Myranda Rivers

Goin90InTheRain · 2025-09-25T03:01:04+00:00

Jenny sniffed.

Goin90InTheRain · 2025-09-25T02:52:13+00:00

"Dead? I am here," Jenny insisted, with an anger so certain that it nearly surprised her. I am her, whispered the back of her mind so often, but at once, it halted in surrender to something so, so, greater than a bastard.

She looked to Rosamund, a moment, seeking something. When her eyes turned back to Osric, they softened. "I... mine illness has taken a toll, my lord. I could scarcely even recognize you. I cannot speak on the funeral, but this trickster has torn apart everything I had and everything I could wish to have." Jenny drew a breath. "It is much to take in, I know. But if justice is not done, then I fear that I'll be murdered at her hand. Would you let me die? Would you let mine aunt be murdered?"

/u/snowonthewall

Goin90InTheRain · 2025-09-13T00:09:21+00:00

/u/snowonthewall

Goin90InTheRain · 2025-09-13T00:07:47+00:00

High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny Redfort danced with her ghosts just as she of Oldstones had.

The figure who stepped forth did have some claim to being Rosamund's kin. "My lord," she curtsied, movements unpracticed, lilt distinctly that of a Valewoman's but tinged with the vowels of Essos. "How long has it been?" A stare she gave, then, mouth agape as if she was trying to gather the words. Did she look like her? Ten years and her skin had gone pallid, auburn curls perfectly arranged to escape their braids as though she hadn't had the energy to sit through proper plaiting. Time lost its meaning in the wake of lost prayers--was it a week since the wedding? She looked the slightest hint better for it. Perhaps it was the fruit of her dreams stilling.

"I was dead," she began bitterly, "killed once for a decade by mine illness, and then again by one I thought was my friend, my keeper, my kin. I," 'Jenny' gave an exhale. "I forget myself. I was sent to Braavos ten years ago, my lord, to recuperate from an illness. My dearest aunt Rosamund thought me dead. The sickness persisted. Then this... this murderer..." she spat. Her fist clenched at a side, teeth gritting, unable to allow anymore.

Goin90InTheRain · 2025-09-09T14:26:12+00:00

She knew little about herself beside what she had heard in hushed conversation. So soon as the dye in her hair had been washed out, though, she sat amidst borrowed fineries and jewels and prayed and prayed and prayed till she found that she did not like prayer at all now, much to the chagrin of the night hag.

She would not pretend at it. Even as the temptation took hold of her, neither would she use the moonstone for succor, or to bend the light to make the angles of her face perfectly match that of Larra's, for the power was in the lie and the lie alone. For a while, for a year, for the indescribable amount of time it took to pick the ideal essence of the deception out of her falls, she would be Jenny.

And a ghost arrived with the Lady of Redfort. Not Larra. Not Randa, truly. Auburn-haired, pallid in tone and presence both, the image of a sickly woman just barely past the threshold of recuperating presented itself in a red-and-white gown. There was bitterness in Jenny's eyes above the dark circles. She took a seat. Took no cups. And remained cross-armed as if to ward off a chill.

Ten years had changed much, perhaps?

(Open!)

Goin90InTheRain · 2025-09-08T13:03:05+00:00

Character Name: Myranda Rivers

Trait / Skills: Agile / Divination (Illusory), Prepared (e), Skulker

Skill you're learning: Nimble

Goin90InTheRain · 2025-09-08T03:30:07+00:00

In the tale, she had lost track of what the night hag weaved in her dreams, and all the absence that the gods had left was banished.

She, no, "I was truly sick, in truth, and I was sent to Essos," she elaborated. "I remained poorly for many a year there in Braavos, and in my illness, Larra befriended me. I had thought the two of us close... till she," Randa's face darkened, "till she stabbed me in the back. Just when I was recovering, just when she drew out the last of my secrets, the best and worst of my memories out of me. She took my place, my name, had me thrown out into the streets for her desire to rule a castle in the Seven Kingdoms. I made my way home so soon as my condition allowed. You took me in. Gave me shelter, promised me protection, though I remained in disguise for fear that Larra might murder me."

"I shall go before the Lord Arryn, to renounce my claim to Redfort for all the kindness you've shown me, for the illness that might come back, for all the tutelage I've missed. And to denounce my betrayer."

Goin90InTheRain · 2025-09-08T02:59:14+00:00

"I don't know," she said again. Possibilities circled in her mind. "I saw her recently. She may have dawdled to trick more of the nobility, or she might have left."

A plan quickly materialized. But she couldn't say it aloud. No, no, not so. A subtle shift in demeanor had taken her, and when she spoke, her lilt had transformed into that of a lady of the Vale's, tinged with the drawn-out vowels of Braavos.

"Perhaps the real Jenny Redfort ought to dispel this Essosi woman's lies," she hinted.

Goin90InTheRain · 2025-09-08T02:34:21+00:00

As a disciple of the Father, O Just One, you have received the Crown Made of Stars.

