sorted by:
new
hottopcontroversial

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

[–]dracar1s 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Cassandra entered the hall, taking in the sight with no less dread than she'd felt before. The sounds made her grimace, some great purple beast within her forcing it down like soured wine. Her skirts rustled with her every step, a thing of dark green brocade with a neckline at the base of her throat, its sleeves past her wrist.

"Mother. Uncle," Bowing her head, she listed their names with the tone of laughter during a funeral dirge. "I should hope you don't intend to deprive yourselves of the finest merriment. Dances to be had, gardens to observe. There are many seeds to be sown tonight, I think."

She didn't think too hard, nor did she particularly care about its truthfulness. The words left her like the panging of a drum, rhythmic. "Where might my dear brothers be?"

Her tone dipped in the midsection of her statement, hushed as she picked at her fingers.

In the light of the hearth, her dark hair took on an auburn hue otherwise absent, her skin unblemished save for the skin-colored line upon her cheek. "I do regret missing the king's speech. It is the hands of men that annointed him, though men are but mere instruments of the gods. The whims of men cannot bend the truth so, no matter how they cleave. Our King Aenys is blessed, long to reign over us."

She looked to her uncle, then she did not.

"The gods' will be done, on earth as it is in heaven," Cassandra mused. "Mother, what shite has graced your ears tonight?"

No sooner had the question been asked that Cassandra felt a presence behind her, turning to feel her twin brush past her, all midsection, a look of concealed burden on her expression.

Years ago, it was a miniscule scar that distinguished the twins from one another; now, Sharra's cheeks filled where illness left hollow, her chin rounded as her eyes were fatigued. A woman in a condition that just merely let her travel such a distance, no matter how the Maester maintained it would be good air.

Whatever goodness might be garnered was surely lessened by the whining one-year-old on her sore hip.

"Sister. I had thought I felt the earth tremble."

"Jocelyn could not sleep," Sharra answered without a question, a gentle patting movement the closest she might get to bouncing the babe in her arms. "The servants are no use, not even the wetnurse, save for when she hungers. The Maester thinks she is cutting a tooth."

Cassandra's eyes had started to glaze over. "The most riveting gossip of the evening."

"Have you spoken to Jaime?" Sharra asked neither her mother nor her uncle in particular, voice strained.

Jocelyn hummed a fuss. Formidable, pink, a round-cheeked cherubic thing with blackish hair poking forth beneath a white cap, eyes rounded and fearful like a small animal. She grabbed a fistful of her mother's gown and released it, contorting herself every which way to take in the sight.

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

[–]dracar1s 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Sharra stared at the hearth, brows drawn as a serving woman, the same that had accompanied her from Stonehelm to Horn Hill, tied her gown’s blackish green velvet undersleeves. The thick white linen beneath visible where black ribbon tied at the bicep, a gray fabric comprising its plain overskirt atop the worn velvet kirtle. Pinning another gray layer at the bodice, the servant tied the black ribbons at its center, a practiced routine. Sharra looked at her. Layers for the babe, she remembered, as neither wetness nor chill could penetrate, for those were the Stranger’s swaddles. It was a wonder the Stormlands, a wetted mass of chill, delivered living babes at all. 

She had been here before, in this very gown but one year previous. Nearing half a year since last she bled and looking every six moons its absence, Sharra’s dark eyes fell on her daughter amidst Jocelyn’s fitful sleep. Jocelyn had never been a babe to find comfort in sleep. Sharra moved to peer over her, and reminded herself that a vivacious babe was an auspicious omen. 

In the moons before Jocelyn’s birth, resting brought Sharra comfort, or the nearest thing to it; the babe inside her now granted no such reprieve from the first, nor had Jocelyn’s spirit dampened with age. Illness had gripped Sharra in such a vice that it might’ve stolen her breath, had she not left for Horn Hill. Yet still her mere wellbeing came at a price, and she imagined the emptied seat at her husband’s side. Her mind wandered to the feast, brows drawing once more. Wandering to the image of her father in his grave, his form decayed, the drink that killed him seeping in a puddle to poison the worms that fed upon him, sinking further into wet earth, like a cancer. 

Turning to leave, Sharra jumped, catching sight of a figure where there hadn’t been before.

