Role Playing - Game of Thrones - Prequel: A MYOC Role Playing Game - Page 20

fleur captives · 05-07-2015, 01:30 PM

Isond Westerling
Isond found she rather liked good, kind, honorable Lord Torren Stark.

His words continued to flatter her; speaking such benevolence of Lord Alester Westerling raised him a great deal higher in her estimation. For her, there was no man truer and more honorable throughout the Seven Kingdoms than her Lord father. The numerous trials he had undergone and yet still managed to emerge victorious were the basis of her admiration but he had done her a great kindness and taught her much of how to behave, how to succeed, how to thrive in a world that favored heavy-handed tactics over a well-played strategy. "All the better to know the face of betrayal than to come upon it blind," she repeated her father's words to him, acknowledging that there was some merit in his strategy, and nodding in agreement that House Targaryen was fortunate to count them amongst their loyal.

At his suggestion that he did not bite, replete with a knavish wink, Isond smiled, but nearly bit her tongue trying to hold back the remark that it was hardly her good name that she was concerned about, but his. The moment passed as the conversation headed toward more neutral ground and the man rose once more to stand beside her.

On a day such as this, indeed. Summer had been long in Westeros, and although she knew well enough that the words of House Stark were spoken in truth, she could not imagine an end to the season. It was a particularly beautiful day for the Crownlands, whose natural environment paled in comparison to the Westerlands. In her mind's eye, Isond could almost see the sun reflecting off the waves of the Sunset Sea, and brought to mind a distant memory of a long ride as a small girl with her lady mother on the Ocean Road to Highgarden. She had hated the sight then, brought on by days and days of riding against the coastline in anticipation of seeing the Reach and her mother's relatives, but the thought of it was now a pleasant one when faced with looking on Blackwater Bay day in and day out.

"So long as you walk the halls the Red Keep, politics is what it will all lead back to, one way or another," she answered in a conversational tone, daring a devilish smirk daring to appear on her pretty painted mouth as she spoke. "At the Crag, we swam. The Sunset Sea is perhaps a beautiful sight to behold in the North though I would think it prettier still in the Westerlands where the sun warms the water. But here in King's Landing ..." she trailed off, returning his wink to him in kind. "We plot."

AtomicEmpress · 05-07-2015, 02:18 PM

Adeline
She paused in her walking and looked at the man who had spoken.
"It seems I've intruded on your need for peace and solitude as much as you have mine."
Adeline said with a smile.
"Maybe this meeting was meant to be, and we have something to learn from one another, like not talking about your problems doesn't solve them?"
She suggested, being able to tell just by the look on his face that he too had things weighing heavy on his mind. She idly put her hand on her onion broach, which she touched every so often for luck.
"Or maybe that's just a silly thought from a silly woman."
She said looking down, and then looked back at him.
"I'm sorry if I troubled you, good Sir."
Adeline told him with a nod.

degausser · 05-07-2015, 05:12 PM

Lyonel Baratheon
A smug look of self-satisfaction was plastered all across his face as he carried the princess through the crowd, her ass high in the air for all the downtrodden and wretched souls of Flea Bottom to bear witness to. Lyonel hoped it brought a little more joy into their lives, just as it had done for him in that moment. Knowing she was in no fit sight to be returned to the Red Keep in her present state, Lyonel took her to a nearby pot shop owned by one of his associates. Inside was swelteringly hot, but at least the overwhelming stench of horse shit was gone. Curious eyes fell upon the two as they entered, though one tilt of the head had been enough to send their audience scurrying about to return to work at their kilns.

To her credit, she managed to scramble to her feet as he unloaded her weight off of his shoulder. The princess scrunched her face repulsively as she took in her surroundings before barking more ‘requests’ at him. “Pigsty?” He taunted reproachfully. “You say you would help the people here, yet all you do is insult them. I suppose it is far easier to throw coin at a problem rather than suffer and understand the root of its cause.” Nothing grated his nerves more than the sheer, transparent look of petulance that twisted her otherwise comely features into a far less flattering look of vexation. What exactly did she expect him to do, pull up a tub and fetch her some water? Did he look like a washer woman to her?

Even if he had been the type to jump at her every beck and call, the people of flea bottom could not afford the luxuries enjoyed by the likes of the princess. That he managed to find her a pale with some questionable looking water was a miracle in and of itself. “The latter would require you to get your pretty little hands dirty. Here, see if you can make use of this.” Lyonel spat out as he slid the pale of water in her direction with the toe of his leathered boot before tossing a mostly clean rag at her face. She was glowering vehemently at him now, the dragon in her evidentially woken. He probably should have kept his mouth shut just then, but good sense had never been Lyonel Baratheon’s forte. “What? Did you need me to wash you down as well?” A deliberately slow once over made him realize he might not have minded such a task after all.