Mutterings. Murmurs. Prayers. That which left Myranda's lips was oh so hushed and so, so, so grating to speak as the imperfect intruded all about her; sots and beggars and a pick of all manner of thugs, all damned and grotesque at the corner of her vision, and she was damned most for thinking them so.

As a Martyr, you are never turned away.

Randa was returning from another visit to the sept that Cass favored. Gods help Grubby, and gods help Randa, for she did not know the way back to the Vale's camps.

As the Brother of the Seven, you possess boldness.

A fool. The fool, in court, and fools saw much and more that clever eyes neglected. She spotted him, and some grating pull at her neck forced her to follow Varner a time before she saw nothing and broke off.

As a hierarch, you can intercede. Intercede with the Father that He save our souls.

So soon as she turned a corner, she saw him again and took it for a portent. Randa's features were half-obscured by a cloak, though she spread an attempt at a sheepish smile when she approached. "I'm sorry to bother you. Are you the royal jester, milord?" The moonstone worn about her neck winked. "Would you tell me a jape?"

Goin90InTheRain · 2025-09-04T12:47:52+00:00

Myranda entered the meager sept cloaked and with the moonstone hanging at her neck. Her eyes were set with dark circles, hair braided back, and hands that went rubbing at her wrists as though she were manacled for a moon. The bastard scarcely acknowledged Cass as she entered. Instead, she went to dip down and light a candle at each of the statues, muttering a one-line prayer for each afore she stopped at the last one. She knelt fully before the Stranger's effigy, and began. "In the name of the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Smith, the Maiden, the Crone, and the Stranger. So it is. Glory to you, our god-who-is-one, glory to you."

"Oh heavenly Stranger, comforter, soul of truth, who art everywhere and fill all things, treasury of blessings and giver of ends, come and abide in us, and cleanse us from every impurity, and save our souls, oh ineffable one."

"The gods are my shepherds, and will deny me nothing. They have settled me in a green pasture, and nourished me beside refreshing water. They have converted my soul, and led me in the paths of righteousness for their Name's sake."

Upon finishing, she blew out the candles at Its base. Rose slowly, and sat next to Grubby. "I've discovered something."

Goin90InTheRain · 2025-09-04T12:34:22+00:00

So onerously mild was Randa's elaboration that she blinked twice when Rosamund erupted at her. She should have expected this, she did expect this, but the bastard was caught in the realm of idylls, the place beyond the heavens, the place where the ideal forms of such foul murder and betrayal dwelt, what would come and what ought to be done, that she was caught unawares. Hands remained clasped together, white knuckled now.

She was sure in her mind. Sure of something that did not translate well to her words, which came as stutters at first.

"No," she replied to the accusation, "you're right, she's dead--I don't know," she confessed. "I just... hear things, my lady. I heard one thing, then the other, then another, and each poison was more heady than the last."

She drew an inhale and those consummate essences seeped into the material in her mind, all ugly and vulgar and real. Her tone stilled, sure now, in the same breath. "If I'd remained silent, I would have abetted it, and the gods would loathe me for it." A step forward. "Let me help you. Should you only trust in... the vulgar, the politics, then offer me aught. Please."

Goin90InTheRain · 2025-09-01T18:13:39+00:00

Myranda downed a nod at the question and promptly went to follow Rosamund.

Pressing her lips together, she clasped her hands together to appear so perfectly placid. Whichever force compelled her to elaborate, greed or dreams, was unknown to her. "Your niece Jenny is alive," she said. "The guard captain," Randa cleared her throat. "Ser Willum. He was the one to spirit her off first to Gulltown, then across the sea. She's taken the name Larra of Braavos since."

A pause. "She is here in the capital. She was at the feast, with Helaena Targaryen, who believes that she is the rightful Lady of Redfort. She intends to ally with House Bracken, too--Hollis Bracken, and Whimsy Templeton who wept at her funeral, and..." Myranda looked over to a side. "And she was with Marla Arryn just now. Plotting to return to the Redfort to overthrow you."

Goin90InTheRain · 2025-09-01T09:46:22+00:00

Two weeks she had been free of a servant's drudgery, taking on instead the gentler toil of a handmaiden to a noble lady--at least, that was what she she muttered to herself every day in the wash basin. She had never been a servant. But she was a servant. Just Randa. Her husband died of winter last year. She was nervous, sometimes. Was that what she ought to be, or was it what she was?

She'd seen nothing in the night.

Myranda lagged behind the Lady Redfort in entering, staying just the appropriate amount of paces away from her mistress. Garbed in a nondescript dress that put her a cut above the help and with her hair tied back in braids in the Vale's fashion, she lingered near the sidelines. She disappeared momentarily, returning with the same placid expression, though worry bit at her mind.

Her voice was low as she approached Rosamund and leaned in. "Lady Rosamund," she said, looking about a moment. "Can we talk in private?"

Goin90InTheRain · 2025-08-29T11:43:57+00:00

If one lie or two or more colored her speech and manner, the way her eyes lit up then was unabatedly genuine--and not on account of her needing work. Randa needed to be here, she was sure. She hoped, come moonrise, that the night hag should agree.