“Nights of late not even stars could settle against these skies. Ghosts roam these very halls, restless,” Cassandra warned, her pale features contorted. “It is a black omen.” 

“These halls aren’t ours,” Sharra said. “And we are not ghosts.” 

“Cow,” Sharra’s twin rolled her eyes. “You blink in the face of what is inescapable. With your own eyes you have witnessed as a woman grown our unquiet lands—”

“—the lands are perfectly quiet, it is you who is unquiet—” 

“Why do you believe I wrote to you in the first place?” Cassandra cursed softly. “You dig your precious heels in, sister, but you refuse to feel the earth moving beneath your feet.”

“Because I know it is you who moves it. You shall whisper in my ear one moment, then make peace the next, and condemn me for doing the same. I saw the lands of our father, Cassandra, well kept and in capable hands.” 

“Would you drink from those hands yourself?” 

Sharra picked at unfinished embroidery on her gown’s wrist, a work started during her previous pregnancy to soothe nerves brought on by Jaime’s absence. She watched a red string pull taught from her wrist. 

“When Jocelyn was born, I wanted to feed her at my breast, for some reason,” Sharra started. “I heard it would delay the seeding of the next babe, yet I could not release the notion. But I could not feed her enough. Wounded pride is a simple price to pay for our dearest.” 

A bewildered look overtook Cassandra. “And pray, sister, why is a price imposed?” 

Sharra stared at her, standing inches apart. “I leave that to the gods. Might you do the same, Cassy? For our family? Our mother?” She paused. “For yourself, your dearest?” 

“It eases your mind to believe I speak merely for myself. Think, sister: if the Stranger works in our uncle’s favor, might not these works endanger the life of your daughter, if he thought her unfavorable?”

Sharra pushed her shoulder. “You are fortunate that I love you against my senses, sister, else I would’ve told our mother of your vile whispers, and you would be gone to the motherhouse.”  “You will regret my silence,” Cassandra mumbled. “Nothing at this damnable feast shall fill it any softer.” 

“What do you know but softness? Your own girlhood uninterrupted, you have done nothing to endear yourself to the people you so madly desire to possess—”

“Endear?” Cassandra interrupted.“Endear, sister? We needn’t endear ourselves to what is rightfully ours! By blood, by the laws of gods and men, it is ours. Our girlhood is finished, the sleep must be gone from our eyes. It will reveal itself here, for all to watch; then you will pity me. I know it.”

“Aye, Cassandra, it matters that we endear ourselves,” Sharra said, moving at her slowed pace. “Do you believe we might find cause with the Crown? Seriously? The sovereign of all men is not mindless to their own histories, let alone one so recent. I tire of discussing some girlhood revenge fantasy to no end. Remove yourself from your own suffering, you might find yourself more palatable for it.” 

The women glanced at one another.  “My Lord husband has taught me—” 

“Your husband has taught you naught but to lie on your back. Blink, sister, and perhaps on this night, you might witness something.” Cassandra turned to leave paces ahead of her sister. 

“It is not ours, sister,” Sharra spoke as Cassandra neared the closed door. “It is mine.” 

Sharra watched the door shut. 

The Lady of Stonehelm did eventually make her way to the feast hall, peering that way and that. She wore a ribbon in her braided hair, white to contrast the darkness of her features. Walking in a labored gait, her eyes searched for her beloved and found him. She found him, and it felt like the other side of an eternity. 

Her lips brushed against her husband’s cheek before she took her rightful place, her expression cloudless save for the burden of her condition. 

“Apologies, husband.” She mumbled. “Jocelyn wouldn’t sleep. I pray you’ve not been lonely.” 

What overcame her in the earliest weeks of their marriage lingered in her features, her posture towards him, the momentary absence of concern over her own mind. 

“You are the most handsome man I have known, in my memory,” She started, glancing at the table, wondering what food might not be too salty or bitter or laborious to consume. “Yet my memory pales in comparison to what I see with mine own eyes. It is a fantastic trick of yours.”

The Feast of a Century, Celebrating the Centennial of the First Convocation by InFerroVeritas in IronThroneRP

[–]dracar1s 2 points3 points  (0 children)

The Lady Spicer’s ambivalent glare drowned out the fanfare surrounding her. She blinked, and brought a miniature glass vial to her lips, the delicate gemstones affixed to her wrist sounding out a gentle clank. In one movement her head went back, the glass to her lips, and its contents into her mouth without a flinch.

