The year is 286 AC. King Jaehaerys II has just passed, leaving the throne without a rightful ruler. While his three children fight for the crown, Winter creeps closer, and unimaginable darkness looms.
Not all alliances will be so typical this time. In fact, many people have a crucial effect on the way this story is told. As for the ending, we only hope there are enough people left alive to tell it after its passed.
Events
Join us for our first event, the wake of recently deceased King Jaehaerys II.
Updates
AUG. 19: So we are now officially open to the public. We have a mini-event flashback thread going on, and our main event just began. Feel free to make a second canon if you can keep both of them active enough.
Don't hesitate in pestering staff with questions; it's what we're here for! Let's raise a glass and make a cheer toward a successful launch of Winds of Winter.
Post by RHAEGAR TARGARYEN on Aug 20, 2017 2:20:48 GMT
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[attr="class","jartoxlyr"] too much to live for too much to lose
[attr="class","jartoxpost"] " Everyone misses him don't they papa " [break][break] Soft little words chased at his ears as the targaryen prince knelt down to greet the face of the petite princess. Somber pools of amethyst rested on the soft curves of her cheeks. Not a single lord in the wake could make him bend the knee, yet here he knelt before the dragonborn child. Bright rubies reflecting curiously to that of her fathers, naive to the battlefield they stood upon. Taking it upon himself to explain just the gravity of the situation to his small crimson sun. [break][break] " They miss our king dearly, he was truly a -" [break][break] Words robbed from his lips upon the fingers of his daughter placed upon his cheek. Embracing the dragon-heart with her warm grasp. Silenced by the tender touch the prince closed his eyes, letting her comfort him. Though he hid the sorrow that tormented his heart she had seen right through him. Mending the wound that the passing of his father left upon his heart. Even if it was a single stitch, he would be indebted to Rayna. [break][break] " I miss him the most." [break][break] Sharing softly with her father as the prince swept her off her feet, carrying her upon his arm with her little grasp clutched onto his breast. Hearing the thunder of his aunt Rhaegar marched to quell the storm. Approaching the affair between the Iron Fleet and the stags. They were here to enjoy the splendor of the king not open the wounds of days past. Fire ready to swell from his aunts breast upon the ironborn. [break][break] " You have heard of my feats Lord Quellon ? I am pleased you hold me highly. Though if you know mine, you must know of hers." [break][break] Playing with his daughters delightful hand as he directed his focus to Daella. Sending ravens and having her visit during namesdays was not enough to repay the debt he owed to warrior princess. Bringing the open palm of the little child towards that of Lady and Lord Baratheon. Dark Sister brandished upon their visit to Dorne, aiding in the retrieval of his spouse who would be coming to fill his hand. Hoping to break the feud starting to erupt between the Seven Kingdoms. [break][break] " You all served my father well, for that you have my thanks my lords and ladies of the realm." [break][break] Violet eyes drawn to his brother that had joined the wake with him.
The king was dead, and here she was, dressed beneath a cloak of black and green to hide the gray dress beneath it, paying her respects. She had no love nor hate towards the fallen ruler nor did she have any want to be here, but even she knew it was only proper to come.
Though in truth, she was more interested to learn of the state of minds of the men and women now gathered in this room. After all, it was a dangerous time, and it would be good to know whom to trust to avoid any heart-wrenching fates that could possibly be directed towards any one of her families.
She stood mostly away from the chatter, speaking only when addressed, finding most of her company in other women for but a minute long before she'd stalk away from their idle chatter to discreetly eaves drop on more important matters. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Lord Greyjoy, whom she'd met a day prior. A man she wouldn't find herself speaking to a second time were it not important, though his speaking to the hand painted her curious.
As she wove through the crowd, in search of a better vantage point, she stopped by the side of a man she'd not mistake so easily no matter how many years they've been parted, though he was much, much taller than she remembered him to be. It was mere coincidence really. After all, she'd have stopped here regardless of his presence, though as she'd scanned the crowd, she did miss yet another presence she wasn't all too surprised not to find straight away.
"Look any more intensely and you might just burn a hole into the hand's garments." She spoke in a soft voice directed only towards him as she found a place within ear shot of her eldest sibling. "You're alone. I don't see father anywhere." her face just a frown short from conveying her dismay at the thought of her father's absence, though it mattered little to her as she was much more interested in the conversation happening between the three just ahead of them.