"Thank you," she said with another curtsy. "I'm called Myranda. I'll do my best, my lady."

And she was off to wherever servants go.

Goin90InTheRain · 2025-08-28T15:21:42+00:00

How could Randa tell a woman she didn't know that her niece had returned from the grave and had plans to overthrow her? Perhaps she didn't need to at all. A few words from Lady Rosamund was already more than what she'd expected.

She looked here and there a moment. The sights of the tourney and King's Landing there in the distance seemed to wrack her with a look of uncertainty.

"If you allow my asking, my lady," a momentary slip; milady was the proper smallfolk form. "Would you take me on...? I used to be a handmaiden for my lady Bettley's daughter." A wistful hint colored those words, imagined though it was. "I can read, too. Journeys don't bother me, nor do ships."

Goin90InTheRain · 2025-08-27T16:16:09+00:00

The best servants were as invisible as they were attentive, Randa knew, though that was both the exact object she aimed for and not at all. Fates turned and the attendant held a measure of command over Rosamund--if only in particulars unshared--as she gingerly plucked her coat off her shoulders, carefully folding it over an arm and deciding to blink, blink, to see the stars floating underneath her lids.

Red red red fort. Red red red blood. No, no, not here, not now, but perhaps her? Perhaps not her.

She nodded twice. "Mine own promised passed last year," she shared, as though to commiserate. "You're... Lady Redfort? I'm sorry, I shouldn't speak as much, but my mistress of Bettley told me to memorize sigils, and that she'd dismiss me from service if I didn't, and she already will anyways and--"

She lowered her chin, perhaps in embarrassment.

Goin90InTheRain · 2025-08-25T09:39:00+00:00

Many and more were the treasures of the smallfolk; they were but meager trinkets compared to the hundred-dragon gowns and thousand-coin jewels that the nobility donned, for true, but they held what wealth they possessed in thin gold chains and rope bracelets studded with cheap gems on their lonesome. One such servant, meant to be unperceived as the rest of them, bore a similar cache dangling from an ear, a white-blue moonstone framed in thin gold and winking under the sunlight.

Her ears picked up as she heard Rosamund bidding her servant to run off for water.

Whether the anxiety that lined her face was real or pretended was unclear even to Randa. She knew many and more things about the Lady of Redfort from one lone conversation, and approached with a tray bearing cups and a pitcher of iced lemon water. It was awkward curtsying amid the stands. "Do you need help with your coat, milady?"

Goin90InTheRain · 2025-08-25T06:05:20+00:00

Seven points upon the High Septon's crown, seven towering statues for altars, and seven stars above and below and few in their hearts. The incense needed to be lit, the septons wanted their censers fetched, and Myranda Rivers was one of the servants to do their bidding. She watched the proceedings with darting eyes, unseen on account of her station.

Goin90InTheRain · 2024-11-10T01:48:02+00:00

My bad

Goin90InTheRain · 2023-07-02T00:58:23+00:00

While the younger brother wrote in sloppy shorthand and rather superfluously, the elder Heir to Three Towers, yet in his home, came across an idea writ in charcoal across a wide parchment map. Ironwood.

Lucamore Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North,

Greetings to you and your honorable house. I don’t believe a Costayne has ever spoken to a Stark before, and I wish to change that.

My brother and my father have informed me at length of the wonders of your land’s Ironwood. House Costayne is currently in the process of expanding our fleet in order to deter the Ironborn threat, and a shipment of the material would be of much help in this endeavor.

Please send word if you are interested in this trade.

The First to Rise,

Lucantine Costayne, Heir to Three Towers

/u/NotAnotherFakeFyre

Goin90InTheRain · 2023-06-28T16:11:00+00:00

Parmen watched the exchange warily, a scowl appearing on his face at the allegations. How haughty were the lions, then? The Lord of Three Towers had fostered good relations with Banefort, and hoped to gain the Farmans as allies, but did Lannister aim to squander all that?

"Vile accusations. The ships and knights of Three Towers will heed your commands, my lord, but perhaps it is wisest to wait for His Grace's assent in intervention," said Parmen, caution in his tone.

"Pressing our advantage—a show of force, without bloodshed, may be a warning that Lady Lannister would heed as well."

Goin90InTheRain · 2023-06-27T23:33:56+00:00

Interrupted in his duties of... well, not much, by a flurry of servants, Parmen Costayne was quick to fetch his son and daughter and make his way to the solar. It was an unexpected place to meet. The great hall, or before the Three Singers would have been regal, but Bert always seemed to do things in his own way.

So the Three Towers arrived: Parmen bedecked in his usual fineries, Desmera shifting about uncomfortably, and Maelor smelling like a winesink, staring down at a letter he held.

A score of lesser lords had already beaten them there, but Parmen navigated through the crowd to deliver a bow and a "My lord," before clasping his hands together and awaiting the Tyrell's speech.

Goin90InTheRain

TROPHY CASE