Role Playing - Game of Thrones - Prequel: A MYOC Role Playing Game - Page 6

Captivating · 03-23-2015, 01:49 PM

Lanford Tully
Lanford Tully smelled of dirt. Dirt and salt. He hadn’t properly bathed since the tourney. Excess sweat gathered at his brow, his appearance barely suitable for a Masquerade Ball. He cared not. The skilled City Watch member wiped at his perspiration proudly, recounting today’s victories with a smirk. Three men had fallen, or was it four? Adrenaline often blurred the edges of a memory. All that mattered was Lanford took the fools down a peg. And (hopefully) taught them a valuable lesson. Merchants suffered from delusions of grandeur, while fair maidens distracted Knights. The door to victory was focus, of which Lanford held the key. The auburn-haired Tully drained his goblet dry as a gaggle of ladies approached. Clustered together like geese, they eyed him hungrily. Rugged, one dubbed him with a giggle. Talented and strong, another called out. “Tell me, are you heads consistently full of shallow air? Or is tonight a special occasion?” he posed unapologetically. Perhaps it was the wine talking?

Struck with offense, the women scowled and departed hastily. Most men would’ve taken a willing body without complaint. Lanford was not most men. He knew what sleeping with a high born lady threatened: marriage and children. He wasn’t opposed to the institution if an intelligent equal could be found, yet he’d searched to no avail. So Lanford had his needs met elsewhere, by women who asked for coins and not his heart. “Sweet cousin,” he called, taking notice of Rosamund and her father. “You look exquisite. Tell me, uncle, is it fair to say she posseses the best genes in the family?” Lanford inquired, knowing Axel would wholeheartedly agree. “And brains,” Lanford whispered for Rosamund’s ears only. The second compliment was sure to go further with her than the first. “I’m surprised Dira isn’t by your side telling you how high to jump,” he continued playfully. In truth the princess was uncharacteristically kind to his cousin. Compared to her other ladies maids, that is.

TAG Rosamund/semi-tag Axel

degausser · 03-23-2015, 03:49 PM

OOC: We are going to imagine Rosamund's hair has just a smidge more auburn in it and the dress she is wearing in the picture is more red than pink. Yes? Yes.

Rosamund Tully
Rosamund Tully, ever the dutiful daughter, stood just off to the side of where her father stood, the Hand of the King exchanging words with a group of courtiers. She wore a gown of crimson satins and silks, the elbow-length sleeves of her dress fringed with pale myrish lace and intricate beaded embroidery threaded through the front of her gown. It had been an expensive garment, she did not doubt, one gifted to her by her father and one she felt the occasion did not truly warrant. Rosamund had other gowns, after all. But Lord Axel Tully would hear nothing of her apprehensions; his daughter would have nothing but the best, whether it was deserved or not. So she thanked him for the lovely gown and that had been that. In her hair were more beads, her auburn ringlets secured atop her head with pearls fashioned in the shape of the Tully trout. Unlike the other guests gathered for the masquerade, her mask was a simple one made of black velour fringed with golden lace with pale pink feathers sprouting out the top.

She held the stem of her mask in her right hand, glancing about the ball with idle expression. Her skirts kissed the floor, gently swaying with the slightest shift of her foot or swish of a hip as if just as restless to be put themselves to use out on the ballroom floor as the young woman who wore them was. It was then she spotted her cousin, a flock of young women scurrying off after evidently having suffered some unkind comment from Lanford. As he approached, she lowered her mask just enough to reveal a look of reproach beneath. “Don’t try to pacify me with your honeyed words, dear cousin,” Rosamund scolded gently as she took her cousin’s arm in her own. “What did you say to those poor girls to make them run off like such?” Knowing her to be the so-called brains of the family, Lanford should have known better to think he would get away with such an ill display of manners in her presence.

His attempt to change the subject would not work either. “The princess wanted to be alone,” Rosamund said simply. She would not speak unkindly of the princess, regardless of whether Lanford’s assessment of her was true or not. Indira Targaryen was a complicated girl, but hardly unkind to her. “I will hear no ill words about Dira either,” she whispered in warning to her cousin, nudging him with her elbow for good measure.

Captivating · 03-23-2015, 05:02 PM

Lanford
Lord Tully embraced his nephew warmly, praising his performance in the tournament before duty captured his attention once more. Such was the life of the King's Hand. The music played loudly, beautifully, as Axel exchanged words with courtiers. Lanford tapped his foot to the rhythm, considering a dance as Rosamund rounded in on him. Her grip on his arm was simultaneously soft and firm. Always a lady...even when she wasn't. Her spirit truly was born of the Riverlands. Lanford smirked as the fire-kissed trout put him on trial. She stood five inches below him but it mattered not. Her voice would be heard. Her questions would be answered. Lanford's darling cousin knew the effect she could have on him. He tried his best to play coy but so hated to disappoint her.

