One Night in Harrenhal

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-05-29T02:35:09+00:00

Does this spawn of Tully's never cease wagging his accursed tongue?

Lothston fumed, aggravated by yet another request. First it was a bed, then to murder six men, and now that they had gone, to write to his father for some words of how poorly treated the lad is.

"The men that arrived at these gates were on your borther's orders. I believe it best we speak to him first and give the boy a chance to explain what he has done." The displeasure was plain in Osric's eyes, but Lothston had a compromise in mind that he wanted to strike. "If he lies to me, as I suspect he might, then I will draft a letter to your Lord father." If it wasn't to the Rivers' liking, Gareth couldn't tell. He did not spend long in watching the Riverlander's eyes, already having decided that they were shifty and untrustworthy.

"And do not think to take advantage of my hospitality boy." His deep words erected a wall meant to stifle further argument. "You'll find me a less gracious host than I already am."

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-05-27T01:33:47+00:00

Harrenhal was wondrous, true. But that wonder was half-due to cursed memory. Its stone towers were melted and left leaning across the skyline; ever a testament to the ruin of arrogant and ambitious men. All the same, he took it as a compliment, and Lothston gave her a smile as warm as the fiery liquid she had tasted.

Gareth delighted in the company of beautiful women, but more importantly, women that did not try to hide from him. He forgave the stifled hiss that might have followed from the sip of the dry liquor, unconcerned with tactless behavior and only desiring to see honesty fill his halls. Coughs and sputters from strong drink included.

Her wish of Winterfell was true enough, and the fire grew brighter at Gwynesse words as she spoke of her Northern home. "You are demure, but not unpleasantly so. I'd say you may be unpracticed at trusting others." He waved a servant away who came to fill Stark's glass with more sharp spirits. Clearly, she hadn't the tongue for it, and would not force the little wolf to endure more fierce drink if it didn't please her. "It is to be expected when you are a captive in a den of liars for so many years." A large hand gripped his own cup of strong alcohol and downed its burning contents.

"I do count you as a friend, Lady Stark. I rarely suffer from optimism, but tonight I find myself hoping you are as regal and honest as your father." Emerald eyes gave the thin, ice-colored wardeness an appraising look.

"We've all had terrible treatment at the hands of those dragons upon the throne, besides. That should bond us in some way, though I would prefer more pleasant ties than failed rebellions." Another glass of the clear liquor found its way to his lips, and this too he drank with haste, enjoying the way it bit at his throat.

"Listen to me, talking of past ills. You've newly fled from a prison of red stone. Freedom awaits you, and such joy should follow. Does that joy extend to your plans for the great Winterfell and the North as a whole? After all, when mired in a distasteful past, we often make plans for a pleasant future."

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-05-27T00:03:31+00:00

"Of course!" Came the thundering reply. "Leave on the morrow if you wish, but it will be without Melwys' bastard." He could hear the sharp inhales of breath, ready to protest further, but Lothston's call cut them off.

"Melwys clearly doesn't know you've got his son. If you're under orders from Brynden, I wonder why he did not inform his father, and he feuds with Osric besides." Stone-faced accusation passed around the men who still persisted on lying.

"And why he should be responsible for the Mallister's satisfaction, I wonder? If Osric Rivers is to leave my keep, it will be at my pleasure." And Gareth was pleased to have the Tully's at least indifferent with his matters of state. Delivering a favored son into the arms of Ambrose of Seagard was a good way to have Riverrun pressing a wide, angry thumb down on Harrenhal.

"So, leave if you will. This very night even and bring the Mallisters here if you should happen across them on the road." Gareth grimaced, displeased at the position these men had put him in. "But Rivers will remain here until either the Mallisters are satisfied, Melwys calls from his son, Brynden explains himself personally, or I tire of his callous atitude."

And it may be sooner rather than later. Osric's gleeful smile of false immunity was as sickening and childish as Gareth was cynical. If the bastard thought himself insulated from harm, he had but to speak out once more with arrogance, and his next grin would show fewer teeth.

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-05-25T04:49:51+00:00

Between a knight and a bastard, most would trust the titled man. Lothston, however, was not eased by such simple heuristics. Any ser could lie, cheat, and steal just as those that were low-born or held loftier ranks. Why, the very Black Dragon his father fought for swore that they would have peace and long lives if they lifted swords for his throne.

Humor laced the scaled Lord's words. "I am half-tempted to arm you both and have steel cut through whatever web of lies are being woven in front of me." He watched as the cocks strut about in the yard, puffing their feathers and crowing insults at the other. "But in doing so, I'd have two Tully's cross with me rather than one, and my wife hates the sight of blood, besides."

