a battle for how many enemies surely stalked every shadow in that city. Though it was a battle that couldn't be hidden from and it was a battle of wits and waiting, which Jon did not like one bit. Nevertheless they were here and Jon would protect his brother. No matter how many shadows he had to stomp out.

RayPurchase

 

[QuirkyAngel]

Lady Judyth Umber

After her arrival at the Red Keep, and warm reception from her mother’s side of the family, what followed was a litany of introductions and greetings that seemed almost endless to the Judyth. Sera Sunglass didn’t hesitate to introduce her Northern cousin to her circle of friends. No one of an especially major house yet (just minor lords and ladies), though Judyth made use of the opportunity all the same and manage to wrangle in some compliments for her accessories, as well as requests for fur and lumber as winter approached. Business would be booming, it seemed, if she dealt in wierwood, but there were some lines that couldn’t be crossed as one raised in faith of the Old Gods.

Cutting down a wierwood tree was one of them.

There were whispers of course—about her age and lack of marriage—but she simply smiled and pretended not to hear them. She’d already grown used to it and, by this time of her life, it all seemed so childish.

The tour ended in the solar where Sera proceeded to excitedly inform about the ongoings of the Red Keep. Judyth learned quite a few things from her chatty cousin. The first was there was indeed a son born to the former King Lucerys and Queen Ashara—a missing babe that held the right to the throne. The second was the corruption in the court that confirmed her initial suspicion.

Queen Ashara was a scapegoat.

A few sympathized, but many didn’t care one way or another so long as the kingslayer was in chains. They wanted someone to blame. And, once ‘justice’ was dealt, it would all be swept under the rug. The incompetence of the castle security in protecting their king. The true identity of the assassin and their supporters. The fear and panic that would inevitably arise with the knowledge that a murderer was still on the loose. Queen Ashara’s guilt would solve many problems.

“So many interesting things are happening in the castle! My friend’s maid saw the princess going out to the gardens with Prince Jaehaerys. They’ve rarely ever interacted, you know,” This part was whispered as if sharing a scandalous secret. “And the princess has been crying in her chambers the entire time, swearing vengeance against Queen Ashara. Not even her husband has seen her yet.”

So sides were already being picked. Given Prince Jaehaerys held one of the votes, if wasn’t hard to guess the contents of their conversation.

“What do you think of all this, Lady Judy?”

The question of the day.

Judyth wasn’t by any means a soft woman. She’d taken lives to protect lives. Done what she had to in order to protect the Umber House. Most weren’t innocent, but she couldn’t swear under a weirwood all weren’t innocent either. She was under no delusions. Anything she said to the wrong ear could put her family at risk. But doing nothing given her knowledge was as bad as condemning the piteous queen to her death. Judyth looked upon the innocent round face of her cousin. In many ways, ignorance was bliss.

“Prince Jaehaerys is the king’s blood, so he likely feels as angry as Princess Rhaenyra. Queen Ashara’s mother is a Lannister, so it’s possible she’ll have a Lannister vote. She’s also friends with a daughter of the Tully house so that’s another possible one for her. As for the rest…” Shrug.

“But what of your opinion?”

“I’m a businesswoman, Lady Sera. My opinion is that the king’s murderer is the one that stands to gain the most from his death. Not that it matters all that much. Lord Stark of Winterfell is the one that will be casting the vote for the North. I’ll probably be back on my ship once the trial’s over and new king is crowned. ”

“Oh, yes! How could I forget? You must tell me all about your travels, Cousin.”

Judyth was saved from having to do so by the sound of horns. Both women, along with many others in the solar, moved to the window to watch the procession of banners and carriages that heralded the arrival of the jurors. Lord Tully’s party. Lord Baratheon’s Party. And, of course, the party of from North. Judyth couldn’t see her father, but it was easy to guess which carriage Lord Jogmund was in. Neither of his twin sons could fit comfortably into a carriage, massive, 7-foot tall warriors that they were, so they rode along side their father’s horse-drawn vehicle carrying house banners instead.

“Your brothers are as frightening as I remember.”

“They really aren’t.”

When they weren’t angry. But then, even when they were angry, Judith found herself hard pressed to be afraid of them. She still remembered them as little babes and they still deferred to her as the elder sister when it came to it. They weren’t the brightest. They sometimes made mistakes. But she could never hate them for it. She wondered how they were doing as the vanguards for the Umber family. Were they helping Mother keep Father in line? Lord Jogmund’s lust for battle was as well known in the North as Lord Cregan’s withdrawn nature. They said he was a beastly, violent man until her mother came along.

Even now, Judyth was certain her old man would be the first to draw out if weapon if war came along.

Shaking her head, a fond smile on her lips, Judyth climbed down to the entrance of the Red Keep to meet with her family. In addition to the Starks and the Umbers, she also recognized the banners of many other northern houses, including the Manderleys.

 

[JPTheWarrior]

Luceon Celtigar - High Septon​

Taking one step back from the impact, his eyes looked down, gazing at the figure of an old geezer. The Grandmaester took the opportunity of such an informal way of meeting to lash at Luceon with every insult the man could think of in a couple of seconds. Luceon gently smiled, unwavered by such sarcastic and sharp words. "Faith does shield me from evil thoughts, words and actions. Faith protects me from a dooming after life. But faith unfortunately does not protect me from a cold steel's blade to the heart, as history and science have proven countless times over the centuries." he chuckled and bowed, slightly curving his upper body. "Greetings Grandmaester Barrian, one would think someone dedicated like yourself in the arts of science and search of knowledge through experiences would have no interest or familiarity with the customs of the Faith. However, if you allow me this small moment to explain a small confusion in your theory. Family is, without a doubt, the single most important thing the Seven value. It's not random that the main faces of our god we pray to are called "Father" and "Mother". So for the Faith to ask a man to cut his family's ties is none sense."