winter soldier · 05-07-2015, 10:04 PM

Ryella Arryn
She’d spent the last month in abject misery. Each day the maester had promised her ‘soon, soon my Lady’ and she’d trusted him with dubious optimism, fingers creeping over her swollen stretched belly as she willed the child from her womb with all the enthusiasm her fatigued being could manage. Each day the child refused to heed its mother’s begging, growing larger and more active with every passing moment. Near the end, Ryella couldn’t bear being out of her bed, her legs too swollen and her breath coming in insignificant little pants and before, before it’d been hyperbole but this time Ryella genuinely believed the birthing might end her, once and for all. Fortunately, it’d only been the discomfort of an overstretched womb, housing not one overactive babe but two, warring for space and dominance within the already weathered frame of poor Lady Arryn. It was not the throes of death, nor the miraculous conception of a giant like the Clegane boys, and the latest additions to House Arryn patiently awaited their turns, one at a time so as not to burst from her abdomen like she’d half-expected in the hysterics of labor.

The Seven certainly enjoyed testing the faith of their disciples. The girl arrived first, naturally, squalling with her powerful lungs and prompting Ryella to burst into tears when she spied what was (or wasn’t) between her legs. Hugh had come to her then, looking distressed but trying valiantly not to, offering her his hand in wordless support and she’d clung to it, unable to stop the shedding of tears. She’d not survive another bout, she was certain. She was too old, too worn down, her womb had failed enough and born enough that it had to be ready to up and quit, or else give life to something terrifying like a malformed imp. That was it, she’d thought, just before the quickening of her belly started anew and Ryella stared in bewilderment as the maester withdrew a second child from between her legs. I knew it! she’d cheered, just cognizant enough to promise herself that she’d have that stupid maester ejected through the moon door when they returned to the Eyrie before sinking back in bed and catching her breath.

”A boy, my Lady.” Her eyes snapped open in surprise. She’d almost named the simpering old fool a liar, her shrewd Frey features morphing into a hideous scowl just long enough for the maester to hold the babe up for her to see. The evidence supporting his claim was clear as the light of day, and Ryella began to laugh and then cry as the temperamental child screamed and proceeded to pee all over the man’s stately velvet cloak. A son. A son, at last. She was exhausted but jubilant, cheeks wet with tears both miserable and rapturous. The babe was handed off to Hugh, the proud father, and Arwen cradled his twin with awed delight, her face presumably a mirror of her mother’s own. Her next conscious thought came spilling from between her lips without preamble, as Ryella aimed a half-hearted glare toward her husband. “Don’t drop him.” His answer was to hand the boy to her, and fleetingly she felt an ounce of fear as if lightning might strike them both dead just then, a bit of delayed karma for the actions of her grandfather but the seconds ticked by, harmlessly so, and the child but ceased his wailing to nestle at her breast. She stroked the fine downy hairs on his head, bright red as all her offspring would bear. Ryella was experiencing one of those rare moments where she was at a complete loss for words.

Ser Domeric Bolton
Though they’d spent a majority of their lives apart, in separate worlds, exchanging no more than the rare raven to acknowledge to one another that they were both indeed still among the living, Alannys had the misfortune of sharing her sibling’s tells, the morphology of their features too similar that Domeric could, at minimum, hazard an educated guess as to the contents of her mind at any given moment. He imagined it was a similar situation for Alannys, though one feat of telepathy was markedly more impressive than the other, as Domeric’s deepest inner thoughts tended to lean towards one of two themes. One revolving around Princess Daena and elaborate methods of torture. The second being slightly less appropriate, and starring a cast of male subjects that changed every odd week (minus one or two repeat performers). Alannys approached a modestly more complex level of depth of mind. Now, he thought, judging from the quirking of her inner brows and slight pursing of her lips, the focus of her consideration must be something ridiculous, and it was a fair estimation that whatever it was revolved around Domeric. He wasn’t surprised. “Don’t get any strange ideas, I thought I said. The cogs in your head are grinding obnoxiously loud.”

He tracked the direction her eyes took, pointed in their trek, and felt himself growing uncharacteristically warm. Very little could shake young Domeric’s composure, but with a veritable open door into his inner machinations Alannys could destroy his cool aplomb in ways not even a wily young dragon princess could manage. “Magically, threats to the royal family’s well-being do not cease at privy doors.” An industrious assassin might dive in through a window. Lay in waiting behind the folds of a curtain. Pop out of the hole crafted entirely for bodily leavings—for good reason, Domeric ceased his defensive argument where he had, because even he thought himself an idiot for the unspoken remainder. Instead, he switched tactics. “Could be worse,” he hedged, mouth pressing into a firm line as he shrugged his shoulders marginally, forcing nonchalance.

