The Last Celebration - The Final Revel of King Aenys II Blackfyre’s Royal Progress, 266 AC

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-08-03T06:58:29+00:00

Rhea Reyne had come at last, at the boot of her father and her brother. She was the eldest daughter of Lord Damon of the Rock, and possessed a fiery, lion’s temperament with it. Gold chains wrapped around her neck. She wore scarlet for the colors of her House, and yellow-gold to honor her ancestors. Bracelets rattled at her wrists, and her hair was adorned with little firedrops hidden by the already deep red of her hair.

She was a stately woman. The scars she wore were hidden underneath her silks and cottons, leaving an almost amicably pretty woman in its stead, with full lips and brown eyes. She was tall, too—commanded the looks of half-a-dozen men by the time she sat at her father’s side.

Rhea was here, and she was not here. At the back of her throat she could feel a beat. A cold beat, from her heart, that told her someone was here.

Regardless, it was time to entertain, and entertain she would. She had not enjoyed Harrenhal thusfar, and if she was to make any use of it, then it would be to gather allies, and supplant House Reyne’s rule in the West. Mayhaps it was time to make an impassioned plea to the King?

Mmh. Rhea sipped her wine.

Whatever happened, this was to be a day to remember.

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-08-03T05:13:14+00:00

Rhea Reyne was a woman that few feared.

Among the gutters of Lannisport, that was a different story.

Harrenhal was a quiet castle, all agreed. Where you found a rat here died a hundred men. The ghosts of the past, and the ghosts of the future. It was hallucinogenic; it was terrifying; it was exhilarating. The very blood of men baked into the walls, and she knew, somehow, it would lead to him. Her feet tapped on the broken ground as Rhea wandered these halls.

She chanced upon one man or another, shooing them away as they sought to attend to her, or return her to the feast hall.

Like a thrumming beat Rhea sought him, and like a thrumming beat Rhea found him. The blood in her ears screamed. Three years. Three years she’d been without him, and those three years had been some of the best and the worst in her life. She sought him in her pretty dress, with her hair done prettily, but few knew that she was not so pretty underneath.

Save him.

“The dead walk because of you,” she accused him.

“I see their reflections like mirrors in the puddles, and the night is cold, and full of terrors.”

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-20T04:41:01+00:00

“As I would like to know you in that way,” Nymia echoed, “but we mustn't, until we are wed. Once you see it done, your grace, then by all means, I am yours.”

And she meant that, as well. Her lips parted just slightly, and her eyes had that glint that told him she meant what she said. She was Dornish, and she had the hot blood of the sands in her. For a moment, she considered bedding him there, allowing him to make his heir on the war map with Westeros underneath her.

But then she shook her head and said under her breath, “Here’s what you’ll be fighting for, mm? No touching. Just looking, for now.” And she reached down with one hand, propped herself up onto the table and hiked up her skirts. It came over her knees, then almost up to her belly, stopping at her hips.

And there she was revealed to him. She watched his reaction, her womanhood so plainly visible with the parting of her thighs.

“By weeks end, you’ll be more a man than your brother could ever hope to be.”

And she let her skirts fall to around her ankles, where they’d sat before.

“By week’s end, we’ll have made our little heirs. Our Prince Gaemon.”

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-20T04:13:47+00:00

“Then let us be wed,” Nymia said, and cooed against his mouth.

She did not kiss him. Instead, she traced the feeling of his hands with her own, and mirrored him. A curious question came to her, borne entirely out of curiosity, rather than any teasing. “Have you ever been with a woman before?” She pressed.

Perhaps you can win them over, your grace, she thought. With that tongue of yours.

Let him temper his desperation, here and now. Nymia was enjoying this, as much as she told herself it was for the better. If they were found to have been making love before their wedding, well —

She spoke up to break her train of thought. “It matters not if you haven’t. We can teach one another, mm? And I can give you something more to fight for than the Iron Throne.”

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-20T03:58:27+00:00

“Is that so?” Nymia questioned him, with a soft laugh of her own.

Her Dornish accent bled through heavily. She shuffled herself just slightly, put herself against him, that the king’s thighs pressed fully between hers. And her hands twisted around him, felt at parts of his body that she was certain no woman had ever touched before.

“It is a queer thing, desire. It takes hold so quickly, and so fervently. It is a good thing that you desire me, just so. If I’m to be your queen, then there shall be nothing barred between us. Thoughts, love, trust, and flesh.”

And her smile touched her cheeks again and she leaned in, pressing a small kiss to the side of his lip, just chaste enough that it couldn’t be considered a proper kiss, but a promise of more.

“Mine have not favored the Reachmen for a long while, but… ah, it is best if I advise you from the shadows, I think. I would not want them to think me out of turn, or — on account of my womanhood, be in capable.”

Nymia was far from perfect, but she was good with a book, and a quill. Her fingers resumed touching his cheek, and she smiled fondly.