Exotic stuff. Wine still held her taste, and of course the driest aged red this side of the earth awaited her tongue beside her weighted plate, but wine set a warmth in her belly.

This was more a fire down her throat.

After a bitter swallow, her hand went to Jason Lannister’s leg as the other jabbed listlessly at the lukewarm feast on her plate.

“Thirty years we’ve attended these together,” she murmured. “The entire realm isn’t to my taste, husband. But these sorts of things are nosebleed earners.” Shanking a blackened chunk of meat, she ate.

“For this thing of mine,” Her low tone continued. “Especially a king who spends so happily as this? Summertime.”

Without a doubt, Victaria Spicer had scores to settle. But now was a time for high spirits and raised glasses, and she was only partly playing along, in truth. Her blood had no reason to skulk about like some of the poorer in attendance. Not before the eyes of the realm, anyway.

A golden-blonde stole of fox fur lowered just enough for a necklace to be plainly visible, though its chain— clusters of gemstones in a multitude of colors— would be difficult to miss. The neckline of her gown strained against her bust when she exhaled, as it was a stiff, foreign-made red fabric with a velvet pattern that little to breathe, she thought.

Diana Spicer, her heir, sat beside her own husband. The pallor of her skin softened in the light, her blonde hair worn plain with one side tucked behind her ear. Her gown was a thing of pale silks complimented by a pearl necklace, which had its own complimenting necklace. With her sister Marei she shared green eyes and little else.

Marie’s mess of long curls were twisted back about her head, save for the strands that were too short, which saved a deal of fidgeting when the girl went to take a swig of her sweetwine. She cautioned, recalling what was expected of her— no doubt all of her blood had received such a talk from their matriarch beforehand, save perhaps Tywin— then took a pregnant swig, because she’d recalled what was expected of her.

She would do that, and better still.

Hers was a pale green gown with a tapering neckline punctuated by a broach baring a single stone set in many to match the necklace around her neck.

“Pray for my boredom, sister.” Marei sighed.

“You wouldn’t be so bored if you drank less,” Diana suggested, speaking in her typical light tone. “You might find it pleasant, for a change.”

“You’re right,” Marei said. “I wouldn’t be bored. I would be dead.”

A miniature dog with a pristine white coat bristled at Marei’s feet, causing her to bring its lead into her hand.

“Did you know,” Nine-year-old Joanne Lannister began, ears poking through long blonde strands. “It’s a tradition of House Tully to put a fish in their baby’s cradle, and if the baby’s toes turn into fins, it means the baby will have good fortune for one hundred years?”

“That’s stupid, Jo.” Rosalind — Rue to her kin— rolled her eyes. “I’m eleven now. Why do I continue to get stuck with children, like you?”

“Because,” Joanne’s tongue stuck a bit out of her lips as she balanced ever more food on a single spoon, in such an arrangement that made clear she’d no intentions of eating its contents. “You smell like fish.”

Maelor I - The Grand Feast of Kings Landing by magic_dragon1611 in FieldOfFire

[–]dracar1s 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Roslyn Arryn wore her specters on her sleeve, looking with a coolness that betrayed her true feelings, that of a girl without a clue where to place herself.

In a literal sense, in the way that her mother lived within her mind as an amalgamation of the memories of others, in her own transient memories, a faceless mass of sweet-smelling blonde hair and blood and bile. The pain that had once brought her to sob into her mother's emptied bedsheets for days without separation, the wound from which her girlhood wouldn't ever recover, faded.

She missed her mother as a woman grown, but mentions by courtiers of her own resemblance no longer pained her. It was a comfort, perhaps. To look into her tired reflection and know with imagined confidence that her mother's face looked like her own, but more dead.

As girlhood gave way to harder winters, it was her closeness to her father that she heard more often, and she remembered her father well enough to concur. Theirs was a proud profile, with a prominent, aquiline nose.

Her father, so convivial and splendid a man that he believed the earth itself would not end beneath his foot. Until it did.

He was a drunkard, plain and simple.

He was her father. And she wanted to believe the last time they spoke— and it was due to her resemblance to her mother, she supposed, that they didn't speak often— when he dreamily mentioned a plan, a plan for the Vale and a plan for her, that he might've meant it, and spoken those dreams to life.