"I pay you a compliment and you question my social graces? A fine thank you indeed," Lanford mused, a lackadaisical attempt at diversion. Rosamund's scowl inspired a full relent within seconds. "I should have known not to exchange jest with the smartest woman in the room," he quipped. Though he rather enjoyed letting her win. "I fear I did not hold up the honor part of our House words. It's possible I insulted my admirers' intelligence. It was wrong of me." Lanford lowered his head in shame, yet his compunctious words did not match his tone, nor his expression. "As for Dira, you have my word I won't speak unkindly of the princess." This promise existed for self preservation more than Rosamund's peace of mind. Men had lost their heads to the crown for less. And the Red Keep had ears in every corner. "Dare I hope a dance could earn me your favor? Unless you fancy a lad here." Lanford's eyes zeroed in on Maegor Targaryen, Axel's chosen target for his daughter, and waited.

Starfield_Scribe · 03-23-2015, 05:07 PM

OOC: Third one! Look out!

NAME: Dacey Pyke
AGE: 17
HOUSE: Greyjoy, bastard born; sent in service to Targaryens
THEME SONG: "Warrior" - Havana Brown
PERSONALITY: Short-tempered, quick, calculating, lively, loud
THREE LIFE FACTS: * She began her life, far as she recalls, on the shores of Harlaw, with little more than her name. Pyke. A bastard of the Iron Islands. Soon as she could walk, she worked along with those she believed her family. It wasn't long that she showed just how well she could pull her weight, and with sword and shield she could subdue by age eight many twice her age. That was what finally got her noticed, got her to be acknowledged by her father. She wasn't just Dacey Pyke; her father was Theomore Greyjoy, and the moment she saw him, the Kraken on his front, she knew where she was meant to be. Her father was quick to set her straight. She would never have his name, his power, but someday she could rise among his fleet. It was a start. Her training increased, and with proper masters, she thrived further. It took two years of persistent nagging before Theomore would speak of her mother. He told very little. She was Alys, of House Mormont. Their encounter had been fleeting, but left an impression, enough that when he caught word that she was with child, he knew it would be his, and he had considered seeking her for his wife. Alys' father stopped them. Then, a year later, a pair of Mormont women had brought the babe to him. On her deathbed, Alys had made it her wish her daughter know her father. If not for Theomore's own father, she might have been granted her wish. Instead, the best Theomore could do was to keep her somewhere on the Iron Islands, to learn their ways, and so she did.
* Dacey's drive in life has always been to be a fighter, a warrior, a knight. She knows the blood that runs through her veins. It is the blood of the Kraken, of countless ironborn, the blood of the ladies of Bear Island, the she-bears... Her heroes don't have names like Balon, or Dagon, or Jeor. They have names like Asha, and Maege, and her own namesake, Dacey Mormont, a distant aunt, slain by the Freys. She knows neither side might ever fully acknowledge her, but it won't stop her from fighting in their honor.
* When she was called into Pyke, the place that gave her kind their name, she believed that at last something was about to change. Perhaps her father would finally bring about her introduction to a ship, like he'd long promised her. In the near seven years since she'd first met him, she had attempted time and again to make it happen, but in vain. When he told her the real reason, she had half a mind to loose the dirk at her side, but she knew better by now than to incur the wrath of Theomore Greyjoy. It would almost have been worth it though, after being told, with little to no cause why, that she was to make her way to King's Landing, to serve as handmaiden to a Targaryen princess. She would go, what other choice was there? They still had better watch out. They could wake their dragons all they liked. She was a Kraken, of the sea, and fire yielded to water in the end.
RELATIONSHIPS: TBA
TB: Starfield_Scribe
PB: Gaia Weiss

degausser · 03-23-2015, 05:40 PM

Name: Silas Snow
Age: Twenty-One
House: Dustin by Birth; Stark by association
Theme Song: The Way by Zack Hemsey
Personality: Reticent, Sardonic, Enigmatic, Ribald and Resourceful.
Three Life Facts:
- For centuries, children were told horror stories of wildlings climbing the fabled wall in the North, raiding nearby towns and stealing away the women of Lords both great and small, yet in Silas’s case it was his mother, a woman from an established freefolk town on The New Gift, who was stolen away by one of the so-called civilized Lords of the North. Lucky for Lord Randyl Dustin, Ingrid did not mind being taken, the custom already so well established amongst the free folk and marking Randyl as a worthy mate. The fact that he was already married never seemed to bother her much either.
- Predictably, Randyl’s family and subjects regarding the wildling girl with much suspicion, not only for the fact that Randyl kept his mistress openly but because the fear and animosity toward the freefolk remains heavily ingrained in Westeros despite efforts to integrate them. Though not near as south as Greywater Watch, Barrowton was still many leagues from the stitch of land the free folk had been settled on and Ingrid and her unnamed babe were as foreign to them as the freefolk had ever been to them before. Silas was named as such on his second nameday and as he grew he enjoyed many privileges normally denied to bastards outside of Dorne. Though never legitimized, his father openly acknowledged him, kept him and his mother comfortable in a small home just outside of Barrow Hall, and even allowed Silas to study and train at arms alongside his youngest natural born son.
- Silas began to display signs of being a skinchanger young, finding he could easily slip into the mind of a stray cat he had adopted when he was eight. Having lived amongst other skinchangers along the New Gift, Ingrid helped her son to hone his gift as well as help him to hide it knowing the kneelers of the South would neither understand nor welcome it. Sure enough when he was at last discovered, Lord Randyl’s affections for his bastard son could not save him from the animosity and fear his gift inspired in his family and subjects. He would not abandon his illegitimate son altogether, and reached out to his liege lord for assistance. Silas was sent to work in the stables at Winterfell amongst the Starks who have been known to possess skinchanging abilities themselves, if there direwolves are indication of anything. Keeping his head down and out of trouble, Silas toiled away diligently in his work, monotonous though it may have been. It was by pure chance that Torren Stark, now the young Lord of Winterfell, came upon him late one night whilst tending to a sick horse. The two got to conversing for the better part of the night trading tales over a couple of glasses of mulled wine, learning they had more in common than just the blood of the North they shared. From that moment on, Silas has become one of Torren’s closest companions and confidants. As for how he got the hook on his left hand? Best not ask him ‘bout it, lest you’re looking to land a hook for yourself as well.
Relationships: TBD
Taken By: degausser
Played By: Alexander Vlahos