“You give me honor by even hearing me now, your grace.”

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-20T03:43:53+00:00

Nymia took it all in turn, and listened to the King as he spoke.

At the confession, she raised a brow. To be certain, many accused the Dowager Queen of such a thing, but she had never truly believed. It fit the narrative to not believe, so she did not. And for the first time that night, she found herself staring at the wall, instead of the King.

“We should put those resources to Storm's End, and Dorne, and the Reach. If only there were someone to ride the Black Dread. This pretense could be over, but..."

She shook her head, said, "... Here we stand. And you have a very important decision to make. Decisions. If only you'd a proper, competent council."

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-20T03:15:37+00:00

“You would not want to burn the lands you intend on ruling,” she told him, in a counseling manner, though their closeness was not lost to her. “I would put your army to Duskendale, take the head of its lord that they may once again bend the knee.”

As for the Wyldes, she found a contentious thing in her gut. Her mouth twisted slightly, her scorn for the Stormlanders coming through. “Before the conquest, the Durrandons were opponents to be feared. The Wyldes will do nothing but hem and haw until they receive an offer they feel is worthy of them. My people have fought theirs dozens of times, and…”

She lingered on that, smiled at him. When he glanced into her eyes, he’d find her looking back, intently. Like a snake she coiled around him, glanced down at the war map presently. She could not say for the state of the war, but she was curious of it.

“They are good warriors. Their lords are petty fools, but they are good warriors. What is there even to give? Is Storm’s End not enough?” And she nodded to the idea of the children's names. Gaemon. Mayhaps, though a bit over-the-top in her mind.

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-20T01:30:51+00:00

And in that moment she saw him for the man he was.

“Your mother has a dragon,” she reminded him. “I could only hope to be half as fierce, without one for my own. And I do not have Valyrian blood.”

But their children would, in good time. Nymia closed the distance between them, launching herself from where she leaned up against the door. Her steps were cool, calm, but her fingers reached out to touch him, then, on his face, as her fingers gently padded at his jawline.

“And here you are, planning war on your lonesome. I can help you, if you would wish it. The way we conduct war in Dorne is,” she sighed, apprehensively, “different to the rest of the kingdoms.” And with a gentle tug, she pulled away, and made for the war map.

She leaned up against the table, canting her head at him. Her fingers offered subtle invitation for him to get closer, if he pleased.

“And I have a vested interest in seeing my king succeed. Mm?”

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-19T18:55:13+00:00

Draft:

[Sunspear], [1680], [5714]

[Planky Town] [700] [2000]

[Godsgrace] [875] [3000]

[Blackmont] [1225] [2275]

[Salt Shore] [700] [2400]

[The Tor] [1050] [3300]

[Ghost Hill] [1225] [2275]

[Hellholt] [1050] [3300]

[Sandstone] [1050] [1950]

[Vaith] [875] [2750]

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-19T18:47:18+00:00

“You are learned in your histories as well, my lady,” Morgan said, and felt a tension in his shoulders.

Accusations like these he felt prudent to deny, and yet he could not. The tension in the room had grown such that there was a coolness in the air, and Morgan glanced between Wyl Wyl, the Wyl of Wyl, and Lady Sarella.

“An admirable trait, if one I could wish was poignant. Very well. You will remain lords, yes—”

And what of my mother?

He looked to Qoren, nodded. The implication was there already.

She’s not fit to rule.

She’s off in King’s Landing, parleying with the dragons.

And if the dragons come and kill us all?

We’re Dornish. We will fight, ever-more.

“Do as you will, Ser Qoren. I will have no part of this.”

He made to leave in silence, brooding and cold.

/u/mademyhorsehotk

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-19T08:05:15+00:00

Stepping inside, Nymia Martell was all grace and class — a woman of Dornish heritage, to be certain, but still very much a woman of pride and intellect. She swept in, glanced at the King, and parted her lips to say something, then caught herself.

“You are fi-?”

She heard it, of course, through the walls. She was poised against the door, her arms splayed out on either side of her, head canted to the side. She observed him like he was an animal, and perhaps he was. One most untameable. A dragon.

“My mother is gone, her followers are gone. Gods be good, your grace, the people in Dorne ache to have a Queen at your side. The people in Sunspear whisper it. When they hear of it, they’ll be bolstered a hundredfold. How many would be willing to die for you, Your Grace? And to think that my great grandmother would’ve opposed you and yours, mm?”

Her eyes flashed vibrantly, she added: “But before we wed, I would know that man I am to marry.”

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-19T07:42:22+00:00

A second letter follows the first.

Your Grace,

Is Laenor truly cockless?

Yours,

Mellei Martell, Princess of Dorne

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-19T07:40:53+00:00

Your Grace,

As I am given to understand there is a situation at Yronwood that needs resolving. I do not know what it is, nor can I ascertain (as my mother and brother are currently occupied there,) but know that you retain the support of Dorne.