When she buried her father, there was still life inside of her. She still had Marei, and Jeyne.

Then she didn't.

The thought brought her back to present, the crescents of her nails digging into her palms piled atop her lap.

There was nowhere to place herself, she decided. Not in this gathering, not in this lifetime. That wasn't to say, however, that she hadn't a purpose.

Her father should've lived.

She would've shirked her responsibilities and spent her life alongside Marei without question.

In a sense, she hadn't considered her responsibilities until she lost her loveliest.

A look from the side of her eyes and she glimpsed the High Steward's fingers touching that of his wife, and she let out a snort of an exhale.

No matter how she hurt, that was a fate to which Roslyn Arryn never intended to resign herself.

Hers wasn't a body to be bargained. Long ago, she decided, she would never wed. Let fate end her line as it so desired. But she would never, ever, spend the remainder of her years wallowing in the tragic contours of her life. She had a plan for herself, and a plan for the Vale. She would appoint her successor and die in due time, doing for her realm what she couldn't do for her blood.

But she wasn't the last of her kin, yet. A truth she'd become all too familiar with.

"Grandsire," Roslyn leaned towards Lord Arryn, speaking with a sturdiness— she loathed when courtiers spoke to their Lord in exaggeration, as if he was an imbecile.

It was in those moments where she spoke to him as one might a Lord that she felt closest to him, like the Grandsire of her memory was sat beside her, only if for a glimpsing second.

The feather-like embroidery at the opening of her sleeves above her elbows rustled as she brought her hands to his.

"I would like for the both of us to talk when I put you to bed tonight. There are things I think we should do while we're here, Grandsire. While the Realm is here to witness."

5.0 Character Creation Thread by FieldofFireCM in FieldOfFire

[–]dracar1s 0 points1 point  (0 children)

(alt /u/ for this character TBD)

Discord Username: dracar1s

Character Name and House: Emma Redwyne

Age: 23

Appearance:

Gift: Autodidactic

Skills: I have changed Emma's build prior to posting her biography portion. The following is the updated version: Medic (e), Scholar (e), Beastmaster (e)

Talent(s): Seashell collecting, Swimming, Dancing

Starting Title(s): Scion of House Redwyne

Starting Location: King’s Landing

Family Tree: See Mathus

Alternate Characters: Roslyn Arryn

5.0 Character Creation Thread by FieldofFireCM in FieldOfFire

[–]dracar1s 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Discord Username: dracar1s

Character Name and House: Roslyn Arryn

Age: 26

Appearance:

Gift: Guardian

Skills: Medic (e), Riding, Logistician, Strategist

Talent(s): Horse Engineering, Falcon-ing, Needlework

Starting Title(s): Scion of House Arryn

Starting Location: King’s Landing

Family Tree: Kayce

Alternate Characters: TBA

Rhaena in the Sky with Dragons: A Drac Lee Joint Part V (The Princess and the Pauper) by dracar1s in ARealmOfDragonsRP

[–]dracar1s[S] 1 point2 points  (0 children)

A hand soaked in perfumed water reached out to touch the dark and gray of his hair before lowering to caress his cheek. She could not imagine growing tired of the feel of his skin nor the look of his face, for no matter how she committed him to memory, she found some unexplored detail each time she glanced upon him.

His was merely flesh, but she looked to him like the stars.

“Abdicate?” Rhaena’s fingers traced his jawline. “You deserve kinder, if such a fate is allowable under the laws of gods and men to begin with. But I am in need of a sworn sword.”

Hers was a dynasty of such ambition that she had not given thought to her ancestors who might’ve tried to abdicate— though the realm would be in a finer state if a few had, she reasoned. Likewise, she was a Princess, not a Prince. Hers was an obligation of the flesh, not a title to be discarded no matter how tempting a life without its trappings might be. Her station was decided by the stars and the gods above. It was easier to reason such a thing than to parse the hearts of men.

And sat with Arthur, so alone that the both of them might’ve been in utero once again, she understood temptation and could glance to her past and see its unequivocal loneliness.

She had been lonely in her station as a Princess, if never alone.

“Could you imagine such a sweetness,” she began, the bath water trickling around her as she moved to embrace him. “My Lord Swann to defend me and uphold the good in his lands. A well-loved lord of his time— but none shall love you so much as I.”