Captivating · 05-08-2015, 08:29 AM

Indira Targaryen
Sweat gathered at the base of Dira’s neck, seconds slowly ticking by. Was the commander truly withholding his assistance? The longer he delayed, the more she cooked. The suns heat roasted her and other patrons from within. “Much like the castle ovens,” she whispered so no one could hear. “Unacceptable.” The princess did not think herself above others, rather, she was referring to the whole lot. Neither a royal ‘nor a pot seller (‘nor a harlot) deserved such discomfort. Her judger might’ve known that had he observed awhile longer. Instead, the begrudged City Watch member did to her what he supposedly despised. His chastisement was highly unwelcome. “Well, if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black,” Dira sneered. How hypocritical could one person be? Very, or so she was learning. The man before her pegged her for an entitled snob the moment her identity was clear. He could deny it, but she knew a look of disdain when she saw one. “And I wasn’t trying to insult anyone. I was merely stating a fact. This place is filthy.” Perhaps she could gather cleaning supplies before her next journey. Assuming the man before her wouldn’t run her name through the mud with her parents. The King she could deceive, convince of tall tales, but the Queen would know. She’d caught her daughter visiting the people once already, resulting in increased security for two years. Dira couldn’t return to forced solitude so soon after freedom. The possibility turned her stomach completely.

“There you go again, assuming things,” the blonde beauty snapped. “Who said I wasn’t willing to get my hands dirty?” Indira mirrored the brute’s annoyance perfectly. “Should I call you High Septon, since you think yourself all knowing? Would that pacify you?” She rolled her eyes prior to the rag in her face. Chucked with such force, she felt her cheek sting slightly. A pale of water soon followed. “Thank you,” the princess forced herself to speak. She stared at the muddled water briefly before her teeth clench once more. Did she need to be washed down, her acquaintance prodded. His aura radiated arrogance. Arrogance and…lust? Indira grabbed the rag, averting her eyes. She wasn’t naïve. Impure gazes lingered upon her and Daena often. Men were desperate to corrupt or wed them, ideally both. Lyonel’s stare was different. He only looked hungry. “I think I can manage. A rub here, a slide there…shouldn’t be too difficult.” Indira moved the rag up and down her legs twice, exposing flesh just below her thigh. The moist towel moved to her chest next, wetting the curvature of her breasts. The princess hid her smile whilst the commander watched. “What? Are you going to claim I’m bathing wrong too?” His objections wouldn’t surprise her. He disproved of everything else, why not this?

Torren Stark
They shared an understanding. Torren saw it in Isond’s eyes, heard it in her voice whist she spoke. The Sunset Sea connected their worlds physically, yet there was more. The pair’s morals and beliefs appeared yoked, a rarity neither protested. “Interaction before reaction. It would’ve saved many good men…and women…their lives.” The Starks knew much of the penalty for blind trust, the Baratheons as well. Cassanda and he discussed their Houses mistakes often. If only King Robert would’ve seen past Cersei’s deceptions. If only Ned Stark hadn’t trusted in King Joffrey’s sentencing. Torren would honor both families by living wiser. He could think of no better tribute. “I needn’t fear for your survival in King’s Landing, m’lady,” the wolf lord concluded. “I’m glad of it.” Though it was not his duty to be concerned, he often worried after maidens. Comely women without common sense were bountiful in these parts. The games they played were dangerous.

Torren attributed his alertness to his sister. The thought of anyone mistreating Bethany lit a fire within. Still, Torren trusted her judgment. He experienced the same calming feeling ‘round Isond. Talk turned from politics to competing activities, partially so. The joke being the Crownlands distaste for diversity. The Red Keep was kept alive by gossip; idle minds never ceased debating the wheel of power. People considered who was on top today versus who could rise tomorrow, which marriage arrangements might flourish and which would flounder, etc. The list went on and on. What Torren did not wish to hear, he needed to hear. “No rest for the weary, then?” A raised eyebrow signaled his skepticism. Isond answered his question with a pixyish smile. As a child, she’d relished the sun’s warmth in the water. Swimming (to her) was as natural as breathing. It was to the Crag what plotting was to King’s Landing.

“A clever comparison.” Isond was dexterous. A hardy laugh escaped Torren’s mouth. He appreciated his acquaintances unique qualities, perhaps more than he should. What was improper here differed greatly from the North. He sometimes lost his way. “I marveled at the Sunset Sea as a boy, more now as a man. Hypothermia would’ve been the cost of enjoyment in my parts…I almost dubbed it worth a try.” Staring at Blackwater Bay, Torren considered throwing caution to the wind. His Northern bones ached for release. He was Lord Stark first and foremost, but he was also a man. A man who’d been in the Capital over a month with no fun to speak of. He spent his days forging alliances and mourning Cassanda’s absence (her impending loss too). And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d swam. “I’d say a dip is in order,” Torren finally decided. “If you’re brave enough...”

degausser · 05-08-2015, 06:49 PM

Lady Alannys Rosby
Alannys could not help herself. She smiled impishly, as if she were a young maid with a secret. It was a smile that said she just could not help herself. Her brother knew her too well. The fact was that Alannys had not smiled too frequently in the last couple of weeks, not with the city readying itself to take action against the Iron Born. But it was more than that. Something was happening amongst the inner circle of the Targaryens too. Letters were being penned and trusted not to ravens but instead only the most trusted of riders. The King, normally not one to meddle in the affairs of his children, was seeking out alliances. The Queen had told her as much but not more beyond that and Alannys suspected it was because her own knowledge was limited. If there was anything Queen Laena Targaryen hated it was being kept out of the loop. Alannys would take her amusements where she could get them.