winter soldier · 03-23-2015, 05:48 PM

OOC: Aww, young Silas. And already with his hook.

Anyway, um. I'll be getting a post or two out tonight.

Captivating · 03-23-2015, 07:01 PM

OOC: I'm hoping to get Ambryl out tonight. If not, definitely tomorrow on my lunch break. I'm still deciding where to place Torren and Dira. I thought I might have Torren bump into the Tyrells in a bit if that's welcome? Dira is skulking in the shadows somewhere and completely open at the moment.

Starfield_Scribe · 03-23-2015, 10:21 PM

OOC: Profiles number four and five! Last three, hopefully, tomorrow, and then I'm jumping in!

NAME: Elric Stark
AGE: 25
HOUSE: Starks of the Gift; the free folk
THEME SONG: "In the Embers" - Sleeping at Last
PERSONALITY: Internal, natural, animalistic, fierce, protective
THREE LIFE FACTS: * Any other place, Elric Stark might expect, better yet require, to be called Lord. He was descended directly from the Starks of Winterfell, but unlike his castle bound cousins, he and his branch of the family tree took root, mere generations ago, on the New Gift, among the relocated free folk. By the time Elric was born, the Starks of the Gift were as 'wild' as any other, and considered as such by their kin. They may have lived 'south of the Wall,' their conditions changed, but they had held to their way of life as closely as they ever could. His mother told him tales of her people, going back as far as their history would go, while his father instilled in him the values and stories of the Starks. The first time Elric remembers being at Winterfell, on his cousin Torren's first name day, he was three years old and as awed as he was afraid of the great structures. When they returned to the Gift, the small boy carried with pride a black furred direwolf pup. With eyes like golden moons in the sky, Elric called him Night.
* If in years to come the growing direwolf was a constant companion, so too was Freya. Bolder than he could ever be though she was, he could not remember a time when she wasn't by his side. People called him brave, but he didn't feel it. Freya, though, she could make him feel like he could do anything, or maybe it was that she made him better. Together they would go on adventures - or get in trouble, more like. He is so very protective of her, but all the same he depends on her, and now, whether he's known it for as long as he's felt it, he knows there is something there between them, waiting to happen. And then something did... started to, at least. Getting word his cousin Torren was making for King's Landing, Elric did something he never thought he'd do. He stole Freya away, first to Winterfell, then off on the Kingsroad with the rest of the Stark party.
* Quiet as he can be, at times he can be seen by those outside the Gift as something bordering on feral, a wolf on two legs. He never did so good with castles, save for Winterfell, and even then... He was made for the open air, sky and snow, ice and rock... But the last thing he's ever wanted was for him or his people to be seen as just what so many in Westeros still see them. His father taught him what his House had stood for, and he may not be a leader among the free folk, but to the Kingdoms south of his home, his name comes with a legacy, and he is not about to shame it. Maybe he can prove it to them, but he sure won't do a thing if he stays hidden up at the New Gift. If he has to visit the tall towers where so much of his family's past grief initiated in order to do it, then so be it.
RELATIONSHIPS: TBA
TB: Starfield_Scribe
PB: François Arnaud