Regardless of whether or not she'd have received a word from her sibling, she'd simply watch him approach the hand, stalking towards a different corner of the room only to listen once more to the other's words, taking in everything that she could whilst doing what she did best and making herself scarce so as not to attract unwanted attention.
martell by blood, targaryen through wedlock. fiery and unkempt, the red sun will go to any measures to assure her beloved is seated upon the iron throne.
Post by RHIANU TARGARYEN on Aug 20, 2017 3:01:20 GMT
☀ ☀ ☀
It wouldn't have been evident to any of the nobility attending the wake that the Red Sun had spent a considerable amount of time soothing her son, Ryllan, about the concept of a wake. He had adored Jaehaerys, viewing the esteemed man as a grandfather instead of Protector of the Realm. Rhianu own feelings towards the ailing man fell into the same groove, having always saw him as more of a paternal figure than the powerful figurehead he had been to the Seven Kingdoms. The tiny dragon was unsettled over the idea of having the lifeless form of his grandfather nearby, telling his mother he had troubling dreams about Jaehaerys' body blazing in flames before his very eyes.
Only after she swore to her little love that her hand would never loosen its grasp on his could they finally begin making their way into the Sept of Baelor. Adhering to her promise, the petite Targaryen clasped onto her son's hand vehemently as her blithe gait directed them towards the horde of nobles who were present to pay respects to the late king. Rhianu had insisted to her husband that he hurry along, his presence being much more pertinent to the wake than her own. With Rayna in his arms, his wife and the other Targaryen twin did not follow after the other half of their family for quite some time. Their tardiness undoubtedly would not go unnoticed but she was also assured that the various characters present would generate a situation causing much more intrigue. It was a solemn occasion but that did nothing to ease the tensions over the unoccupied Iron Throne.
Donning a respectable dress of black, the blazing Targaryen emblem was stitched proudly onto each sleeve of her garb. Beautifully spun Dornish silk was woven through her hair, the only homage to her native country that the woman donned. Upon entering the sept, Rhianu tugged Ryllan along gently while her ruby stare noted the crowd and general atmosphere. Rhaegar stood by his aunt and the Hand, who appeared to be caught up in a conversation with Lord Greyjoy. Lingering behind her husband, she gave a silent nod of acknowledge to whoever met her gaze. She knew it was not the time to speak, opting to remain silent as she reached out and latched her hand onto Rhaegar's side to notify him of her presence.
The heavy black dress felt like a glove on her features; clinging and draping all the same with the black half-cloak swept across her shoulders as it were a shawl. The woman's eyes had a red ring around them from crying and rubbing at them. One such hand continued to flick up ever so often and massage the corner of Vivi's eye, as if her were wiping away dust or warding a headache.
Crying in public would be a show of weakness.
One had to be used to wearing black when they were a Targaryen. The color of mourning a lost soul, gone to the hereafter to join the rest of the departed. To never see them again, to not be graced with their guiding hand. They had lost someone precious to them, with the lost of King Jaehaerys. Long was it expected to occur, but what a blow it was to see it come to pass.
And here they were, in this room, among his cold, dead body--arguing. Arguing of kings and thrones, what name of their blood shall take it among the three.
Vivaenne watched the proceedings between the Hand and the others that were filing in to pay their respects with an out of body attachment. She felt tired, exhausted, really--her eyes drooped ever so often, only to open back up at full awareness moments later. Her feet stood firmly in place, as if they were one with the ground and her back lightly brushing against the wall behind her back.
The separation between the argument and the quiet was breached as another stepped away from the back and forth. Eyes spied on them, watching the female figure make her own point of view on the proceedings. She spoke, moments later in a soft, somber tone that would go unnoticed by many that were continuing their back and forth, not paying any heed to those that didn't take part:
Post by SAERA TARGARYEN on Aug 20, 2017 3:11:55 GMT
Filthy creatures; the Greyjoys did not belong in King's Landing. Daella was right. They deserved to be marooned on their islands of salt and rock, or sunk in their longboats at the bottom of the sea. The only reason they were here was because they were scavengers. Like filthy crows that followed soldiers into battle, the ironborn had come to benefit from the bloodshed they suspected was to come.
Saera did not bring her sword because she believed they were not meant for funerals, but at the moment she would not have protested if Dark Sister as drawn from her sheath and used to behead the insolent Quellon Greyjoy. She, along with many others attending the funeral, would have paid a man's weight in gold to see Lord Greyjoy's head roll.