There were plenty of distractions to keep them all busy with the impending birth of Lady Ryella Arryn’s tenth child and the Northerners lingering in the city, but none of these things necessarily brought Alannys any joy. Tormenting her proud and upstanding brother was an admittedly rare pastime of hers, a fact that might be in need of remedy. Magically, threats to the royal family’s well-being do not cease at privy doors. Alannys smiled patiently at her brother, a gesture meant to humor him. Whatever you say, Domeric Bolton. Whatever helps get you and your hand through those lonely nights alone in that White Tower you now call home.

“How long exactly have you been standing outside this privy door, I wonder?” How she managed the question with a straight face, not even Alannys could fully say.

Lyonel Baratheon
The princess meant to insult him, calling him for a hypocrite as if to appeal to a better nature that might have existed in any other man that was not Lyonel Baratheon. “Trust me, sweetheart. There is no blacker kettle out there.” Lyonel Baratheon was many things – a scoundrel, a drunk and perhaps hypocritical most of all, but then he would be the least of all people to deny these things of himself. The Lord Commander of the City Watch did not pretend to be anything other than he was, hiding behind his family’s good name, spouting off his house words of Duty and Honor as if he were somehow better than everyone else like a certain fishy subordinate he knew. The young silver-haired woman before him perpetuated their tête-à-tête because she had something to prove, evidentially oblivious to the fact that he was mostly spewing nonsense with the sole intent of getting a rise out of her. How could he not, when it was so easy?

So as she continued to sling her ill-informed accusations at him, he armored himself against her insults with a roguish grin. Her soliloquys provided him with ample time to appreciate the view her efforts to clean the grime off her skin afforded him. A long expanse of pale, blemish-free skin stretched from toe to thigh as her leg slipped through the convenient slip in her dress. Lyonel’s gaze lingered on her thigh before traveling in a natural line up her arm and over the plunging neckline of her gown. It occurred to him after some time that the slow manner in which she moved the wash cloth along her skin had been deliberate, as if somehow for his benefit.

Curious.

Several long moments of silence stretched out between them before his gaze managed to meet her own. Lyonel decided the princess was not half-bad looking when she wasn’t running her mouth. If only he could mute her permanently. Ignoring her last barb, Lyonel’s grin settled into a straight line on his face as he continued to hold her gaze. “So this is the part where we now discuss the manner in which you plan to thank your valiant defender.” His gaze swept the length of her body suggestively, lingering over her swelling bosom. “Your life was quite endangered, if you recall. I expect the recompense to match the valor of the act.”

Captivating · 05-08-2015, 08:28 PM

Royston Hightower
Royston urged his horse to gallop faster, eager to finish the last leg of his journey. He was minutes away from holding Joanna Lannister in his arms. The incentive was enough to muddle even the smartest man's mind. The last three weeks convinced Lord Hightower of something he was always unsure of (at least for himself): love. When the young lioness entrusted her body and heart to him, he became hers. Royston's only regret was not meeting his partner sooner. His parents would've been elated at the match. Perhaps then they could've died with full hearts. Joanna assured him the Seven let his father and mother look down in pride. He remained unconvinced, yet pretended for his lady's benefit. She wanted to ease his suffering. He could't bear for Joanna to think she'd failed. "Hurry, men, lets bid this hunt farewell," Royston shouted. His exclamation was met with cheers. The hunt was successful but hard. Their tired bodies aches for wine and a woman's touch.

Though some 'touches' might prove less honorable than Royston's, he did not judge his comrades. He'd leave them to their brothels without a word. He had no right to speak before wedding Joanna. Their actions were still sinful 'till vows were exchanged. Royston's guilt, however, was relieved by his inward truth. He knew he was not using Joanna. Her body was a wonderful sight to behold, as was her mind. He wanted to be with her forever because of both. A trek to Oldtown was all that rested between them and matrimony. Royston was convinced of the partnership but his eyes needed to see Joanna in his home, with his people. Then he'd know...without a shadow of a doubt...she belonged. After what seemed years, the expedition was over. The Red Keep stood before him looking the same as when he left.