"But I must say that I'm happy I found you here, today. It's unbelievable how in this trial they have asked so many Lords of Great Houses to judge Lady Ashara, but never spoken to me about the matter or to you. The Father is the ultimate judge if all life and science helps us a lot in our daily discovers, so it certainly would have its worth at trial." Luceon's lips curved into a kind smile and he shook his head, giving up on trying to make reason of the choices for Ashara's judges. "Oh well, no use in crying over spilled milk. It has already been decided. But that's not what I wanted to speak with you about."

"Only a selected few know much about the King's situation and a lot of rumors are being spread in the streets. Countless of caring common folk are coming to me asking who did such inhumane crime. Some say Lady Ashara killed him in his sleep, others say he was too astute to let himself fall into such wicked scheme so he might have been poisoned first. It is truly chaos out there.." Luceon sighted, his expression changing from his usual smile to show signs of worry.


Interactions:
RayPurchase - Grandmaester Barrian

 

[Optimus Princeps]

Luthor Tyrell
Rags to Riches​

Mummer’s Mercy shook with the impact of the tides, salty brine washing over onto its surface and spraying the passengers and crewmen alike who were intrepid enough to stand on the deck. The sea was dark and the skies above were a mix of grey clouds and a persistent Sun, and not far off storm chasing after the Reach vessel as it cut across the Narrow Sea. The waves grew in size, white caps bubbling to life the last warning before they matured to a threatening size for Mummer’s Mercy. She was a merchant’s ship, accustom to the easy shallows of the Reach and Stepstones, never built to endure languished weather. Her white, jibbed sails were bombarded with spittle as the winds raged, every so often twisting them, furling them inwards and causing dismay among those on deck. Without the jibs properly put out, making landfall became a dangerous task. They were as likely to be thrust into rocky crags or an obstruction under the waves, than safely make it to port.

Atop the aftercastle, the ship’s captain gave hoarse cries, orders to attend to the sails, or to direct their vessel to one side or another. They were outpacing the storm, but for how much longer, they could not be certain of.

To his astonishment, Luthor Tyrell discovered an odd sense of calm on the crew as they operated their respected stations. A trance like state as they worked, pulled on the ropes and screamed to one another over the thunderous waves, for them, there was no time for panic. It would service them equally well as a dull blade a knight. It was commendable, professional, and truthfully something Luthor hadn’t expected when they first struck the tumultuous weather.

‘This is their lively hood, of course they’d be prepared for something like this.’ They weren’t much to look at, a handful of scabs likely hiding from family or foe, but they performed well.

To Luthor’s amusement, the exact opposite could be said for his entourage. A group of knights and nobles who were only too eager to impress the newly named Lord Paramount of the Reach and accompany him to King’s Landing. Most were green in the face, concealing themselves below the aftercastle. Luthor lost his control, laughing when a knight big as a tree shrieked when the weather first turned.

Of the few men joining him atop the ship, Ser Steffon Grimm had impressed Luthor the most. A second son of House Grimm, younger brother to Lord Bonifer, Steffon was equal parts round and red in the face. A knight in code, perhaps, and maybe once in skill. But he seemed as ready for combat as Luthor was for lordship.

Not exactly an inspiring statement to make or admit to, but Luthor felt some connection to Ser Grimm. They were at least in familiar positions.

Ser Grimm was clutching a bannister, his fingers white and knuckles threatening to crack his skin, but he refused to shy away and return to the perceived safety of the ship’s interior. ‘What shame! I would abandon you because of a little rain?’ He had cried, hours earlier. A false confidence, but Luthor appreciated his presence nonetheless.

The former Septon himself couldn’t bare to be inside any longer. The voyage was remarkably quick, they had the blessings of the Seven with them. It had barely taken three days to get around Dorne, and it would be only another few hours until they were in King’s Landing, or so the captain insisted. But the four days cooped up, with names and faces he could barely connect to much younger and different people from his past caused an unease to build in Luthor. An anxiousness of sorts.

The passage of time was a queer oddity that no one thought much of. Luthor certainly hadn’t. Hearing that Addam Fossoway became a knight, or married, was one matter. Reconnecting with a childhood friend after thirty years, spying the greying hairs atop his blond rats nest of he called hair, another entirely.

Is that what meeting with his younger half—brother would be like? Would Rickard give him a startle?

Would Luthor even recognize his own kin?

Would Rickard even recognize him?

The thoughts caused an odd lump to form in his throat. A mix of anguish and sorrow. Why would he put such high expectations on Little Dick, hadn’t it been Luthor who tossed away his surname and abandoned the family? Little Dick had every right to forget about him.

‘And I pray to the Seven that he hasn’t indulged in that right.’ the former Septon’s expression turned cross, troubled. Belond’s death was recent and shocking. A sorrow that overtook his heart. Despite his many vows, despite the friendships made over the years as he worked for the Faith, Luthor felt alone when the letter arrived.

Had his younger brother been the same? Their sister was… Gone. Now, their older brother followed. His father was deceased for over a decade now, Dyanna Targaryen likewise beyond the reach of mortal communication. Was Little Dick as alone as Luthor?

His brow continued to crease and so too did his prayers. Certainly, he angered the Seven by leaving. But, if he could abuse the goodwill he’s allotted for thirty—three years of devout service, he’d have it put forward as wind in the sails, a faster current, or any other miracle the Seven were willing to provide.

“Yo-you look troubled, my Lord!” Ser Grimm’s jowls shook as the cold sea splashed once more. Both were struck with the wave, moisture clinging to them as a second skin. “Tis not the seas.” Steffon accurately guessed.

Was Luthor so easy to read? The former Septon turned to face his faithful companion and gave a stern nod.

“Much is on my mind, Ser Grimm.”

“As one could see. You seem as ponderous as those Essosi philosophers, spent in powdered hovels.” Steffon managed a weak grin. The gesture was appreciated, and Luthor found himself returning it with a light laugh.

“Perhaps I’ve found myself in the wrong avenue of life. Should we tell the captain to turn back around? Powdered hovels sound a blessing compared to this salty air.”

“Tis not air that vexes me. The wet is untenable.” Ser Grimm grumbled, sounding a decade older than he appeared in that moment. “Give me the dryness of Dorne and I’ll crown you myself, my lord.”