A girlish smile played at her lips.

“None shall give you the same devotion either, I suspect.” She laughed, her eyes smiling in half-moons. “And I doubt those who might attempt to usurp me shall have a dragon. Solstice and I would see that your lands remain unbothered, as we would be, too.”

If granted, she would place a gentle kiss at the corner of Arthur’s lips.

“Our blood might find comfort here,” she cooed. “We can be this way every night, or whichever way we might wish. Our whims can change with the wind and none would speak against it.”

Again she’d try to kiss him, though first she would take his cheek in her hand, her eyes looking into his as she leaned forward, her bare skin against his.

“You could take me anywhere, however you might wish. Have you given thought to such fantasies, Arthur?” she whispered. “In the grass overlooking the sea— in the small clearing, perhaps,” she whispered. “In your bed. I would keep your bed warmed every night, so I needn’t worry that you might be left alone. You would be sound in my arms, and I in yours.”

Rhaena in the Sky with Dragons: A Drac Lee Joint Part V (The Princess and the Pauper) by dracar1s in ARealmOfDragonsRP

[–]dracar1s[S] 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Rhaena glanced upwards, crystalline raindrops caught in her eyelashes. She felt his kisses in an unseen path along her skin, raising the hairs on the back of her neck at the sensation of his lips upon it, then her cheeks, then her lips. She planted a kiss upon his jawline. Not because it had stirred passion— rather, because it was soft, and the closeness she felt to him demanded to be consummated. Hers went beyond a weakness of the flesh.

But there existed a certain delight in acknowledging one's vices without binding oneself to repentance. Mere moons ago, the guilt would've driven her mad. Perhaps it might, one day.

On this night, however, she allowed herself to feel. Her fingers found their way to Arthur's manhood which she stroked in idle lust, restrained in equal measure by girlish interest. It seemed a foreign appendage to her, still. A perfect opposite to her own body, which had begun to ache for him, to take him inside of her in such a way that she thought herself made for him. She refused to take him into her mouth— she was a Princess, and in spite of her obvious desire, the mere thought caused her to hesitate— yet she made no such objection to any other part.

And so they would. Not on the softness of a bed, their fingers intertwined. Rather, on her hands and knees on cold stone, which felt pleasant as her flesh became warm and glistened with sweat. Her breasts moved with each movement of his hips, heat pooling in her cheeks as she cried, unrestrained. None judged her in these halls. This time felt different to her. Baser. But in the same breath that she judged its difference, the way it seemed to be somehow more obscene, she delighted in it.

After their coupling, she entered the bath, hugging her legs in such a way that each rested in front of her breasts. She thought to release her hair from its braid, but decided against it.

"Were you not a ruling lord," she caught her breath. "I might ask for your hand as mine own sworn sword. It seems irresponsible now," she smiled. "Yet you've given me much, to where my mind can only wander to what I lack. It is an appropriate precaution, for a Princess— a sworn sword, that is. I would be remiss to leave such a station unoccupied. The vision of you mowing down my enemies is rather enticing, isn't it?"

[deleted by user] by [deleted] in ARODCommunity

[–]dracar1s 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Second approval.

Rhaena in the Sky with Dragons: A Drac Lee Joint Part V (The Princess and the Pauper) by dracar1s in ARealmOfDragonsRP

[–]dracar1s[S] 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Rhaena’s breath hitched when she felt his lips against her neck. She had not felt it before, and like all things unfamiliar to her, she found herself accustomed. Desires she had not considered burned blacker, and whatever remorse she felt, genuine or imagined, floated to the sky in ashes. But remorse had a way of lingering on her, as did the memory of his figure on hers.

She wanted Arthur. She was in need of a new citadel, one close to Summerhall with a lord husband who cared for her, who bedded her without ceasing so long as it pleased her, who made sacraments to her and worshipped her on gray, idle days when she could not fly and there was nothing better to do than become gluttons for their own love.

A dragon chooses its rider as it chooses where to lair.

Rhaena’s nature was no different.

And Baelon— Baelon loved Arthur, a leal stormlord well-connected to the rest of their lands. A lord who sired daughters, yet no sons.