Royston smiled at the familiarity that awaited him. He'd sent a raven to Joanna. Surely, she'd be expecting him. Their reunion would prove a joyous affair. The young Lord took the stone steps before him two at a time. He climbed to his beloved's corridors not caring if he was out of breath. Finally, reaching his destination, Royston gathered his bearings before knocking on Joanna's door. She beckoned him inside softly. Royston's eyes traveled the length of her golden hair appreciatively. His hands longed to run through her curls. "Joanna," he greeted happily. "It's been too long." Royston's elation turned to concern upon seeing her face. "You've been crying," he observed, rushing forward. Joanna spoke his name through her tears. "What is it? What's wrong?" Enveloping her vulnerable frame in his arms, Royston waited for the blow.

fleur captives · 05-09-2015, 05:48 AM

Isond Westerling
She regarded Torren with growing respect as he spoke and signalled her agreement through a smal nod that he had the truth of it in his assessment that many lives would have been spared throughout history if trust had not come easily. The North had found a good leader in the young man beside her, Isond thought that clear, but even still, she had to wonder if he was out of his depth so far from Winterfell. Her jest that scheming was a way of life in King's Landing had not been spoken lightly and was more truth than joke. She was as guilty of conspiracy as as the next but her sole point of character was that she did not dare think herself smarter than every other person around her. Isond knew there would always be someone more intelligent, more crafty, more driven than she. When he said he needn't fear for her survival, she found herself glad that he believed her capable of holding her own amongst the vultures of the capital while court.

Isond played her hand well, she felt, and had no intention of falling victim to the same mistakes that haunted the halls of the Crag. "One never knows when an opportunity might present itself," she answered his obvious skepticism with a small smile. The thought of a day without the constant scheming and undermining of King's Landing was almost more than she could dream of. And yet, it had come as naturally to her as breathing, and had adapted to the change of life away outside of the Westerlands quickly as if her life depended on it. In some small way, she was sure that it did, and was grateful that the games most women played were nigh undetectable when done well; coaxing information out of the Master of Ships about what she wanted to know was as simple as a few grateful smiles and well-placed touches.

Though she was glad to experience life elsewhere, part of her missed her home and found it difficult to be elsewhere but to finally be out from under the thumb of the Lord of Lannister -- equally as difficult, if not doubly so -- was something she had to be thankful for. All the talk of the Sunset Sea and swimming in the warm waters of the Westerlands inspired something in Lord Stark and his suggestion came upon her unawares. The thought of standing on the shores, watching the waves, and yet being unable to experience it wholly convinced her quickly that the North certainly had missed out on a wonderful opportunity. "Indeed, Lord Stark, I would argue that there are few things worth more than to experience the salt water of the sea," Isond answered before his proposition quieted her. It was a surprising invitation coming from him but one she found herself unable to turn down. "Brave enough?" she questioned, the same devilish glint returning to her eye from earlier, and felt his scheme was little more than a dare. On the lips of another, Isond might have even thought it little more than attempt to get her out of her frock, but there was something in the friendly nature of their talk that made her feel at ease instantly. "Come, Torren Stark," she said with a smile, offering an extended arm to him. "It would seem that I have learned nothing of the Keep but the perfect place for a quick dip, unknown to all."

Starfield_Scribe · 05-09-2015, 08:18 PM

OOC: 1-7 of 7

AXEL
The young lady was as caught up in her solitude as he was, and for that he kept to himself the fact that he had identified her. The onion on her chest made her for a Seaworth; he couldn't think of many others who should display this symbol so proudly. Coupled to her approximate age, she could only by the Lady Adeline. If she should find herself wanting to share this information, then he would welcome it with the grace of one who had not known it.

"I should never see a presence such as yours as intrusive, my lady," he tipped his head forward, all at once just a little less muddled by thoughts of home and where that might be. Lady Adeline had a look about her, of sadness, yes, but of something else, something nameless that couldn't be extinguished, and for the care she gave to his own concerns, he felt he should have been doing the same for her. "And I do not believe you in any way a... silly woman," he repeated. "If I am not intruding, may I walk with you?"

LUCERYS
The lack of light in this part of the smith's forge was distracting. The young dragon's eyes moved about the room, catching the glint of gold, of steel, and little else. It made his head hurt, and he couldn't say if it was because of the strain or because of the fear he tried to keep pressed down, the fear the moment would come when he couldn't even see the slightest thing.

He forced himself to focus again at the sound of a young man's voice, straightening his back, the way he'd been told to for as long as he could remember.

"Please, rise," he insisted, just as the young man did, before asking what he had in mind for the helm. Before Lucerys could reply, the old bent backed smith's hand flew out, knocking the young man at the back of the head.

"What's gotten into you, boy? This is Prince Lucerys of the House Targaryen! Dragons, boy, dragons!" he hit him again.

"You will not strike him again," Lucerys spoke at once, his voice firm, sounding surprisingly like his father's when he was angry. The old man was shamed at once, bowing so low his nose could almost have touched the ground.