NAME: Prince Morgan Nymeros Martell
AGE: 22
HOUSE: Prince of Dorne, House Martell; serves House Targaryen as a member of its Kingsguard
THEME SONG: "Sand" - Nathan Lanier
PERSONALITY: Centered, dutiful, nostalgic, agile, unflinching
THREE LIFE FACTS: * The fourth and last born child of the Lord of Sunspear, young Morgan grew up surrounded by his brother and sisters and his cousins, making the image of his home as true and vibrant in his mind's eye as it could ever be. For all his years to come, when he would close his eyes and clear his thoughts, he would hear children laughing, and he would see... sand. That was his peace. It was never a guarded fact that the members of House Martell, by that name or its bastard counterpart, were a kind bread for pumping blood and thriving hearts. Morgan showed great promise, great skill, and when he was ten years old, his father sent him to be fostered at Evenfall Hall.
* He would spend the next nine years of his life there, until his father took ill and Morgan hastened on his way back to Dorne. He had been back for two days before the old Prince closed his eyes and gave his last breath. Morgan would have been content to remain at Sunspear as he was, to help in the passage of power to his eldest sister. Certainly it was what he did for the next two years, and for having been gone for so long, falling back into the rhythm and life of
Dorne felt like he'd never gone. He'd gone and become enamored with a shining daughter of House Allyrion and had designs on marrying her when duty came in the way, in the shape of a summons to take up the white cloak of the Kingsguard. For such an honor to be granted him, for all he would be made to sacrifice, Morgan knew what a refusal would mean. To say his whole heart had followed him to King's Landing would have been a lie, and a stain on the name of his Lady of Allyrion back at Godsgrace.
* For the past year, Prince Morgan Nymeros Martell has stood among King Jaeherys' seven, and knighted as he was, his standing promised no one would call him Ser Morgan, only Prince, despite his own insistence of the styling as unnecessary. He counted himself one of his brothers, as he would for so long as he had breath in his body. He wasn't foolish enough not to understand the distinction, the distancing. His House's history with the Iron Throne spoke for itself. But whatever grudge had survived the generations was not one Morgan carried, especially from the time he said his vows and donned his cloak.
RELATIONSHIPS: TBA
TB: Starfield_Scribe
PB: Elliot Knight

winter soldier · 03-23-2015, 11:34 PM

Maegor Targaryen
Certain conditions needed to have been met for Maegor to abandon his default state of being. Which in itself would vary, largely with the massive influx and subsequent retreat of hormones but in recent years, brain having reached full development and ungainly rough edges polished and smoothed with time, this would consist of Maegor holding at least 1 goblet of wine, standing inert with a politely bored expression on his comely face. Rebellion leached mostly out of him, the necessity of duty leaching in, pushed and prodded by his father and his father’s advisors and generally, anybody who’d seen his fortieth year and the graying of the hair covering his nether regions. Never mind that the world had been solidly nudged asunder by a ballsy teenager riding on the back of her own self-hatched dragons and yelling into the wind about fire and blood, and another who’d just as well have saved the lives of their miserable ancestors from frozen zombies beyond the wall. But Maegor understood this was not like to become a regular thing, adolescents toppling empires and supernatural armies, Maegor understood that most teenagers were largely concerned with playing with their own genitalia and not dropping dead of one pox or another long enough to seed or be seeded by someone of greater status or at least appealing physique. Maegor also understood that his fantasies of accidentally stumbling upon just such an opportunity as to foil some great evil plot or discover a secret world or lead an army on to conquer some metaphysical foe were unrealistic and highly unlikely, given how much of all of that that’d occurred so recently and, by the science of odds, was not liable to happening again. Or ever.

…

He was digressing.

Maegor’s state of being. Interrupted usually by a beautiful woman, the sight of Tybalt Lannister’s unflappably ‘put upon’ face, the slightest curl of his insufferable step-mother’s upper lip, or—perhaps the most easily—the appearance of his twin sister, Daena. Presently Maegor was snugly occupying the aforementioned state, lurking in some far off corner of the main hall like a social leper for no other reason than it seemed appropriate, a dragon brooding quietly in a corner with a mostly untouched cup of wine and his own thoughts for company. Which weren’t particularly deep thoughts, more so a ‘best of’ replay of his morning’s activities, some ‘happy nameday’ wishes from a group of visiting dornish noblewomen. The mask he’d chosen shielded much of his face from even the most perceptive of guests though the motif made it obvious enough who he was, marginally, it kept some of the more inane sycophants from roping him in to idle, shallow banter. He’d join them eventually, he reasoned, once most of them were deeper into their cups and a great deal more entertaining. Only Daena Targaryen, breathless and glowing from recent exertions on the ballroom floor possessed the wherewithal to hunt him down, thrust herself neatly into his empty lap, and claim ownership of his goblet with her elegant pouty mouth.

“Late, she says. Late, and I’ve been sitting here for nigh an hour, innocently keeping to myself. Do I only fail to escape notice when I’m pantsing Tybalt or making drunken advances on women old enough to be my grandmother’s grandmother? Both, if I recall, were results of your instigation.” His hands found her trim waist despite an abundance of decadent fabric, high enough to be the innocent consequence of two siblings far too familiar with one another. “Tragically, Tybalt seems to be sitting down and I’ve not had near enough wine—the beginnings of which you’ve just purloined. Callously so.”

Captivating · 03-24-2015, 08:47 AM

OOC: Torren to come tagging the Tyrells, though a Gemma post first would be appreciated.