Seeing her uncle arrive made her heart ache in longing. Where was Aerys? Saera wondered if he ever made it Old Valyria, or if he ever made it back. It had been too long since she'd seen her cousin. Surrounded by family now, she should have been comforted by their presence. Instead, she felt alone now more than ever. If Aerys was there, perhaps he could have consoled her.
Saera suddenly found herself at her uncle's side, looking up at the towering Daeron Targaryen fearlessly.
"Uncle." Saera said gently, a distinct hollowness in her voice. It was if there was no emotion there at all, but she was not visibly grieving or upset. She remained poised despite the obvious difference in her personality.
Back straight, chin up, hands folded neatly in front of her, Saera was being the lady that she was raised to be. "I am sorry for your loss."
She looked from Daeron to the the king's body, her eyes betraying nothing.
It would not take long it seems until she caught the eye of yet another lady here to either mingle or mourn the loss of the king, though this lady was welcome company for her. She turned to address the other with a small nod of her head. "If by miserable, you mean this whole ordeal of chattering with faces you'd rather not see for the rest of your life time... then yes... it is."
It would have been nice to leave and talk somewhere else but it would be rude now was it? Not to gaze upon the corpse? Maybe later... she'll have her turn. "I am sorry for your loss Vivaenne. It was a good rule... while it lasted..."
Post by THE REAVING KING on Aug 20, 2017 15:48:10 GMT
Quellon stepped back and looked around.
Enemies. All he knew here were enemies. Fools. Children. Ignorant bastards. They looked at him and his last name and saw filth, scum, villainy.
Roaches. They called them roaches.
Greenlanders had forgotten that it took dragons to drive the Ironborn out the last time they decided to conquer Westeros. But now there were no dragons. In King’s Landing there was only a gaggle of silver-haired children playing a game of thrones, unaware of the threat sitting in their bay. Even Rhaegar Targaryen, one of the heir apparents, appeared to stab at Quellon. He watched him as he walked by with daughter in hand, watched him talk to Arkas and his wife.
“The rulers of the Seven Kingdoms are quick to dismiss my realm.” Quellon’s teeth were grinding as he talked. “It is interesting. You say you want a peaceful reign and a peaceful council while you threaten to draw swords on me in your own king’s funeral. You expect me to trust in the sovereignty of those that would see me destroyed.
“And right now you need the trust of the strongest fleet in Westeros, Arkas Baratheon. And you too, Rhaegar Targaryen. If you aim to be king.”
To say his threat was thinly veiled would be overly polite. Quellon knew he was now making a bold step forward. It was his way of offering them a warning to cull their disrespect before blood filled their rivers, alongside the cries of their raped women.
Her words awakened him. A glimpse was avoided, for what transpired before the wolf appealed to his senses, nonetheless, her voice wasn’t lost to the future lord. “I’m glad you’re well,” dismissing her slight, Jeren was relieved internally. What had it been? Years? After marrying into the Tully family, reunions with Ashe were far and few in-between. The adorable little girl who rode Scarlett and played within the walls of Winterfell had become a woman. The change she underwent was both moving and somewhat disheartening. How he wished for the days of old, where the two were unaffected by the world, and went winter was nothing more than the presence of snow.
“He should be here soon enough, I left for King’s Landing a night before our father,” From their earliest memories, Ashe could infer to reasons why. Jeren’s relationship to his father was akin to the King’s hand and his grace. Political guidance had become his purpose for some time, so while Cassius handled the blade, his son prepared the minds and schemes. Still, having Lord Stark present would have served greater purpose. This was only further reinforced when the king’s regent had called for his presence closer.
A soft touch of the shoulder was enough to inform Ashe of his departure before Jeren took position before the trio. A slight bend recited a bow of gratitude before returning to full height. Orbs of citrine capture the commotion before him as Lord Akras could for bits of wisdom from the North. In truth, the question appeared simple enough, but concealed deeper, more complicated undertones.
“My lords, my lady,” addressing all those before him, Jeren continued. “I was always taught the outcome of anything was just as impacted by the timing as it was by an action or lack thereof,” Numerous pieces went into the puzzle of war, even leadership. No mere piece overshadowed the sum whole, however the whole was a mere byproduct of its individual facets. Having the strongest, largest armies didn’t exactly spell victory, and being undermanned wasn’t a criterion for defeat. Time was a convenience. Being in the right place at the right time was just as instrumental as the steel forging one’s blade and armor. The absence or presence of certain conditions was the underlining quality that any leader needed to understand.