“Careful words, Ser Grimm.” Luthor’s voice adopted a lecturing tone, “Or we’ll begin a revolt where we stand.”

The large knight bellowed with laughter, “Though you have yet to tell me, my lord, what has you so forlorn?”

Luthor pursed his lips and nodded, debating if he truly wished to explain it to his companion. For years, he preached openness in his sermons, and Luthor felt his own need to vocalize more important than his insecurities. “Family life has me… Most occupied.”

“The passing of Lord Belond was tragic.” Grimm didn’t give a moment’s pass before he spoke up.

Luthor nodded a second time, though truth be told, it wasn’t Belond who kept the former Septon in thought. But he’d allow himself the distraction. “Did you know him, Ser Grimm?”

Another exaggerated bellow from House Grimm’s second son followed a strong gust of wind and more spittle on the deck of Mummer’s Mercy. “Not half as well as this accursed storm,” His grumbling paused. “But aye, for a time, we considered one another friends. I impressed him with my wit at Lord Hand’s name day tourney, years and years ago.”

Luthor allowed himself a generous smile, imagining what Belond would find humorous. Was it raucous poetry or a peasant’s form of humor? Maybe a well thought out joke? “Were you with him frequently?” Luthor pressed forward.

“At times, my own duties to Lord Bonifer overtook our companionship. But he always embraced me, when we met. Lord Belond was a very humble and kind man, the Seven couldn’t of found a better man.”

Luthor liked the thought of that. Belond was a troubled child, back before Luthor abandoned House Tyrell a life time ago. Infighting with their father, whoring and an attitude as rotten as a Dornish woman were the most vivid memories of Belond that Luthor had. “I’m happy to hear that.” Tyrell kept it simple as he straightened, looking back at the horizon expectantly.

Silence dominated the deck once more. Even the swell of the waves were reduced within the hour. The sky was bright and hopeful, and before noon, the first cries of ‘land’ came from the crows nest. It didn’t take much longer for those inside to begin filing out, a few noble women pale in the face as they breathed anxiously. The city was in their sights. King’s landing’s great monuments becoming more and more prominent by the minute. The barest outlines of the Sept of Baelor an outstanding and riveting sight, the greatest Sept in the land by popular opinion, of which Luthor’s went towards.

The black eared captain was determined to clear the deck as thoroughly as possible once they were nearing the dock, complaints of ‘too many hands, not enough space,’ rumbling from his toothless mouth. Luthor debated listening, but ultimately remained at his post. He saw Ser Grimm step closer to his lord, but nonetheless remain quiet and turned in to himself.

Once they reached the docks properly, a smell wafted in the air different from the brine he’d been so acquainted with. Decay was prominent, with gutted trouts and sea bass spoils left at the edges of the wooden planks, picked at leisurely by hawks and smaller species of birds that Tyrell couldn’t identify without a closer inspection. Perfume was abundant, a poor attempt to hide the redolent aroma of depravity that stemmed from the man brothels, catering (preying, in Luthor’s opinion) on the desperate and shameless sailors that came and went.

A column of goldcloaks were aboard Mummer’s Mercy, harsh inspections and a line of inquiries that felt absurd to ask gave the captain no pause. Luthor would’ve found himself speechless, once the goldcloak asked about prostitutes or ‘cabin boys’ that needed to be looked after, yet it rose no alarm in the veteran crewmen.

With their feet on the steady land, breaths of relief flooded the air. A last glance at Mummer’s Mercy was all that Luthor gave them, no further regard as he prodded forward.

“Off to the Red Keep, Lord Tyrell?” One of the lords from below deck questioned, straightening his green and gold doublet as he approached the former Septon. “Allow me to escort you, my lord.”

“Certainly, Lord…”

“Daemon Yelshire, Lord Tyrell. Though you may address me as fondly as it pleases you.” A tanned man of no older than thirty four, Yelshire’s height was not so considerable, nor were his features. Round in the face and taut like a bow below the neck. He was neither intimidating or remarkable, save for the shortly kept red hair and the brimmings of a mustache between his lips and nose. “It was inspiring, how you challenged the Storm God, alone on the deck filled with whoresons.” Yelshire grinned up at Luthor.

An eyebrow quirked in confusion, and Luthor waited to reply, first looking back at the remainder of the party organizing itself behind them. Ser Grimm was flanking both lords, and the former Septon decided it was safe enough to progress onward. Back when he was a member of the Faith, he’d spent years between Gin Alley and Flea Bottom. The poor were awed at the cleaned, white rob and his leather belt stained in the colors of the Seven. He received hostile glares back then, but presumably his status as a holy man gave him protection. Now, with a night—blue mantle tucked into his shoulders and a green doublet interlaced with red fabrics, a dazzling combination, Luthor felt less than certain about making the trek to the Red Keep alone. Or, alone with Lord Yelshire.

“I believe I was enjoying the air, Lord Yelshire.” Luthor finally corrected his younger companion as they crossed underneath a brown bricked archway, following a relatively straight road towards their destined hill.

“Is that all?” Daemon brushed the excuse aside as if it were stale ale offered at a wedding. “I saw you, face twisted into concentration. Praying to the Seven—they said you were a septon, but I dare say I never saw a septon look so devout before.” Yelshire’s voice purred as he complimented Luthor. “Even the previous three High Septons would be too wary to do what you did, my lord.”

Humor escaped Grimm’s throat, unnoticed by Daemon or simply ignored. But it brought a grin to Luthor’s face. “I merely let myself indulge in fresh air and get a little wet.” The compliment, while transparent, was nice to soak in.

“Modesty is a rare trait in one so great.” Yelshire provided further commentary as they rounded the city street, passing by a squadron of Goldcloaks who eyed the haggard train of Reach nobility with odd curiosity. “I hear you’ll be attending the Queen’s trial?”

“Mhhhm.” Luthor hummed out his answer, “So I was told.”