Ambryl Lannister
Curling a golden ringlet ‘round her finger, Ambryl Lannister expelled a nostalgic sigh. She wore a familiar look of absentmindedness. Though her mask hid the expression well, a trained eye could’ve perceived the disconnect. Her mind was miles away from the Red Keep, consumed with images of her first born. Ambryl remembered his twentieth name day effortlessly. No detail was out of place. Everything had been perfect. Her vibrant son danced with her, danced with all of Casterly Rock it seemed. He’d laughed and ate and reveled in his youth. He had so many name days left, so many years to come. A burial six years later was not meant to be his future. Ambryl pushed aside her melancholy at mention of her grandson. Damon received a genuine laugh for his wine-reaching antics. He seemed pleased, tiny as he was, that his grandmother and parents found him worthy of amusement. One day he would know how special he truly was. Ambryl would see to it. Failing Damon was not an option. “He knows what he likes,” she confirmed proudly. “You were the same as a boy. So sure of yourself.”

What she longed to say rested between her words, concealed by courtesy and social standing. Her son may be her Lord but she was not his Lady…Lorene was. Yet there was no need to voice her opinions to have them heard. Tybalt knew his mother’s hopes for him. She wanted him to exude confidence and power, to shed the softness his wife and child brought forth. Lest his subjects find him weak and uncertain. His brother never hesitated to take the bull by the horns. It made sense that the same was expected of him. But Tybalt was a different person, he told Ambryl. He needed to create his own formula for ruling. No doubt Lorene had told him to say such things. Tybalt only questioned the woman who bore him after his marriage. “Such a handsome boy,” Ambryl cooed in her grandson’s direction. “One day extravagant balls will be thrown in your honor.” Lorene mumbled humble nonsense of contentment, all of which was ignored. Damon would rule. Alternate outcomes were scoffed at. Could he get her anything, Tybalt asked his wife sweetly. His manners were impeccable. If only Lorene were deserving of his devotion. Pregnancy was the only suitable reason to serve her. Should she be with child again Ambryl would gladly fetch the trollop a plate or goblet herself. Her son asked of her needs too, earning an affectionate glance. “No, thank you. I’ve all I need. Though it would’ve been lovely to see you donning the mask I had fashioned…”

fleur captives · 03-24-2015, 09:42 AM

Syemon Baratheon
He had no heart for balls; perhaps it was the dancing, which proved difficult at the best of times, or the small talk, itself decidedly more frustrating than the former Or simply because it was there had been little opportunity for merriment in the Stormlands before the birth of his younger sisters and even less still in recent years with his father away in the Crownlands. He himself had spent little time outside Storm's End, the number of times he had ventured into King's Landing were so few he could count them upon one hand, and had never felt at ease past the confines of his childhood home. In all truth, Syemon had discovered he liked llittle of what he had seen of King's Landing, and it seemed what he cared for least could be found in abundance in the throne room -- hidden agendas, lots of them. However, Syemon Baratheon was nothing if not a man of opportunity, and there was no better one on the horizon than the present evening to embark upon an agenda one of his own, and not a moment too soon.

It had been many moons since his father had taken ill, renounced his post, and returned to the Stormlands to be amongst family Though Syemon was wont to listen to anything the fumbling old Maester of Storm's End had to say, having often been the subject of the Maester's devestating but often fallacious news, it seemed the elder Baratheon faced a difficult recovery if he could be guaranteed one at all. He had departed for King's Landing with a small host to settle the last of his father's affairs and dissolve the the household he had maintained in the city but the impending name day of the eldest two Targaryen children had made it difficult for him to both conduct business in the capital but also leave as he had initially planned. Yet the celebrations had afforded him the perfect opportunity to begin rebuilding the Baratheon name as it were with he as the face.

The rapidly declining but still reigning Lord Baratheon had left things in a mess, Syemon had concluded, with his father's insistence of speaking of his hope for another son, one healthier and more capable, had painted a very pretty picture indeed of the divided Baratheon household as weak and in shambles. The wealth, the titles; all were ripe for the taking if one played his cards right with Lord on his with three unwed daughters, there would hardly be a measure of difficulty for some industrious little lordling to walk right in and take over. Syemon would not have it so -- by rights, the lordship would be his once his father was in the Stranger's embrace, but it would still be a difficult road to tread indeed. What alliances would his father's death cost their house? And surely, he thought why would anyone commit to continue a relationship with the son they did not know in the absence of a father they knew quite well? It was evident what he had to do, and although it was simple enough to accomplish, meeting the nobles of Westeros was something of a daunting task in his mind.

It was in this spirit that his evening had begun as Syemon ambled from nobleman to nobleman, leaning on his black and gold inlaid cane when needed, and forgoing a mask at all as his face was unfamiliar enough without one. He would have felt more comfortable with a small host at his back, but without his dear uncle Lyonel at his side, whose duties regrettably took him elsewhere, and the only other familiar face to him, his father's foster Torren Stark, in the embrace of conversation on the other side of the throne room, it was clear it was something he would have to do on his own. He had already managed his way through most of the Small Council with only the Master of Coin unspoken to when he realized the next group he had come upon was that of the Hand of the King and his family by a look at the ornamentation on the Lord's lapel.