“I say that to say: is this the right time for this conversation? At his grace’s funeral?” Some of similar thought of Lord Greyjoy would argue this was the perfect time. As important as time was, intent held a space in the thick of it all.
posture upright and a facial realm devoid of stress, the lone wolf knew his subsistence in this game was jeopardized the moment his name was narrated.
Quellon continued on, and more parties joined in the game. Who would the next round favor?
Last Edit: Aug 20, 2017 18:39:29 GMT by JEREN STARK
Post by Dalton Greyjoy on Aug 20, 2017 18:14:44 GMT
Okay, so maybe things were getting slightly out of hand. With the target of his curiosity being drawn away by someone else, Dalton felt himself listening more to what was going on behind him. It was hard not to hear it, of course. Father was at it again, speaking his mind a bit too freely. Now, a lesser man would have called the older Greyjoy an hypocrite, giving his teachings. But they both already knew that, so what was the point? Besides, he did seem to draw in more and more of the Targaryen crowd, likely fuelling his conception of being surrounded by enemies even more.
Dalton sighed. That was even worse than boring himself to death. And he could not really continue to just ignore it by now. Heck, father was already making his threats – in the worst possible place for it. Subtly, he shook his head. There was a fleet, yes. And there was a kingsguard around him, right now. Guestright did not apply to those threatening their hosts, obviously, at least not to the fullest extent. The younger Greyjoy made a few steps towards the gathering, yet stopped, briefly. What exactly could he do now? Quellon certainly would not want his help. Just supporting his father here would be superfluous. Speaking against him would be bad, too.
Still though, as much as he wanted to ignore the insults levied at their house, he really should not do so. Hence, he straightened up, clearing the look of annoyance from his face and made those final steps. There was still not an ounce of an idea as to what he should say when in the presence of all those ‘adults’ sorting their problems out like toddlers. But he still took to his father’s side. “My lords. My ladies. Half-drawn swords,” he introduced himself, opting to otherwise remain silent. Just being there was enough to assist, in his opinion. Yeah, he could say a lot more and be rude, but his lord father had already said pretty much all there was to say. He had sufficiently indicated that he had heard what was going on.
This evening was evolving into something else. Besides Quellon, Lukas was sure no one truly expected this outcome. Being the instigator had the advantage of poking with aggressiveness and watching your target react. Though, the young Rose had always felt waiting for the perfect opportunity led to the best outcome.
"This is some wonderful wine."
He sipped from the cup, his blue eyes scanning the room taking in all the new contestants in today's game show. It seemed there was no need for entertainment, as the entertainment was the guests themselves.
Lukas had never stopped walking amongst the courtyard, given the huge space it was easy to maneuver around the center of attention to get a better view of the surroundings. He caught a glimpse of Vivaenne Targaryen, someone he remembered from years before— though she was only a child then, she surely had grown into a beautiful woman.
The young Rose found his feet practically walking by themselves as they drew closer towards her. However, a sudden appearance from the wife of Lord Tully had entered her company. Two birds with one stone it seemed. He approached the pair with soft steps, greeting them with a warm smile to hopefully change the mood of the day.
"M'Lady's, you don't mind me joining you two for a bit?" He bowed, making sure to keep the wine in the cup from spilling out.
Alysanne is one of the three Targaryen children who purport they have claim to the throne. The now-dead King decreed Alysanne be Queen, and the unorthodox mother of three plans to become one.
Post by ALYSANNE TARGARYEN on Aug 20, 2017 18:31:45 GMT
In the front row, Alysanne sat. Clad in a black gown and black gloves, she sat in misery. Her eyes never left the casket which contained her father's frail and thin body. Buzz surrounded her as people began trickling in and speaking to one another. The situation unfolded in front of her, and she could only ignore it for so long.
Boy Stark, as she called him, seemed to be the only one interested in diffusing the situation. But his words fell on deaf ears. Finally, Alysanne stood to her full height and focused tired eyes on the group in front of her.
"Enough."
Her voice was loud and strong, matronly and yet not quite angry enough to be deemed unbecoming of a noble. "My father is staring at stones. His body is right next to you. How dare any of you squabble and disrespect his ceremony like this." She turned to Arkas. "You are Hand of the King and the ruling agent of the realm right now. But I am the mourning daughter showing her children how to act in times of grief. Take your beautiful wife and sit down." Her eyes wandered to Quellon. "Antagonizing a man and his wife, two respectable people like yourself, could have waited until my father was officially given peace by the High Septon. Sit down, my Lord, and let my family and my father's kingdom grieve in silence." She didn't expect much from a savage, but from the two Baratheons, one Targaryen-born, she had apparently overestimated their self-control.