“I hear,” Daemon’s voice was a pitch higher with excitement, “That the Queen assaulted King Lucerys herself. She birthed a demon, and so to save her child, clawed away at the king!” Yelshire’s exclamation made for a riveting story, but Luthor brushed it aside with ease. “In front of all her maidens too, who were bribed to keep the story secret, until the Lord Commander found the scene! She is sure to be hung, or beheaded.”

“Be that true, if she killed King Lucerys, it’ll be the wheel for her.” Barked Ser Grimm. “Killing a king requires an extraordinary punishment. Beheading’s too merciful.”

“Very astute, Ser..?”

“Ser Steffon Grimm.”

“Oh, Lord Bonifer’s brother?” Grimm nodded, and that seemed to satisfy the ginger lord. “A breaking on the wheel would be a rarity. Especially for someone so regal, yet repellent. It’s nearly romantic, my Lord and Knight, a woman torn between two worlds. Royalty and the savagery of her kin.”

“Savagery?” Luthor finally spoke up, their destination closer and closer as the conversation dragged onwards.

“Yes, of course, as a man of faith you likely put little time into idle gossip.” Whether that was a compliment or a means to put Luthor down, he could not decipher it. Lord Daemon continued with his unusual zeal regardless. “Wildlings tainted the House of Arryn, I believe her grandmother was the culprit. But it would not surprise me if her father was a cuckold, and Ashara Arryn the spawn of another wildling chieftain.” He postulated with a certain joy to himself. It drew a laugh from Grimm, but Luthor remained stoic in the face of the rumors.

Joining them at the shoulder, Grimm’s red face was a welcome sight. “I’m more interested in that baby, they say it’s lost. I say it’s been killed.”

“Oh?” Daemon inched closer, as if the second son had anything worthwhile to truly divulge.

“Whose to say if the babe even is King Lucerys’ child? If Ashara Arryn is primed to murder her husband, is she so above spiting him in the bedroom? That Lord Commander… He probably stuck it before its first wailings could be heard.”

“I’ll definitely be keeping that possibility in mind later, oh how awful. The handmaidens must’ve seen something—”

“May we be done with this line of discussion?” Luthor looked to both, his voice once more taking on a lecturing, paternal tone. One he’d mastered after decades of dealing with bastard children and squabbling Septons. “I need my wits clear, not ears filled with sawdust.”

“Surely, do not mind our words, Lord Tyrell.” Daemon bowed his head in apology.

“Apologies my lord,” Followed the more earnest reply from Ser Steffon Grimm.

The shadow of the Red Keep loomed overhead, the Reach Lords and their companions were quick to close the distance between themselves and the dragon’s den. With the pervasive silence, broken only by the few comments Lord Yelshire had on the city itself—mindless jargon that Luthor was certain originated from no where but Daemon’s imagination—the familiar sensation of dread bundled in his chest, a painful, throbbing that increased with each step. Here, his last real family lay. Rising to be the Hand of the King, or former Hand to a now deceased King. A commendable position, for a third son.

And he was to walk up to this man and assume they were still family. After a life time apart, with only dwindling memories, quality of which scratched away by time, Luthor was hoping for a warm reception. Though he did not delude himself, the opposite was just as likely.

The guards of the Keep were not slow to permit them access to the castle, Yelshire’s tongue allowed for an expedited process. They pressed forwards with a new guide, and another retainer to the Hand having rushed forward ahead of them to alert the assumed master of the Keep.

Sourly, Luthor wished to hear Grimm’s chatter or the dubious truths from Yelshire, as they waited in an off-sitting room, quiet save for the soft murmurs of the noble women who accompanied them. Waited for the Hand, or another representative of his authority to meet with them.

He debated rehearsing what to say to Little Dick, what could be said... But the former Septon had not a clue where to begin. A quick eye to his most recent companions, and he doubted they'd help. Grimm was an honest man, but appeared less the type to understand Luthor's predicament. Lord Yelshire likely had no comprehension of what shame or worry were, given the cat-like curiosity he possessed without a shred of shame in his line of questions earlier or the bold faced lies he produced.

So Luthor sat, his expression one of resolved neutrality, barely hiding the agitation and worry that tore at his muscles.

Tags:
Hypnos

Mentions:
No one.

 

[RayPurchase]

Grand Maester Barrian
The Red Keep
​

Barrian’s eyes shone with a hint of mischief. The High Septon was on fine form today it appeared, not quite to his level in his mind, but you had to give him some credit, his predecessor would have just stormed off in a swirl of crimson skin and billowing robes, most likely given some sort of sermon about the breakdown of morale fabric. This one was different, less predictable compared to his predecessors.

“And here was me thinking history and science were simply my purview. As for the family I thought Septons agreed to serve only the Mother and Father, giving themselves fully to the spiritual and unburdening themselves of their material families and such vulgar trappings. But progress and all that, you’ll be considered a burning beacon of reform and modernity I’m sure. I may not have devoted my life to the Faith as you have, however how can one understand the history of Westeros without that of the Faith, there would be many holes indeed,”

Not that modernity and reform were viewed particularly highly by the faithful. If he was being honest they weren’t really viewed highly by some of the older members of his order. Barrian knew that his appointment to the position of Grand Maester had not only been a roll of the die (the previous Grand Maester had ended up being viewed by the King as one of the reasons for his lack of a healthy male heir) but also to remove the black sheep of the Conclave, his near combative attitude rubbing many of his colleagues the some way. He could probably name 2 Archmaesters who probably voted for him in hope that Barrian would fail and become the focal point for the King’s inevitable anger.

He matched the High Septon’s smile. Both of them like a one way mirror, the airs, the smiles, the pleasantries, all their to create the illusion of business as usual. Especially so in times such as this, especially with so many Lords descending on them at any one time, combine that with a Hand of the King with no King to grant him mandate, a Kingsguard with no one to guard, and there being two Dragons eyeing up the throne with a third missing. It was the equivalent of adding wildfire to a smoldering blaze.