"Lord Tully," he said the name of the elder man with as much respect as befitted a man of his ranking and an appropriate nod of the head. "My father Ormund has always spoken very highly of you. It's an honor and privliedge to finally meet you in person. Syemon Baratheon, sir."

Tagging the Tully contingent (Axel/Rosamund/Lanford)

Starfield_Scribe · 03-24-2015, 10:15 AM

OOC: Targaryen Tweens!

That makes six and seven, one more to go...

NAME: Prince Lucerys Targaryen
AGE: 13
HOUSE: Targaryen, son of King Jaehaerys & Queen Laena
THEME SONG: "Ra" - Nathan Lanier
PERSONALITY: Silent, precise, fiery, enraged, entitled
THREE LIFE FACTS: * For so long as he can remember, his mother has called him her little dragon. She told him there was fire in his blood, and that no one would ever dare get in his way. He could do no wrong. He saw the majestic creatures that were the dragons, and though none of them were his to claim, he had long held the desire to one day ride them. The more he grew, the more determined of this he became.
* He might have laughed and smiled his way through his first few years, but the more he grew, the rarer it became that he showed any emotion of the kind. He was not a cruel boy by any means, but if he felt in any way warranted to strike, then he did. He had always been told who he was, and what that meant, so if the others didn't know then why shouldn't he educate them? As a Prince in his position, he had every resource at his fingertips to make him into the dragon he was. Masters at arms, maesters, septons, the very best were brought to him, from wherever they came, be it Dragonstone, or Dorne, even a few Dothraki; it only seemed right. One day, Lucerys knows, his brother will be King, and he in turn will have a place by his side. He knows, and he will be ready. Of course, if anything ever happened to his brother, and he had no heirs...
* As unwelcoming as the boy Prince may appear, it is not to be mistaken for something it isn't. He has his own way to show affection, as selective as he is to extend it. He would tear apart anyone who ever so much as looked at Valaena the wrong way, and the same could be said of their mother. He hero worships his father and he looks to his brother as the man he's being groomed to serve more than family. As for his older sisters, he has little to show for them, hardly ever says a word to them.
RELATIONSHIPS: TBA
TB: Starfield_Scribe
PB: Nathan O'Toole

NAME: Princess Valaena Targaryen
AGE: 8
HOUSE: Targaryen, daughter of King Jaehaerys & Queen Laena
THEME SONG: "Le Manège" - Stanislas
PERSONALITY: Soft, imaginative, sunny, innocent, mannered
THREE LIFE FACTS: * If ever a dragon sleeps within Valaena Targaryen, it is good and comatose. From the day she was born, she was everything a good little princess was ever expected to be. Her violet eyes sparked with curiosity and wonder, and though she obeyed and respected her mother the Queen, it was her father's arms she ran into time and again, from the moment she learned to teeter along on her feet. Her septa would have to keep a firm hold on her hand to keep the girl from running to him, be it out on the road, or in the middle of the throne room, with the King perched on his jagged edged seat. Valaena learned to control herself in time, though soon as she was given any sign at all that she could go to him, she was an arrow with a mark. Her brother Lucerys would scold her against such things, but she knew he wasn't really mad; he never was. Her other siblings she is also close to, though none nearly as much as Lucerys.
* She has always been fascinated by the dragons, as she was bound to. She didn't see them as great monsters as many did, nor could she ever. They were magic, a miracle, returned after having disappeared from their world for so long. She herself had been named after Valaena Velaryon, the first of her mother's House to join to her father's, to the Targaryens, and together they had brought forth Aegon and his sisters, who had conquered Westeros with their dragons. Now here they were today, Velaryon and Targaryen together again, with Maegor, his sisters, and the dragons... True, Maegor and Daena were not Velaryon, but in Valaena's head it did not matter. She firmly believes it means something good.
* Her one concern in life has always seemed to be the unknown. It started out of hearing her septa speak of the Stranger and turned into looking back on the horrors her ancestors had suffered. Try as she might to keep it all bottled away and keep her sunny way along, she worries. Before long they will begin speaking of matching her with some Prince or another, and then she'll have to leave King's Landing, her parents, her brothers and sisters, the dragons... All she ever wants is to keep running through the Red Keep forever.
RELATIONSHIPS: TBA
TB: Starfield_Scribe
PB: Ruby O'Leary

ETA: NOW THE QUEEN!