"Forgive me, my Prince, I was only..."

"Young apprentice," Lucerys turned to the boy. "Rolf, is it? Please, I would like to see your work."

MORGAN
The Prince had always been strong, but even so, when it became clear he would soon don full armor from day to day, he had prepared. His daily training had been tailored toward that very thing. He had begun running, bearing larger and larger weights still, until he'd carried the weight of an armor, and then he'd increased that weight further, so that in time the weight if his armor would rest easier on his shoulders. Carrying the weight and wearing it had been different, but this, too, came to be natural to him. He doubted his dear cousin could comprehend the dedication he had given to his title as a brother of the Kingsguard.

Very well, cousin, if that is how you wish to play... When Daena scampered off, he wished he was surprised; she perhaps wished he was deterred. He was neither. He took off running after her, and it was like any other day, running with the armor on his back. For her sake, he let her think she had him in the palm of her milky hand, gave her the sight she wanted to see. Once this was done, he knew the time for games was over. Cutting away from the path she had been leading him on, he made a dash this way and that, and before she knew it, Morgan appeared in Daena's way, face to face once more.

"Let us walk, cousin," he gave her a look, as he gave her an arm: she had best take it. She did, so he led her on down the road. "You have two choices. Wherever you mean to sneak away to, either I accompany you, or your father will be told. Your fortune is your own, Princess."

HUGH, ARWEN
Arwen had sat by her mother's side at each of her sisters' births from Adeline on down, and she remembered every one of them. The pain, the screaming, the blood, she would shut it out, whispered prayers taking them away. What she remembered most of all were the moments that followed, as each new child was presented to her lord father. Those who did not know him and only knew how his attempts to produce an heir had gone down in flames time and again, would imagine him being disappointed at each crying girl being deposited in his arms, and they could not have been any further from the truth. Yes, of course, to find that they had not been granted a boy would lead to even further struggles for him and her lady mother, but all this would seem to fade away the moment he was introduced to his newest daughter.

Today was no different. He was the tall, honorable lord, always, but then and there he would cry with joy, without shame. And as was tradition, he would look on to the girl, so that he might speak her name for the first time. "Hello, darling, welcome to..." Hugh looked to his wife and eldest daughter, knowing he couldn't say welcome to the Eyrie, where all of his daughters had been born. "... to life, Shirei." The newborn girl blinked, looking at him, and he smiled before turning to the boy in Ryella's arms. "And you, my boy... You can never know how long we've been waiting for you," he reached his free hand to touch the boy's head. "Welcome to you, at last... Artys Arryn."

ANYA, VALAENA
Valaena was finding it difficult not to laugh, which was only made more difficult by her friend, as she could hear the sound escaping Amerei in short bursts. Even before meeting the man a few weeks before, Valaena had been told all about the man, and before long both she and Amerei would compete to see who could imitate him the best. Now when he gave them that stern look of his, all they could think about were those imitations, and the laughter would not be controlled.

Amerei had moved to her niece then, leaning in to whisper at her ear. The half of lemon cake which had just been hanging perilously from the three-year-old's mouth was deposited upon her plate, as the short but noble Lady Anya climbed to stand on her chair and in turn whisper in her aunt's ear, with just enough alarm in her wide eyes for Valaena to understand what was happening. She had no clue what made the young girl so nervous when she was around, but it had been this way since Amerei had brought her to meet her sisters and her eldest sister's child.

"Of course you want to," Amerei insisted, no longer whispering. Anya shook her head. "Oh, please? Please?" Amerei begged, looking around for help and instead coming up with a solution. She grinned, then gave a look and a tilt of the head to Valaena, who luckily interpreted correctly.

"Ser Raymar, would you kindly accompany myself and the ladies Arryn on an adventure?" Now Anya looked excited again.

"Adventure?" she breathed, getting two hearty nods from the older girls, who in turn looked hopefully to the knight.

DACEY
She hadn't realized who he was at first, but seeing him in the light now, she knew. The trout man, naturally. He must have been as great of a fool as all the others if he had looked upon her silks, had followed her to this part of the castle, and not identified her for a handmaiden. This... could have potentially been such a fun game, she knew, if not for once again being reminded of her place.

"You think every young girl dreams of soft silks and laces, don't you? No, naturally... You only think about them without those silks, and those laces," she looked him up and down. "What a strange existence you lead. You call these rags, I call them clothing fit for living. No constrictions, and restrictions. I can only take so much of the role I have been forced into without having..." She paused, frowning. "Why am I telling you any of this? You don't care, and I don't see why you should. You might think you do, which only tells me you don't know who I am. Oh, I may not wear his name, but I am the Kraken's blood, the blood of Theomore Greyjoy, now self-proclaimed King of the Iron Islands. So go on then, do what you will," she opened up her arms, not in surrender but in declaration, that she was ready for whatever he tried to do to her.