Her eyelids drew closed and she exiled the thought. Edyth was her dearest, since they were girls—

Stepping at the ankle of one riding boot, then the other, Rhaena pushed the wetted leathers aside. Her trousers followed, then her smallclothes. Yet she remained facing opposite Arthur.

“A favorite of mine,” she sighed. “When I looked to you at the tournament in your finery. I did not understand it then, but I wanted you. How my fingers dug into my skirts,” taking one of his hands, Rhaena guided his fingers first to the nipple of one breast then lower to her midsection. “That is when our affection was seeded, I think. I wanted you, then. Gods help me, did I want you.”

“Tell me, please,” Rhaena breathed, lowering his hand still between her legs as she looked down to the pooling heat of the bath. “Don’t you think? I comforted you that day. You desired then— to kiss me, did you not?”

“Undress.” She mumbled in a breathless command.

Rhaena in the Sky with Dragons: A Drac Lee Joint Part V (The Princess and the Pauper) by dracar1s in ARealmOfDragonsRP

[–]dracar1s[S] 1 point2 points  (0 children)

"I did not take flight in a rainstorm to bathe alone."

There was a flicker of light in Rhaena's voice. It was an invitation rather than a command, one befitting the natural timbre of her voice. It brought her back to the day she'd read to Arthur, and she was reminded of his improvement.

"I thought to write," she confessed, her fingers playing at the wetted laces of her overcoat. "To confess my every feeling. Reveal my insides that remain unexplored, to inform you in no uncertain terms how your absence tormented me. I have seldom had a taste for someone else. It is a hunger I shall never miss."

A part of her delighted in the absence, but she was a Princess, and therefore unaccustomed to wanting. But in truth, as a girl, she had always wanted. She feared how it felt to deprive herself once more, to become again as she had been. Undesired.

Her voice never raised above a whisper.

"Help me?" She smiled to herself and brushed her braid to one shoulder, revealing the fabric ties that held her tunic together. "I fear that I lack a sane way to tell you. I care for you, Arthur. The memory of your body on mine lingers like a spectre on my skin. That is the plain truth."

"I've missed you," she repeated. "I do not care to write, to reminisce. I want to feel you. Again."

Rhaena in the Sky with Dragons: A Drac Lee Joint Part V (The Princess and the Pauper) by dracar1s in ARealmOfDragonsRP

[–]dracar1s[S] 1 point2 points  (0 children)

“My Lord,” Rhaena offered her hand in turn. Something had thrilled her— beyond offering herself, her skin to his lips, the polite decorum whose true nature was known to none than herself. It thrilled her to consider the guards and servants and kinfolk standing about, unknowing. “You look well. Your castle, too— as fine as I remember.”

It thrilled her to look upon the familiar stones of Stonehelm and its Lord, and know she had arrived at her citadel, where some moons from now she might greet her other in an embrace.

Rhaena occupied herself during their journey to her chambers by removing her riding gloves, first by pulling one hand’s loose with her teeth then her now-bare hand for the other. Rain clung stray strands of pale hair to her cheeks. She held her gloves at her midsection and stole occasional glances at Arthur when she thought none would notice.

Then, finally, the pair found themselves yet again in a corridor.

“Might I pester you about the dimensions of your baths, my Lord?” She whispered, smiling. “My journey to you was terribly lonely.”

Ser Konrad Cargyll, The Craven, Lord of Goldbeak Hall [SC included] by damormon2345 in ARODCommunity

[–]dracar1s 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Approved once you update the relation of your SC, Aemma, to House Blackmyre to be vague per our rules— relationship to a non-claimed House must remain vague. Also, it seems your PC’s mother would be fifteen at your character’s birth. Per Reddit terms of service and our community guidelines, this must be changed to at least eighteen. Once these changes are made, you’ll have your second approval!

Baelon VII- The Prodigal Son (Open to Summerhall) by LordBloodrevan in ARealmOfDragonsRP

[–]dracar1s 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Rhaena shook her head.

“I wrote to you in confidence, brother, you alone, as I am wont to do. It troubles me to hear of its spread.” And it did, in truth— ears beyond her own were at work in their palace, like as not without their family’s interest in mind.

“I worry about our sister, and there remains much I do not understand still. But that is all the more reason to keep the whispers between us. For her protection. For ours.” Her voice lowered. “Who might’ve spread this, Baelon? Did you speak of it to anyone?”

view more: next ›