NAME: Queen Laena Targaryen (Velaryon)
AGE: 36
HOUSE: Targaryen (born Velaryon)
THEME SONG: "Everybody wants to rule the world" - Lorde
PERSONALITY: Deceptive, regal, discerning, cunning, relentless
THREE LIFE FACTS: * As long as she's lived, she's known that her place in life was to marry a Targaryen. At least, it was what her father told her. Their House was one as bound to the dragon's legacy as any one House could ever hope to be. They'd had a slight falling out, if it could be called that, in the years of the Targaryens' absence, and upon their return it seemed no one was too eager to welcome back Driftmark into the fold. But Jacaerys Velaryon had two daughters and a plan for a match. His elder daughter was to marry Prince Jaehaerys, become Queen. She would have done it, too, if not for the riding accident she suffered as they rode for King's Landing to arrange the meet. So, Lady Indira Velaryon died before the Prince ever set eyes on her. Laena was too young still at this time to ever have the King agree to the match, and so Jaehaerys was married, soon producing twin heirs with his bride.
* As years went by, Laena became aware of her father's bitterness, which had somehow become aimed at her. The way he spoke to her, they might have believed it was her fault their plan had gone south. But it was too late, wasn't it? The Prince, now the King, was married. Lord Velaryon's bitterness had found its way into his daughter now, turning to determination to set things right at any cost. She rode for King's Landing at age sixteen, without telling her father, orchestrating an encounter with the King. She had never seen the man with her own eyes, and for what amount of pretense she'd believed to be required to make herself appear impressed and just slightly enamored, she came to see she'd had it all wrong. Jaehaerys was easy to love, easier to ingratiate herself with. In no time, it seemed the chaste young visitor was a welcomed extended guest. All along, all she waited on was an opportunity. The plan was so entwined with her purpose for being in King's Landing that she didn't think about it. So when the chance presented itself, Laena took it. No one ever knew the hand she played in the Queen's death. When she wrote him, the response came in another's hand, informing her of her father's death. Of all things, it was their respective losses, their grief, which bridged the gap between Laena and Jaehaerys, and in time led to their union. In the blink of an eye, Lady Velaryon had become Queen Laena Targaryen, with a dragon in her belly, a girl they would call Indira.
* Sometimes she has trouble believing twenty years have gone by since that rosy-cheeked girl first set foot inside the Red Keep. But here she is, a Queen, respected, loved, with her daughter joined in time by her little dragon, Lucerys, and her youngest, Valaena. As to her stepchildren, it would really only depend. In the company of others, they were the beautiful realization of their late Queen, who Laena knew she would be proud of, and for whom she had done her best to be friend if not mother. As for on their own, well... Laena made it a point to make such encounters be as short as possible. In particular, she and Daena have absolutely no love lost between one another. Laena has no problem with this, so long as it doesn't affect her standing, or her children's. In more recent years, Laena has been forced to take note of some possibility that the ease they enjoyed since the wedding could be challenged. So she's turned to the one she trusts most in King's Landing - which is not to say she's never lied to her - and enlisted Dira to carry her weight in maintaining their status. If she could do it, so could the girl.
RELATIONSHIPS: TBA
TB: Starfield_Scribe
PB: Anastasia Griffith

degausser · 03-24-2015, 06:05 PM

OOC: First post should be completely updated now. Be sure to check it to make sure I didn't miss anyone.

Rosamund Tully
Lanford could be slippery when he wanted to be as was the case now as he attempted to placate to her even more. I should have known not to exchange jest with the smartest woman in the room. Her grip on her cousins arm tightened like a constrictor might around its prey, as her gaze continued to sweep the floor of masked dancers with idle appreciation. To the casual observer, Rosamund and her cousin might simply be exchanging conversation. Those who knew them more intimately knew better. “You’re still doing it,” she remarked sweetly through clenched teeth, suggesting she was far from convinced of his repentance. “You should not jape, dear cousin. You may have been right in your assessment of the intelligence of your admirers, but it was unkind to tell them so to their faces.” Rosamund did not have to look her cousin in the face to know he was shooting her a look of bewilderment at that point. Hers had never been a sharp tongue. She was never the type to make a jape at someone else's expense. “Any woman who takes a shining to you would have cause to have her intelligence come to question.”

Unless of course it was her cousin.

Rosamund smiled crookedly at Lanford before her expression at last softened. A dance was a welcome diversion at that point, and she might have even taken him up on his offer were it not for the comment that came next. There was nothing inherently wrong with it, or with the person her cousin’s line of sight had narrowed in on. Rosamund enjoyed Prince Maegor’s company enough, just not near as much as her father might have liked. Lanford’s inquiries were hardly innocent though; he was still attempting to get under her skin as he always had, and always would. Her lips parted, another quip armed and ready to be loosed. That was until another party entered the equation. Rosamund turned her attention to the unfamiliar voice addressing her father, moving forward until she was at his side once more.

The young man introduced himself as the son of the ailing Lord Ormund Baratheon. Rosamund studied him silently. His father spoke little of him, though it was well known at court that the heir to Storm’s End had been a sickly creature as a child. Admittedly, Rosamund searched for any sign of that pathetic creature she had heard fragmented whispers about but aside from the cane at his side, nothing about him suggested any egregious abnormalities. His hair was dark as his father’s had been, his eyes as blue as the uneasy waters that broke against the cliffs of Storm’s End in Shipbreaker Bay. He looked remarkably ... normal. “It is a pleasure to at least meet you, my Lord.” Rosamund had been the first to speak after lowering the wand of her mask to her side. “Your father was admired by many a court. Hopefully the fresh air and walls of his childhood home will help to speed his recovery, or at least provide him some comfort.” She offered as condolence, before breaking into a warm smile.

winter soldier · 03-24-2015, 07:24 PM

Going off the age of her original profile, Myri should actually be like... 10, but a 10 year old is no fun to play. Excuse the fudging.