“Alas your Holiness, we are simply here to guide and advise, to make sure that the trial is fair and just. We must rely on the Great Lords to exercise their judgement and logic once the facts are presented before them. Men like us judging the innocence or otherwise of a Queen? I fear such a thing exists only in the realms of fantasy,”

His smile broadened as he walked along the corridor in lockstep with the High Septon. Nodding his head at his woeful tale of common folk seeking clarity in these dark times. It was all he could do not to laugh at the absurdity of it all. He could almost hear Naerys voice overlapping his own, see the strings tugging at his lips and her shadow above her youngest son. Ah the Mistress of Coin at the centre of her web. Money and Faith, enough to overthrow even the mightiest Empire, and she had it all. Well at least until the Iron Throne had a new occupant and they decided for a reshuffle of the Small Council. At least he had the luxury of permanency, it took the Conclave to make him, and the Conclave to unmake him. Of course she was fishing for information, as was his place as the Royal Physician he had conducted the autopsy, as these Celtigars were obviously aware of.

“The smallfolk and their tales, a different one on each street corner, I heard a particularly humorous rumour that the King, rest his soul, fell on his own sword whilst trying to knight his newborn son. I would not put much stock in the wild and spurious rumours of the people. Just tell them… to have faith. Let them know the truth will come out when the time is right, and the facts have seen the cold light of day,”

He came to a halt, the doorway to the rookery and his quarters snaking off to the left. He placed a hand on the High Septon’s shoulder, quite awkwardly given the size difference between the two.

“Oh and do pass my best wishes to Lady Naerys, with the awful events of recent times it already seems like an age since we were last clustered within the Small Council Chamber. You must tell her to visit, my quarters may be quite humble compared to her own, but she can always find me there if she has need of me,”

If she wanted to dig, then she could come and do it herself instead of sending her son to go fishing in her absence, he wouldn’t get a bite today. Barrian had reached the point in his life where charm and a handsome smile would no longer get very far with him.

“Now you must excuse me, already the day passes us by, and there is much to do,” He tapped the book still cradled under his robe. “Time’s arrow neither stands still, nor reverses. It simply marches forward.” His hand moved to the door, before pausing. “Unless there was anything else I could assist with your Holiness?” The smile crept back into place, the grandfatherly smile of patience and wisdom, that he had spent so long perfecting. The perfect mask.

(Interaction JPTheWarrior The High Septon)

 

[JPTheWarrior]

Naerys Celtigar - Mistress of Coin​

Pouring two spoons of sugar in her cup of tea, Naerys took a sip of her drink, licking her lips to prolong the taste of sweetness the warm tea gave her. "The only way I see Ashara having anything to do it with it is if she believed for certain that her son would become the indisputable heir. Which is, as history showed us, not true. Putting a baby as King is the same as giving the Throne to someone outside of the main family branch. But if someone could convince her otherwise, maybe with hopeful promises of supporting her son's claim. However, if that was the case, why hide the baby? Maybe she doesn't trust her husband's family to support an infant and fears for the toddler's life? But if we go down that path there's too many "if"." The old woman slowly exhaled a sigh and closed eyes rubbing her forehead. She knew what Aemon was doing, trying to satisfy her intense desire to know more about the matter without really revealing any useful information. She did give him some names, most of them already suspects of her own deduction, tho one name did catch her offguard.

"Strange you would name House Lannister as suspects. They always hunger to be the wealthiest and richest family, but how would murdering the King help them? Did Prince Jaehaerys or Princess Rhaenyra gave any pledges?" she asked, an obvious attempt to get some information out of Aemon. With him she didn't need to put on a farse. He knew her too well for her to give herself such effort. Another sip and she continued "Ah yes, you are right. I shall trust those Lords Paramounts who know so much of the situation and will surely give a true verdict, with not taint of corruption and personal desires. Come on Lord Aemon, you and I both know you are smarter than this. We both know even if you spill all the truth you have gatheired all of those years, most of them can cover it up. The truth is just a rule they can bend." Rolling her eyes she took yet one more sip of her tea, now almost finished. "You know very well you and me could find the culprit and give the ultimate truth to the court. Come, Lord Aemon. Why don't we work together as we used to? Back in the days we made quite the efficient pair. The one who wears the crown has seen many faces, three in these last decades, soon four. The court's composition has always been changing, people come and go. But you and I have always been here, flawless at what we do. Together we could and would find the King's murderer" She knew very well that Lord Aemon would understand her motives, but he couldn't deny that what Lady Celtigar was saying was no lie. The two of them had influence that was even greater than some of the Great Houses. Naerys knew, if Aemon really did care about the truth, then this was an irresistible offer.


Interactions:
Braddington - Lord Aemon
BELIAL. - Wylla

 

[Yarrow]

Damon Redwyne
It had been some time ago that Damon visited King's Landing. The last time was to visit Jason. It was before their father died. The summer was still hot then. Now he entered the harbor of King's Landing in his winter clothes. Their journey to the Red Keep had been a far more pleasant one than the sailing trip. Unlike his brother, Damon wasn't fond of ships. He understood their value to his house, he understood that very well, but if it wasn't necessary he wouldn't sail.

King's landing hadn't changed much since his last visit. The city would probably never change much. It would always remain the stinkhole it was. Damon couldn't understand why his brother would want to live here. They were sitting in a waiting room of sorts. They had been brought here and told to wait. Damon looked at Luthor Tyrell. Damon didn't really knew the man. He had been unimportant when his father taught him everything he should know about the Reach and the Seven Kingdoms. That was until Lord Tyrell died and Luthor decided to become Paramouth of the Reach.

This was the main reason his mother had come with him on this trip to the Capital. She also came to find a suitable wife for her son. Alyss Redwyne, née Tarly, had two reasons to be here. Ever since she heard that Lord Luther was back at Highgarden she wanted to go there. Damon thought he must have been an old crush of her. Lord Luthor had never married, since he decided that he would become a septon. But with becoming Lord of the Reach, he became also suitable for marriage.

Damon had been pushed for eternity by his mother to find a wife. Alyss would love that her sons would marry beautiful women from the Reach and forge strong alliances. Damon main reason for being here was that he would get to know Luthor Tyrell, if possible. He also wanted to know why his brother lived in this shithole. Damon decided that it was time to talk to his overlord. He stood up from his chair near the window and sat down at a chair near Lord Tyrell.