The entrance of both Daeron and Rhaegar had not gone unnoticed. "Now that my brothers have deemed it worthy of their time to show up, we can begin." Her eyes wandered among the crowd, taking in who had attended. Her eyes briefly rested on her two daughters before returning to the group before her.
A shadow of amusement continued to linger on her features before it dusted itself away, the voice of the rather assertive Greyjoy bringing a frown to them. Who had let the dogs in?
Ah, yes--a funeral, everyone invited to mourn and see over the body of their beloved King. More like a fight of claws of steel and daggers for the wolves that would come in and dare to jump into his grave so quickly. It left a sour taste in her mouth, to see her grandfather's person be so blatantly respected while none yet hold the Iron Throne.
"It was." She finally gathered up enough of her voice to have another reply float past her lips to her companion in suffering. "A shame that it led to them squabbling like a child over a toy." Her words ended in a secretive, mock whisper and a sigh. The presence in the corner shifted once more, as another joined the duo and turned them into a trio.
Vivaenne looked to them, not recognizing the voice nearly as well as she should. Time had treated it like the rest, since she'd last seen him. A memory from half a decade ago; Lukas Tyrell. The smiling, drinking visage he presented didn't do much to alleviate the melancholy that had wrapped around her like armor.
"The space is empty," Her hand made a waving gesture to the floor. Vivaenne would have said more. Another polite greeting and following conversation, perhaps. The action was interrupted though, and she found her mouth clamping down like a steel trap.
The woman's back automatically straightened itself as a presence finally made itself known over the discourse of the event. Her mother--Vivaenne's sight found the dignified form, sitting in the front rows almost immediately. It seems that the 'mourners' would have to put a stop to their chase.
Post by CASSIUS STARK on Aug 20, 2017 20:33:00 GMT
The descent towards Kings Landing was one that many men were not built to endure. It was vigorous, arduous and most defeatingly long. Even with some of the fastest mares in the Kingdom under his disposal, it took Cassius nearly a month of hard travel for him to make any leeway in his journey. For him, the trek was one of ease and surprising tranquility. As Lord Paramount of the North it was very rare for him to find an occasion where travel to Kings Landing was required, and though he wished it to be under better circumstances, he was nonetheless pleased with the thought of a change of scenery. Even rarer was an instance where he could keep to himself, without the high demands and whines of his many denizens. They were all his brothers and sisters, children and grand-children, but it felt refreshing separating himself from them - almost like a breath of new air.
New, however, was subjective. Kings Landing was anything but new, even for a wolf so largely segregated from the rest of the Kingdoms. He had visited the largest city in all of the Seven Kingdoms on many occasions, the first of which had arrived at the behest of the dearly departed King Jaehaerys II; a man Cassius respected above all others. His Grace had been the first of all Nobel men to extend his condolences at the passing of Adonis Stark, a time where his rightful heir, Cassius, was at a ripe age of five years old. He always showed an uncanny sense of entitlement to a boy he had no business caring for, especially one from such a far away land. Perhaps he recognized the importance of the North to the Seven Kingdoms, maybe he simply felt sympathy for a child who had lost his father and Lord, at such a young age. Whatever his reasonings, Cassius felt equally as entitled to pay his respects to the only man that had showed him what it took to lead and be a father.
Even if it meant traveling day and night for a month straight.
It was perhaps one of the many reasons for his late arrival to the festivities, if such an event could even be called one. His belongings were carefully stashed away as he entered Kings Landing, stowed away with Yara providing a extra layer of resistance should any try to be bold enough to rob a Lord. He rarely left his direwolf outside of his vicinity, but her presence would have proved to be nothing more than a distraction. Instead he rode alone to the heart of the city, sticking out like a sour thumb as he maneuvered his way towards the chambers. His gargantuan black mink cloak clung to his equally as large stature like wet clothes, emboldened by the glimmering valyrian steel greatsword that bounced along his back with every ebb and flow movement his body made. It made a distinct clicking sound with every step, to the point where his late entrance would have drawn the eyes of all those in the chamber.