Name: Myri Lannister
Age: Sixteen
House: Lannister
Personality: Competitive, indignant, sensitive, insecure, demure.
Three Life Facts:
- Myri is a mewling lioness. The last to depart her mother’s womb, perhaps it could be said that whatever vigor and bluster her father’s seed came equipped with had simply been tapped dry by the time she’d come along—though it had as much to do with her upbringing, in truth, and that she had two gorgeous, lovely sisters to live up to, and somehow she’d always been hyperconscious of that fact. Still possessing a stubborn ounce of body fat, having only just experienced her first bleed, and possessing a laughable half—quarter—of a handful for each breast, Myri only need gaze at her sisters to see what she was meant to look like, and feel the beginnings of a mean streak of resentment take seed and thrive inside of her. Sixteen, and still full of face and narrow of hip, it’s no wonder the sights of young lordlings pass over and through her toward more promising pursuits, but Myri takes each rejection, each failure to fall at her feet and worship the very ground she occupied as grievous personal insult. As a lioness her bravado might be severely subdued but those mewls often give way to full-bodied roars at any perceived slights—and it’s beginning to garner her a bit of a reputation. Not the most flattering, either.
- Despite all of the open gawping and shameless clinging, Myri’s girlish loins do not stir for her elder (living) brother. They do, however, want for a man highly similar—the intellect, the cleverness, the dedication to his House and family’s honor, and would it be far too eerie if he were blond and fit as well? Just not, obviously, Tybalt Lannister himself. Because Myri was not Cersei Lannister, and Tybalt had a great deal more sense than their dearly departed great (great?) uncle, and… well, Tybalt had glimpsed her when she was fat and naked and covered in her own snot from crying all the time, and how could she reasonably expect to be desired after having been seen like that? No, no, she did not yearn for her brother like a crazed, incestuous dragon. She did love him quite a bit, the sympathetic tilt of his face when she wept in his lap about her womanly problems, the hand he’d stroked her hair with in lieu of comforting words—because all men were terrible with such things, not just Tybalt—and the vow that, as Lord Lannister, he’d seek out an appropriate shining specimen of Lord to gift her as husband. Yes, Tybalt Lannister was her favorite man alive.
- Which was not to say that she didn’t also love her mother. She did. She does. But her mother shared so much in common with her elder sisters, and Myri couldn’t help but feel as if she were letting her beloved only parent down with each tenderly shed tear over the men who’d never acknowledge nor desire her. Her mother was, after all, the single greatest example of ‘How To Win At Choosing Your Mate,’ having manipulated her way into her seat at Casterly Rock with such… dedication. Myri aspired to be similar. What she needed to accomplish such a thing was tragically beyond her control, however, given that she couldn’t fill the bust line of a maidenly dress to save her life.
Relationships: tba
Taken By: winter soldier
Played By: Chloe Moretz

degausser · 03-24-2015, 08:15 PM

Daena Targaryen
Sitting around all on his lonesome, bereft of any entertainment for nigh on an hour, evidentially forgotten by his dearest of sisters only to have said dearest of sisters make false accusations at him? The injustice of it all was harrowing, truly. Her crimson colored lips pursed together in a contrite pout, and she wrapped a silken sleeved arm around her brother’s neck. “My sincerest apologies, dear brother, it appears I am the one who has been negligent.” Her offer of penance came in the form of a chaste kiss on his cheek, before her lips once more broke into a wide, toothy smile. “You make me out to be far more persuasive than I actually am.” Now it was her turn to play the misunderstood victim. Somewhere out in the world was a tiny violin playing a sad and lonely song. Wait, no, that was just The Winter Maid being played by the bards now. “Besides, I seem to recall you enjoying one of the two far more than you probably should’ve.” All at once her demeanor shifted again, and she was shooting her brother a most crooked grin. “I bet your perpetually scowling lion friend enjoyed it more than he let on to as well.”

Daena did not bother to see where the young Lord of Lannister had settled himself within the Great Hall. She cared little to help her brother in that regard, but the wine was another issue altogether and something she could potentially help with. Maybe. If she felt like it. “Your tongue has gone dry, is that it? You’d like some wine?” It was a simple question that had a simple solution, and as she shifted in his lap, her thighs thoughtlessly applying pressure in a certain area tucked away in his breeches, it appeared that she might actually be putting that simple solution to work. Only as soon as the goblet closed in on her brother’s lips, she stole it away once more and tilted her head back from a hearty gulp. “You can have some wine. Not this wine, though. This is my wine.” But she would not forget her dear brother, oh no. “You there! Serving girl!” Daena called out to a serving girl who was conveniently scurrying on by. “Fetch us a wine skin!” She barked jubilantly before turning back to her brother, coy expression befalling her comely features. “My brother has a thirst, and he will not be denied.”


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