"Lord Tyrell, how did you experience the journey?" Damon asked the lord, if Luthor liked the trip, Damon would have Jason talk to the man.

Optimus Princeps

Jason Redwyne
Jason wandered through the Red Keep. Jason had been here for five years. A few moons after he arrived at King's Landing for the first time he was appointed Master of Ships. King Lucerys heard about his adventures and capability. It had been Jason's luck that the former Master of Ships just died. While being Master of Ships, Jason kept his private fleet of five ships seperated from the main fleet. His own fleet, consisting of two war galleys and three normal galleys had provided him with many pleasantries the last few years. Besides his job as Master of Ships, Jason had also a small trading business. With this, money caming flowing into his pocket and the needed gossip from the Free cities also. During his years living in the free cities, Jason gathered a crew native to the free cities. They were foreignors in King's Landing, but each one back in their own city provided him with the needed information.

Jason was unsure of his position at the Small Council now. Since the death of the King, Jason had been focussed of maintaining alliances with members of the court. The current Targaryen family was very small. Jason his biggest hope was finding the babe. Jason hadn't really come up with a plan. That is what his brother Damon always did. As soon as his men saw ships from the Reach arriving at the harbor Jason got the message. Finally, after many years, he got to see his brother again. With his mother it would always be the same story. Just like Damon, Jason was still unmarried. At court Jason had had the company of many women, but none of them were worth his dedication. Maybe with his brothers advice, this whole situation would turn-out quite fruitful.

In his mind, he made a note to talk to his brother about this. His last message to his crew would probably come up with useful information, if told to other people properly. He made also a note to talk to his colleage at the small council, Aemon Velaryon

mentions: Braddington

 

[Braddington]

The Drunken Knight



Triston was pissed.

No, not angry.

Literally pissed.

He had consumed far too much alcohol at the Prancing Lion, a rather cheap establishment on the outskirts of Flea Bottom. What could he say? The prices were fair and they didn’t piss in the wine. At least he hoped they didn’t. Who would be that scummy?

It was a fucking travesty. The King? He was dead. Rest in peace. His son? Who the fuck knows. Dead, alive, turned into a dragon. Did it really fucking matter anymore? Everything was shit and he was smack bang in the middle of it all. Some Kingsguard he turned out to be. Probably had something to do with the job being a load of bollocks. “Stand here, Ser Triston! Guard this, Ser Triston! Seize the Queen, Ser Triston!”

He debated going back to his father, begging the man to pull a few strings to get him off the guard. Sure he would most likely take blame as the reason for his dismissal, but at least he’d have a life to wipe the stain off. If that were even possible. Yet could you imagine the smug pricks face? “Welcome home, my son. You have done the right thing. I am proud of you.”

Disgusting.

No, he would continue on, at least until someone official actually did blame him. Which was likely. Would they be wrong? The entire guard was at fault. He just happened to be new.

Stumbling from the tavern, he made his way up to the Red Keep. The Lord Commander had called a meeting. He was probably late. Oh well.

The streets were packed, Lords and Ladies of high and mighty houses arriving for Ashara’s trial. As if she did anything unless Lucerys asked first. Some twit Baratheons were making an entrance, he bet they were happy. Traitors. The Tully boy? What a bastard. Arrogance to match a prized stallion, yet without the pedigree to prove it. Imagine, he probably had Dalt blood in his veins from somewhere. Then there were the ships, a Manderly? The Septon? They were all here. Dragged from their sewers to share in the misery.

The guards eyed him as he entered the keep, wary but not saying a word. Good. They knew when to keep quiet.

Triston climbed the stairs of the White Sword Tower, almost falling multiple times, stumbling even more times than that. He could hear the twins from a mile away. He felt like throwing up then and there.

But were they wrong? No. They weren’t. That’s why he couldn’t stand them. They had more backbone than he did. They said what they believed out loud and he drank himself to silence in a cheap inn. Perhaps his father would be proud.

Reaching the top, he knocked on the door, leaning on it for support as his eyes washed over all present. A rather meagre assembly really. Did the rest jump ship?

Good on them.

He could say sorry for his absence, for his state, but he wasn’t.

“They’re not wrong, Quenton.”

His words slurred.

“We fucked up. Real bad. Perhaps we should like, not do anything to bring up the fact we fucked up?”

@TheKingsguard​

 

[JPTheWarrior]

Luceon Celtigar - High Septon​

This man was no fool alright. No wonder he had been one of the two to stay by the royal family's side for so long, along with his mother. Luceon guessed that conversation about the common folk yearning for the truth and the chaos that Luceon had to deal with wasn't enough to convince the Grandmaester to let out any kind of information to him. The mention of his mother did show why. It wasn't because the man didn't care for the citizens of King's Landing, nor wasn't because he didn't trust Luceon. Much to Luceon's disdain, his mother simply casts a too big of a shadow to hide, at least from Barrian, who had known her for so many Summers and Winters. That's why Barrian wouldn't speak to Luceon about the autopsy. His mother herself needed to come and speak with Barrian about it, only that way information could be given to House Celtigar.

'Men like us', the geezer said, 'are simply here to adivise. Trust the Great Lords'. A blubbering idiot, if he thought trust could be given to them, more corrupt than any Lord of Westeros. This trial only served for a few of the judges to gain more power and others to lose some of it. Of course, Barrian couldn't be serious about his statement. Barrian was old, but not a moron. This was simply a farce of a conversation, a polite way to say 'Fuck you if you think I'm gonna agree and say that you should have some hold of this trial'. Even so, Luceon wasn't angered by this, for such reaction is normal. The Grandmaester did not trust the Celtigars and only with time Luceon could change that. "Faith is an answer most overlooked by so many. Patience is another one. A shame you couldn't help me in satisfying the common folk, who have the misfortune of not getting the information as quick as those more blessed do. But all is well, I understand."