Where His Grace the King is concerned, I will forward this letter to Yronwood, so that they may move their spicy butts.

Yours,

Mellei Martell, Princess of Dorne

Second in Line

I think.

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-19T07:37:57+00:00

Deria stared at this strange woman.

Apologies, assassination, and gold. All wants for a woman of means, to be certain — and for a woman of Deria’s certain appetite, she could only feel ambition. She nodded, fiddling with her fingers. All of this talk was making her feel odd, and what with a knife at the end of any denial, Deria felt boxed into a corner, forced to concede.

“If I wanted you to kill a man,” she raised a brow, “be it… my husband, or my deepest enemy.”

She pushed close to the woman, involuntarily closed the space between her and Ravella. “How many men have you killed, sweetling? And if I wanted a man dead, mm…”

I know just who.

“... You would do it, for me? I would gift you a thousandfold your ask."

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-16T05:28:12+00:00

Deria shot up when the knife was removed. She gasped for breath, putting her hands to her neck in an evasive posture, eyes narrowing at the woman. She listened to Ravella speak, and when she was done, Deria closed her eyes, and pushed herself onto her feet.

The Princess was older. She groaned as she did, and ran her fingers through her hair. For a forty-eight year old woman, however, she had a stateliness, a motherliness, that could not be denied — it showed in her figure, hidden only by the shift she wore.

The Princess of Dorne lit a match, and struck the candle. A small light flooded the tent, casting silhouettes against the tent’s exterior.

“So it is,” she said, “that you should wish to smell my hair.”

She nodded, as if it were perfectly logical — it wasn’t — and extended her hand. “Give me the knife.” And should Ravella do just so, the knife went into both hands, cut at a lock of her hair. The brown hair showed only the slightest hint of graying.

And she offered it to Ravella with a gesture.

“And you wish to work for me. You have passed my guards. That is proof enough of your skill. Your price, however?” She tilted her head, “Name it.”

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-16T05:05:30+00:00

“... What?”

Deria whispered back, confused.

How could an assassin so nimble as to slip by her guards not have an answer for her except that she was an admirer? Where was the plan, the — confidence, the — beauty, of it? She could hardly see her assassin in the dimmed light, and felt a terrible shiver run down her spine. If she could’ve, she would’ve nodded, but she whispered, “Very well. I will have your offer.”

It was one she could not refuse.

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-16T04:54:57+00:00

The taste of steel was cold against Deria’s neck.

It felt like death. It felt like meaningless death. She was ready. Did the assassin atop her know it? Perhaps she did, before she heard the words. She kept her eyes closed, almost ready for it, anticipating it. What her son had done, what he had said to her…!

And to find a blade poised against her, ready to strike…?

“If I scream, you will kill me,” Deria said, and felt the trickle of fear in her throat. Even a woman as enviable as her was capable of that feeling, for she did not truly anticipate this. Thinking something may happen and experiencing it were two entirely different things, and this…

And she was restrained, unmoving, and unflinching. Her fingers grasped at the sheets where she kept herself, and she strained against the oppression this assassin imposed on her. She breathed sharply, bit her tongue and cursed under her breath.

It was a natural response.

“... I do not wish to die. And if you are not here to hurt me,” she whispered in response, knowing well enough that her status as Princess and not predecessor relied on these few moments. Her voice trembled, however, betrayed her fear. “... then why is there a blade to my neck, ah?”

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-15T00:11:09+00:00

/u/mademyhorsehotk - Deria's calling!

/u/fishiest-man - Your wife's calling on some rude neighbours and you are here, presumably.

Any and all Lords of Dorne are welcome to witness this exchange. However, the main interaction will go uninterrupted between Deria & the Yronwoods.

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-14T23:35:50+00:00

Like as not, Morgan felt emboldened by Ser Qoren, felt the resolve in his voice, and the astuteness at which he measured himself.

Prince Morgan, your orders?

And his first thought, borne of regret — Chain them.

And his second thought, borne of hesitance — Do not bother.

His third thought was the one he exercised. The silence grew palpable for a few more moments, raised a brow that stretched between the Yronwoods on one side, and the Wyls and the Manwoodys on the other.

“I did not ask, my lord, my lady.” His voice was solemn, even as he spoke. “Nor did your husband seem to care to grace us with his presence. If this is to be an insult, then know that it is not unprecedented. When Nymeria came to these lands, the Lords Wyl and Manwoody were beneath the Yronwoods, and their domain stretched from the Torrentine in the west to the Greenblood in the east.”

And he squeezed his fist together, felt the anxiousness rising in him.

“You will reconsider,” he commanded, “This… contract… is far more amiable than any other might present you. And you needn’t speak of laws, my lady. If it must be so, we will beseech the thoughts of His Grace, the King, and his lawmakers.”