JOANNA
To be held in Lord Royston's arms, for a moment Joanna nearly forgot herself. She had been keeping her secret for so long. She may not have been some simpering girl, but she was still trying to convince herself, day after day, there she wasn't in fact terrified of her whole world coming to crash down around her, if anything didn't go right. Royston held her, and she left herself be held, for a few seconds. Then she was back on track. She pulled away from him, her banished tears made to spring forward once more, her body racked with fear, and overwhelming emotions she could not begin to explain. She had had days and days to think of this moment while he was away, and she had imagined the moment so perfectly she knew just what to say, even though she made herself look as though she struggled with it.

"I... I have asked too much if you, my sweet, I... I have made a terrible mistake, and I have prayed..." she sniffled, ".. to the Seven, for as long as it has been that I've... Oh... How could we have been so foolish?" she held his face in her hands, looking at him with the terror of someone afraid of losing the thing she loved the most, which she needed him to believe was him. The way he grasped her hands, she knew he did. "I do not mean that you were a fool as well, it was me, I should have known, I should have..." she burst into tears again.

AtomicEmpress · 05-10-2015, 01:00 AM

OOC - Finally. Here is he. Could definitely use connections.

Name: Lord Hoster Rosby
Age: Forty-Five
House: Rosby
Personality: Steady. Intelligent. Loving. Easy-Going. Diplomatic.
Three Life Facts:
- Hoster Rosby married his wife when she pregnant with another man's baby. It was never a question whether or not he would fully embrace her son. He treats all three of their children equally and he had made pain's to make sure none of the children know they are not blood related.
- He knows that Alannys is never satisified with one thing for long so he tries to give her room in their marriage. He is aware that sometimes for the Queen she may have to seduce a man...or two. She has given him the blessing to discreetly do the same. He has yet to do so, but the thought has occured to a few times. Naturally, he wonders if she is unhappy in their marriage, or finds another partner who is more her age better suited to her. When it comes to her he can be a bit insecure.
- He is being looked at for a council seat, which wouldn't be such a big deal to him if it wasn't sure a big deal to his wife. But he knows what the position could mean for his family and he is a very family driven man. If Hoster calls you his friend, then you are a lucky one, because he would do anything for a friend or family member.
Relationships: To be added
Taken By: AtomicEmpress
Played By: David Wenham

Adeline
"Yes, of course, you may."
She said with a nod of her head.
"My name is Adeline Seaworth."
Adeline supplied to him with a smile.
"I like to come down here as often as I can escape, reminds me a bit of my youth."
She said feeling so much older than she really was.
"Does being near the water make your thoughts easier?"
She asked, lightly.

Rolf
"Yes, Prince, my name is Rolf."
He said his cheek bright red from being hit. He turned and pulled out two of the helms he was most proud of that were on hand that he had done and walked towards the Prince.
"This is the one most people like."
He said gesturing with his left hand to one with flourishes done on that showed his detail work off well.
"But I think this one is much stronger."
The second was much more simple but it looked strong and not just of material but the lines and such in it looked like it would be something a great legend of old would wear.
"I have others but these are both opposites of the way I could go."
He explained.

Gemma
Gemma hadn't had much socializing lately outside of her mother and the men her mother was trying to introduce her to. Today she escaped towards the stables. Gemma loved animals, and felt that horses were much smarter than people gave them credit for. She spotted a man at the stables that she had seen with Torren and walked over to him.
"Excuse me, Sir, You know Torren Stark do you not? Do you know if he's about?"
She asked him. She had noticed that the man had a hook for a hand, but it didn't stop her from speaking to him like it might some people.
Tag Silas

degausser · 05-10-2015, 04:25 PM

Silas Snow
Silas missed Winterfell. His friend and the Stark host had lingered longer in King’s Landing than Silas anticipated they would, with Torren Stark playing at the Lord he now was. The northern bastard said nothing of his discomfort; it was a small thing when compared to the greater good of the Lord of Winterfell’s people. Silas Snow knew little of politics and less of fake pleasantries, so when Torren traveled to the red castle at the top of Aegon’s Hill, Silas lingered behind at their camp. Occasionally he would venture off to the practice yard to train with the strange new friend he had made in Dacey Pyke, or rather she would train and he would watch her. He spoke of his new friend very little though. Bastard or no, she was a daughter of Pyke and with the burgeoning Greyjoy uprising, he did not think it wise to mention their association.

Most of the time, Silas stayed behind in the stables. Familiarity bred comfort. His tasks were menial, but strangely soothing in their routine. He groomed the horses, fed them, changed out their stalls and occasionally saw to the repair of their metal shoes. Silas was at the stables now, kneeling as he gently worked out some dirt and grass that had caked under the hoof of a young mare.