Cassius addressed no one as he passed, simply moved in a straight line towards where the King rested. He paid his respects with but a handful of words, reciting an old saying the King had often tried to etch into the young Stark's mind. His voice was hoarse but dimmed, intended only for the ears of the dead. From there he turned to the first row directly behind him, taking a momentary pause to gaze at the room and all its inhabitants. From Daeron to Rhaegar, the fellow Lords of the realm and even his two children, he took note of everyone of importance. Instead of addressing any of them, his eyes fell onto Alysanne and his feet quickly followed. He had heard her distinct voice from afar, having instructed everyone to show respect to their King. Though he made no move to greet any of her brothers, in a bold move of respect he took a knee before her - the distinct sound of Ice's sharp tip meeting the floor from his back enough to draw the eye of all those around if his appearance hadn't already.
Nothing he did was without purpose or design, and this was nothing different. An extended hand would be offered to her; whether she took it or not was her own perogative.
"Sorry for your loss, my lady." His voice was deep, booming even. "House Targaryen has the sympthay of the North, whatever you need we are here to help."
No matter her response, he followed his words by standing and moving to the back out of sight of everyone.
Last Edit: Aug 20, 2017 21:22:25 GMT by CASSIUS STARK
Post by LOGAN LANNISTER on Aug 20, 2017 21:15:19 GMT
The golden colors were not dawned today for the mourning of a Dragon had begun. Dressed in black from head to toe, he did not mingle nor entertain the idea of interfering between the vial sea dog and his petty quarreling with the King's Hand. Lion's were above something so minor. Still, the entire ordeal had left a bad taste in the Lannister's mouth.
Today a kingdom and its noble families were here to pay their respect to King Jaehaerys II. A man of kindness, fairness, and who kept the realm safe and secured. It was a mockery, and smeared his good name to behave so poorly, especially in front of his children and late family, who were grieving over the loss, no matter how stoic each Dragon might have portrayed.
Logan could only ponder what he might have said, or how he would have reacted if his father was given such disrespect. The idea of the old man passing drew his attention to the floor, wishing to forever forget the simple notion. He had been groomed to oversee the House after his father, yet still found himself not quite ready.
Luckily, the proposed Queen intervened between Quellon and Arkas, hopefully dissolving the situation entirely.
Logan's gaze fell to Alysanne, his watchful eyes steadying their admiration for the woman.
He had yet to lose a loved one, to have someone so dearly taken from him. A part of him never hoped to taste such bitterness, and yet he found himself eerily interested in the sensation all the same.
Still Logan remained vigilant, having kept much to himself. For now he would remain seated, carefully watching the events that unfolded.
Post by DAELLA BARATHEON on Aug 20, 2017 21:22:36 GMT
Pale knuckles were pried away from the hilt by hard fingers that carried more gentleness than she ever did. Still, the situation was hard to see and swallow down. A king's reign marked by peace, but only because as she sensed through the currents of time, he had been afraid of conflict. Appeasing, giving ground—a temporary peace surely, that would shatter into its constituent pieces upon his death as it did due to this passivity in passing the throne and unwillingness to upset his adult children.
Grief had never made Daella shed tears or bow. It was only replaced by anger of all things.
Letting herself be taken in by a sweet tide, touching foreheads with her husband to feel her eyelashes bat against his skin, she gazed dully at nothing while he ushered her down. In floated words about Arkas' foolishness, which toiled a tide but not quite breached the trance he trained in her. Indeed, the sounds of Rhaegar and his daughter caused her turn, step away from the commotion a bit to embrace her great niece silently. A miracle born from a conflict down south years ago.
But Daella cracked a smile as the Lord Greyjoy seemed to realize his lack of friends in the capital. "Threat of steel?" she exclaimed, having not referred to drawing her blade at all. "If a housewife's words made you quake in your boots, say it so, Lord Quellon."
She had handed off the child back to Rhaegar, for Daella's arms were only a comfort for a small time. And there it was, with the ironborn's words. Her head turned to Arkas as the Greyjoy implied his fleet being needed. She stared into her husband's blues, making it clear what she thought of anyone that took up such a foolhardly notion from a people known especially for chaotic vow breaking.
But what turned to incite her most was the daughter of her cousin, attempting to imperiously drive down the room while insulting Arkas with a sterner tone than reserved for the Greyjoy. A farce: politeness to a guest was only when deserved. "You are not queen yet," she snapped, burning those bridges as she did whenever anyone aside from Arkas told her to quieten—least of all from a born princess that merely existed under her father's peaceful reign. "And anyone who would parley with ironborn is no friend to the realm." A clear statement on that Greyjoy's offer still hanging heavily in the air.
All the children were unproven. Perhaps the threat of internal war would actually show the world their mettle. And using the wake as an excuse to procrastinate the issues of now was a thing she was very acutely aware Jaehaerys himself would do.
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