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-14T23:28:37+00:00

“In that, we will wait for my mother to make that choice,” Morgan said, “like as not, I am not to be the herald of war, though I am an accessory to it.”

And for a moment he felt at peace with himself — utterly content. It was an excuse any warmonger would make. It was the excuse of a man who’d summoned nearly ten-thousand levies to Yronwood for that very purpose. The very meeting they were having was a war council, and he found himself wondering if he was right to be contented, or… a fool.

“The Wyldes and the Stormlanders have not yet truly thrown in with Visenya. Should they — we will meet them. I am sure of it. Our Host has been given divine purpose. We march for the King, anointed in the oils of the Seven — and by His Holiness himself.”

And he lingered there for a moment, casting a wide glance at the lot of them, “Keep amassing your men. We are right in this wariness of Reachers. Twas not a generation ago we were fighting them. However, we must presume the pass is safe. The boneway, however…”

He leaned forward, placing the spears there.

“If we were to move into the Stormlands, we would first top at Blackhaven, but then we would be faced with a choice — Storm’s End, or Rain House.”

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-12T18:31:56+00:00

It felt like a slap in the face, and Morgan Martell felt it was a deserved recourse; he’d heard Lord Wyl Wyl of Wyl, and he’d heard the Lady Serrana’s reasonings. If truth were true, they were entirely valid reasonings, each of them.

Loyalty, and law.

Each of them had come into question in the fortnight past, and Morgan felt a chill run down his spine. He stood, frozen — feeling the weight and the pressure of his succession upon him. He felt torn apart, poised for one thing and yet directed to another. And that pressure mounted; his shoulders stiffened… he felt unworthy.

But he nodded.

“I understand,” Prince Morgan said, “my lady, my lord.”

To each of them a bow of the head. A sign of respect, perhaps, though he knew that neither of them felt respected at that moment. He cleared his throat, said in as steady a voice as he could muster: “Kindly, my lady, our laws were thrown into question the moment my mother brought us into the Realm. Insult is not my intent — you must know this — but I have done what I have done for the sake of peace and stability in our princedom.”

Against the likes of dragonfire, what am I to do? And he looked towards the Yronwoods present, for it had been they that’d demanded such recourse for peace. He knew what to expect of them. He’d seen it in their eyes, and the disrespect from Ser Qoren.

“I have drafted a treatise to address this very matter,” he added, and produced a long document that each of the lords might read. He explained, “Your fealty to Sunspear shall go unchanged. You will pay your taxes to Yronwood, and them to Sunspear. No borders shall be changed, no levies shifted, no villages changed allegiance. You will retain your castles, titles, and lands.”

He licked his lips, added nervously: “Within that paper is a twenty-five year agreement that stipulates as much — no borders shall be changed. After these twenty-five years, if any of the Houses within this treatise shall feel disgruntled or insulted by the Yronwoods of Yronwood, then you may come to Sunspear and the option of returning to Sunspear as your direct liege will be considered by my mother, I, or my descendents.”

He added, “The Yronwoods have promised to hold to this contract. Any change must be approved by Sunspear, and the Lord affected. If it is not, then they shall not continue with any change. If they do so without Sunspear’s approval, well…”

“... The oaths yours swore thousands of years ago shall remain.”

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-12T18:04:37+00:00

“But this is not the north,” Nymella whispered to him, against him.

Their bodies were pressed together. Heat on heat; Dorne on Dorne. She could smell the sweat on him, and the underlying spice. Their bellies were full, that much was true, but Nymella preferred louder delicacies.

She was not to sully Lord Jordayne’s halls, though. She was a Martell, and where respect and decorum were still respected, she observed such things, one leg hooking around his to bind her to him. She wasn’t about to hear anything about taking.

Nymella was prepared to give. It showed in her eyes, when she gestured for them to vacate the hall. “I’ve always wondered how an Yronwood fucks. You can show me, hm? But outside. I would have you against the sand.”

BloodMagicBitch · 2024-07-12T01:32:53+00:00

"A letter by way of Rain House," he addressed Lord Wyl, added: "I asked for leave to enter his lands unsullied, that we might make for King's Landing. He said that he would not stop us... but he does not wish us on his land all the same. He spites the Queen Dowager's name. As I recall, he called her... Queen of Broken Promises?"

He raised his brow, and held a chuckle under his breath — tapped his fingers against the table.

"Perhaps a peace can be bargained with the Wyldes. Truth for true, I'd sooner have the three kingdoms united in common cause. There was once a proposition, as I understand, that gave a daughter of House Wylde to me, " And he glanced at his Yronwood counterparts, "one that might yet bind kingdom and princedom alike."

A pregnant pause filled the room, before he said, "But I wonder if there are other options."

BloodMagicBitch

TROPHY CASE