"I'm sure mother will be most thankful for your wishes, Grandmaester. I am sure she will see you soon, as old friends. Unfortunately, I don't think you could help me more than you already have, my gratitude for your time, I am sure it have been turbulent these past days and I appreciate the time you have given me." Luceon gave another small bow, just like the one he had given when this encountered started. "I also have a few duties I must see finished today, if you'll excuse me I will not take my leave. Have a calm evening, Grandmaester Barrian." Luceon said as he turned around and started walking again, towards the chamber of princess Rhaenyra. The duty he had spoken of was her, he needed to adress the woman, now more than ever. The trust she had gained for him had proven its worth, countless of times, this one was just one more example. She knew things he didn't and, since Barrian wouldn't spill the beans, perhaps she would prove herself more useful.



Interactions:
RayPurchase - Grandmaester Barrian
Mentions:
ailurophile - Princess Rhaenyra

 

[TheFool]

Greetings



Princess Rhaenyra had left him lonely.

Her last words sticking to him like fresh sweat. “Fickle”. Fickle, fickle people. His cane quivered, and he pressed down. His eyes, once again, found the fountain. The blue-green water shimmying in the faint sunlight that managed to seep through grey clouds. His free hand plunged itself into his pocket. The pocket jangling as it did. He took it out,
A single coin.

A silver stag.

He hobbled,
Approaching the fountain closer and closer. Before he closed his eyes and flipped the coin into it. It hitting the water with a gentle splash. He made a wish, before he opened his eyes and decided that it was time. Time to welcome those coming here.
To his home.
So they can sit and watch a little girl lose her head.


The entrance courtyard was very large and very wide, quite like the man who stood in the middle of it. Walys Ball. A man who always wore reds and pink and whites, like he was some small child’s sugar-filled sweet. Ball had been the acting master-of-horse of The Red Keep for…

Gods.
It had to be at least ten years. Jaehaerys wasn’t so sure of the specifics.

“Good Prince!”

Ball yelled. He was as loud as he was fat.

“Walys. How goes it?”

“It goes, your grace. It goes.”

Jaehaerys shambled towards the man, his cane digging and undigging into the gravel with each grueling step. His limp did not hurt him physically, per say. But his ego was, sometimes, fragile. And everyone was always watching in The Red Keep.
Even if you couldn’t see your audience.
“Good,”
Jaehaerys responded. “Good.”

“You just missed my good neighbour, Lord Wythers.” Ball said, “I had a wonderful chit-chat with him about our newly positioned Lord Luthor.”

Luthor Tyrell.

Jaehaerys had heard of the man much. How one man could forsake his vows, and his Gods, for power was almost snakelike. Fitting for a Tyrell though. So, so fitting.
“What is your opinion on him, Walys?”
He asked the man.
Ball smiled, “I think he will do wonderfully. The Reach will continue to prosper under him. I do know it.”
“I could not agree more, my lord.”
Jaehaerys spoke.

Smiling.

“Who else has arrived?” The Prince asked, curious.
He had many people to see.
Many people to talk to.
Talk to about things that needed to be talked of.
Ball took two moments to think, “Have you heard the horns?”
“The horns?”
“Yes, the horns.”
“No. I have not heard the horns, my lord.
Ball smiled again, showing some brown rotting teeth, “The horns of House Baratheon. Or so a guard has relayed to me so.”
House Baratheon.

It had been years and years since Jaehaerys had even seen a Baratheon. The last one being the Kingsguard who lost his life for loving Lynora Westerling.
Ser...
Jaehaerys could not remember his name.
He did not care to remember it.
He did, however, care to speak to the knight’s nephew.

Ormund.
Lord of Storm’s End.

Jaehaerys’ brother may’ve pissed away a good rapport with the dear and the stags, but, if the boy was never to be found… never to rule, he would want to rebuild that rapport.

For his sake.
For the sake of The Seven Kingdoms.

“Where is the stewardess?”
Jaehaerys asked Ball.
The fat man’s fat face made grimace, “Oh. Lady Leyla was showing Lord Hayford to his quarters. They’ve been gone for… quite some time.”
“Well, keep doing what you’re doing, Walys. Help me with the arrivals.”
“Yes, your grace. It’d be a pleasure to not just have to deal with the arriving horses.”
Jaehaerys grinned,
“Then deal with their lords and their ladies too.”


He greeted.

And he greeted.

Men and women and their children. Lords. Ladies. Important septons and important knights. One, a Septa Jeyne, asked him if he had seen his sister and that she was doing great work with the poor of Seagard the last time she’d seen her.
Helaena.
He had not seen her in years. Years and years. She was a black sheep among dragons. Refusing her father’s order to marry and reproduce so that she could pledge herself to the faith.

A fool.

And a coward.

Her vows of celibacy had killed House Targaryen even more so.


Walys soon greeted a convoy, containing the items of the stag. Jaehaerys watched as the servants and the castle guards and the men wearing black and mustard tinted yellow took each box of luggage and each suitcase out. The Red Keep’s stewardess returning to instruct them where to properly put it.

“Your grace.”
A voice. Sweet and melodic.

He turned to his left to see two women. Sera Sunglass, and another…

A blonde woman he couldn’t recall the face of.

“Lady Sera.”
Jaehaerys greeted her with another grin.

She curtsied. “This is my cousin, Lady Judyth Umber.”

Umber?
Judyth Umber?

A name he had heard briefly before, but not one he had the pleasure of truly meeting. He bowed his head slightly, “Lady Judyth, it is my honour to have you here - in my home.” He said. His words humble sounding. “Did you travel with The Starks? Are they here also?”

“No, your grace. Judyth came on her own. She is a merchant. Always sailing.”
Sera corrected him.

“Ah, my mistake.”

“And my apologies but have we ever met, my lady? I am barely but into my thirties and yet my memory has already begun slipping.” He said with a chuckle.

He looked at her,
“It shames me that a Prince does not remember the people that make his realm.”