Silas was so intent in his work that he had not heard approaching footsteps until a woman's voice started him out of his thoughts. There was no rarer sight down in the stables than that of a highborn woman; ladies looking to go riding generally had maid servants ready their horses. So it did not surprise Silas in the least that the woman should be looking for his Lord. Silas carefully set the young female horse’s hoof back down on the floor before slowly rising to his feet. He could not help but feel uncomfortable, even a little embarrassed for his present unkempt state in the presence of the comely noblewoman. “Lord Torren made for the Red Keep sometime this morning, my Lady.” Silas hesitantly lifted his gaze to meet hers. “I do not expect he will be returning for some time.”

Daena Targaryen
There had been one beautifully and blissfully naïve moment when the princess had turned to look over her shoulder and found her pursuer to be absent from sight. It was short lived, however, and when Daena turned her head forward once more she nearly crashed right into the shiny breastplate and white cloaked prince of Dorne she foolishly believed she had escaped. Daena was panting heavily, her porcelain cheeks flushed. Prince Morgan did not even appear to have even the thinnest sheens of perspiration at his brow. What sort of sorcery was this, she wondered?

She had little time to contemplate her cousin’s unnatural stamina and endurance. He offered his elbow to her and she knew her cause was lost. She did not wish her father to know of her planned destination. Of the two options her cousin presented to her, only one was viable. Conceding defeat, she took her cousin’s elbow.

“I should have known better to believe I could outrun or outwit a prince of Dorne,” Daena offered sweetly to her cousin as she drew closer to him as they descended further into the city. She thought it best to keep Prince Morgan in the dark as to her intended destination for as long as she could manage. It was not long before they found themselves turning onto the street of silks and as soon as they did, she could feel her cousin stiffen at her side. A sly, teasing smile of her painted lips suggested he brought this all on himself. Before he could protest their location, she offered a cryptic explanation. “I am visiting a friend. She offers me council in times of uncertainty.” A shadow fell over her face in that moment, and Daena looked away. Her future had never felt as uncertain as it did now.

Without her brother, she felt lost.

The moment passed as quickly as it came, and Daena was all smiles once more. “I won’t be long, I promise. And there are …” she paused, choosing her words carefully so as not to offend the white knight at her side. “… ladies about who would be happy to keep you company …” in any way you might see fit she might have finished, but didn’t, fearing her cousin would fail to find any amusement in the jape.

AtomicEmpress · 05-10-2015, 05:44 PM

Gemma
"My name is Gemma Tyrell, I do not believe I've had the pleasure of meeting you."
She said pleasantly.
"Now that I'm down at the stables, a ride sounds good. I don't suppose I could talk you into coming along? Not far, I assure you, I won't keep you long. My mother would be upset if I went off on my own and you really would be doing me a favor so I don't have to go hunt anyone else down."
She said with a smile that was lovely even though she didn't know it.
"I'll owe you a favor in return, I may not be a Lannister but my word is good."
She knew it might not be the most proper thing but she was use to getting away with things, and she was curious about the man.

degausser · 05-10-2015, 06:03 PM

Silas Snow
Gemma Tyrell. He knew the name though this was the first time he could put a face to it. Torren had mentioned the young woman he met at the celebrations meant to honor the Targaryen twins from several weeks past. She was a rose of Highgarden and looked every bit the part. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders in soft ringlets, dark eyes peered at him boldly from beneath long lashes. When Silas realized he had let his gaze linger upon her for longer than he should, he quickly averted his eyes.

Not forgetting his manners, he cleared his throat before producing his own introductions. “I am Silas Snow, though I can assure you the pleasure is all mine, my Lady.”

It was only after her request that he lifted his gaze to meet hers once more, a look of both surprise and hesitation surfacing in its wake. He recalled Torren mentioning the young Lady of Highgarden had been unlike any of the other women he had met at court. From the little he had been able to glean, Gemma spoke whatever came to her mind without a filter – her frankness being a quality that anyone with the blood of Winterfell could certainly appreciate. Somehow Torren had failed to mention her boldness, however.

Silas could not deny he was tempted by the idea of riding with a beautiful woman at his side, but he was not near as daring as she. “I … do not know if that is wise, my Lady.” Silas spoke hesitantly, not wishing to offend the young woman. Suddenly remembering his hook and feeling self-conscious of it, he tucked it behind his back while glancing back down at the floor. “Should anyone discover us about and unattended, I fear your Lady mother would be far more vexed if you were found riding with a northern bastard even more so than if you were riding alone.”

AtomicEmpress · 05-10-2015, 06:50 PM

Gemma
She looked at him, taking note of the detail of him putting his hook behind his back.
"Please don't do that. You should never be ashamed of yourself."
Gemma looked at him with a strong look.
"Are you worried about my mother? Shouldn't you let me worry about my mother?"
She asked him.
"Well if you refuse my wishes I suppose I'll just have to stay out here in the stables with you. Will you at least talk with me? Is this not a public enough place?"
She asked him, with an eyebrow raised.


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