Spoiler: MENTIONS

QuirkyAngel
RayPurchase

​

 

[dendygar]

Lady Amabel Blackwood

Truth be told, she didn't want to leave Winterfell. It was essentially her home, and had been since she was a child. The only family that she had left resided there in those dark, cold halls, and the only person she could consider her true friend was her cousin Dorren. The two had been practically connected at the hip since wee babes, getting into all sorts of trouble; but Dorren was always there to get her out of it, and she was always there to save his arse as well. But sadly, they couldn't stay forever young.

There was no escaping it, and Amabel had been forced to emotionally mature at the age of 13 when the entirety of her family had been wiped out by some sort of fever. Each perished one after the other in rapid succession, and when the letter finally arrived at Winterfell, Amabel hadn't had the chance to say goodbye to her blood kin. She donned her father's cloak of raven feathers and sat with her chin held high as the lady of Raventree Hall for five years, and she did so dutifully with pride.

Then, her bastard brother came into the picture, and the council had overruled her. There was no denying his lineage, tall and strapping with thick black hair and dark eyes. He was nearly the spitting image of her eldest brother Braeden, and every time she gazed upon his face, her hatred grew more and more. Thus, Amabel Blackwood spent less time at home. She refused to give up the cloak that belonged to her father, forcing her half-brother to commission a new one. She wouldn't allow it to be identical. That cloak was one of her most prized possessions, and it was hers. She also always wore a necklace that belonged to her deceased mother, and had inherited her brother Braeden's bow and quiver, and Conran's short sword. She took these wherever she went, they were sacred to her and all that she had left. Her life had been hollow since their deaths, and all of her peers had been getting married and having children.

One of them was Dorren, her precious Dorren. She was happy for him, truly. She liked Lyanna enough, she was very comely and seemed to love him back as well. They were totally head over heels, and at the moment, it was making her a bit sick. She felt as though she was being suffocated by their affection. The snuggling, the snogging, she felt as though she was going to punch out the window of the carriage and hop out to walk the rest of the way. There was some envy in her discomfort as well, totally in denial of it, but wishing for someone to love all the same.

"You would not be locked away." Amabel spoke up, her perpetual scowl not leaving her face. Her hauntingly obsidian eyes watched Lyanna carefully, "They would not be so foolish, breaking the guest rights." Guest rights were very important in situations such as this. "There is a difference between speaking freely and slandering and meandering." Although she may have sounded harsh, it was coming from a place of caring and affection. She didn't want her new in-law to feel any anxiety.

Amabel had been this far south before, but only twice. The memories were hazy, everything was hazy before the passing of her family, and that was when the world lost it's color and her vision sharpened into that of a hawk's. Everyone, everything became and object of suspicion and weariness. She watched as Lyanna nuzzled Dorren's chest. "It's truly nothing spectacular down here. If there was, I'm sure I would have remembered it." She flashed a small, cool smile. "Gods, I must get out of this carriage before I go mad."

The raven-haired beauty looked out the window whenever they kissed, her stomach churning in mild disgust. It could have been worse- they could have been romping. Her mind went to the imprisoned Queen, furrowing her dark brows as she got lost in her thoughts. In her opinion, she thought that she did it. Until there was evidence to prove otherwise, it was the opinion that she was going to go with. It came from the general distrust her family had for the Southerners.. they had been conned by them more than once in the past. Her grandfather cut ties with them entirely in his youth, and ever since, the hostility was great.

She blinked her large eyes slowly as she watched the trees pass by. Visions of a young woman locked away in a dungeon passed in her mind's eye, but she felt no empathy. Her capacity for such emotions had been limited for a very long time, having cut herself off from such affections. Her family had never been affectionate, anyway.

Amabel shot Dorren a look of wild anger, finally at her wits end with the semi-public displays of affection. There was only so much that she could handle before her brain exploded or had an aneurysm. She cleared her throat loudly at the two.

BELIAL. ​

 

[Togy]

Lord Ethan Arryn
Lord of the Moon Gate
​

"Welcome, Almir, to King's Landing, or just Landing as it stands, the biggest cesspool of filth and scum in all of Westeros" Ethan muttered to his captain, sparing glances to the surrounding city as his small caravan of ten men trotted up the street atop their mounts. "See that, right there? In front of us Almir" Ethan said, flicking his hands up ahead.

Squinting, Ethan's captain leaned forward to see what their lord had pointed at. "I'm afraid I don't see it my lord" Captrain Almir said with a shake of their head.

"The shit, Almir, the shit" Ethan said, pointing at a pile of waste just sitting on the road up ahead. "Did you know that King's Landing has no sewers? The inhabitants of this city just go in the damn streets. What do you think you've been smelling?" Ethan asked, making his horse side step the waste.

"I've been breathing through my mouth since we reached the gatehouse" Almir admitted, looking at the waste with disgust as he trotted by.

"Smart idea" Ethan nodded, looking at the city with disdain. He truly hated the city with a burning passion. It was if the seven deadly sins had all been wrapped up into a flea ridden cloth and chucked into an uncleaned outhouse. The city itself had tried to hide it's disgusting nature by crafting beautiful monuments to distract a visitor's eye, but if said visitor were to use more than one sense for more than a moment, they'd realize just how atrocious the whole city was.

When he'd been a lad, he'd thought that King's Landing was the grandest city on Planetos. Funny how perspective changes with age.

"But, truly, the worst part of this gods forsaken is the people" Ethan muttered to Almir, casting his gaze around at the people. Any one of them could be another man's informant. King's Landing really was the worst place to exchange secrets in. "Everyone here is either a spy, a merchant that will leave you penniless, a thief after your coin, or worse, a noble" Ethan murmured, sliding his eyes across the crowd. There was the few odd stares, but no one payed the Arryn's convoy any real attention. Ethan had decided to not ride with banners to avoid whatever the smallfolk may do when confronted with the family of the killer of their beloved king. Luckily, the peasants were educated enough to recognize the reach's clothing and armor, so they were fairly oblivious if the Arryn's didn't announce their presence.

"Is it wise to speak here my lord?" Almir asked, observing the crowd. They looked tense, as if they though the crowd would recognize them. The man really had to stop worrying so much.

"It's not wise to speak anywhere in King's Landing" Ethan answered, the footfalls of their horses punctuating the silence that followed.