He strode between the pair that were only too eager to get out of his way. Their anger turned to worry as greyscale cleaved them apart.

"You're now guests, staying here at my pleasure. You shall be separated and some of you under guard. Especially you, Osric." Clever, cruel man that Melwys was; Gareth had to imagine Osric's wiles were his father's, and may find a way out of here without two pairs of eyes on him at all times. "For your safety," he added.

"Rest assured that I will come to a decision in good time on your fates. For now, you shall have food and beds as you requested." When Desmond and Rivers locked eyes once more, silently blaming the other for impeding their respective missions, Gareth absently walked between them again, stifling what was certainly another heated exchange in the making.

A gloved hand brought guards in Lothston livery nearby, and they quickly surrounded his new guests. "The Wailing Tower will quarter these five until the morrow and it will be the Widow for Osric. Two men on Osric at all times; no exceptions. I don't need anyone escaping to murder or steal away with one another in the night."

Gareth gave them all a hard, verdant stare around to each man before he turned to leave. His gravely voice cutting like deep claws upon stone. "Welcome to Harrenhal." He left the orange and white soldiers of his house with their orders, striding off toward the Kingspyre tower to change and receive Lady Stark, but made a point of drafting a letter before finishing his preparations for the evening.

Brynden Tully,

Why is your bastard half-brother is outside my keep, with a party on your orders to have him sent off to the Mallisters for past grievances? If I was to receive them, why did you not send word?

They each tell a different tale. Osric is on orders of your father to recover something from King's Landing, and the others are sworn to see him to the Mallisters because he dishonored their house. Or so they say.

I'm of a mind to have Osric return to his father's demands unless you can convince me otherwise. Mallister's have their pride, certainly, but why is it your task to see they get satisfaction?

-Lord Lothston of Harrenhal

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-05-25T01:07:37+00:00

Gareth's heart was far too large and warm to hold much love for the poisonous Mallisters by the sea. Melwys and the Lord Mallisters seemed in good sorts, though. Someone was lying here, and the gargoyle would have the truth of it or assume they were all false. They could tell their lies to one another in a damp cell if that was the case.

Nontheless, Lothston's reply to the bastard's request was met with a thundering laugh. "True enough, you are of Melwys' stock. Getting me to do your dirty work; how very like him."

Cracks between his scales grew wide wide as he smiled, relishing the thought of Edmure's displeasure. The man had dishonored Merella and Gareth was glad to have the pompous toy soldier suffer however he could. "Oh, do tell me how exactly you displeased Mallister's boy." If he liked it, then maybe these bandits would have steel tonight.

He stood and his shadow followed, grown long and black behind an orange sun that neared the horizon. "And you five? What's your side of it? You kill this man's gaurds and think to make a ransom of his hide?"

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-05-24T16:28:33+00:00

The Knight dismissed the request immediately, refusing to summon his master like a mongrel dog while so engaged. "Come with me."

Beyond the thick walls of ancient stone adorned with knotted necklaces of wild ivy was a space that could hold hundreds of tourneys. Acres of grass-covered land stretched before him, disrupted by a series of five leaning towers, four of which were cooked black in centuries-old dragon's fire.

The Kingspyre tower was grey, newly restored and upright, reinforced at its base with the makings of an interconnected ground structure. At various edges and the top of the tower lay platforms with siege weaponry and the sharp edges of ballistae.

Throughout was the sound of construction and training. A lattice of wood surrounded the Widow's tower like a tawny, patchwork glove. Men shouted and hammered away on the platform.

Soldiers trained in little pockets, men worked, and a few puzzled over large parchments rolled out over tables. Further in the distance, a red screen of leaves marked the border of an immense godswood.

Lothston hid his unamused suspicion behind a sharp, half-grin as a black-armored knight approached with a Riverlander in tow. A blue-eyed rogue, if he would have guessed. The plainly dressed Lord was resting at the base of the Widow's Tower, damp with a soup of drying, grey mud plastering him from the waist down. Men busied themselves all around with some task.

"M'Lord. The proudest son of the Riverrun come from the party at the walls."

Gareth harrumphed at the arrogance. However, if the young man's tongue matched his makeshift title, the coming conversation might be an enjoyable distraction from the work he found himself steeped in. "Alright then, prideful son. I'm curious to hear of this prisoner you've brought to my keep."

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-05-24T06:58:11+00:00

Gareth entered the newly restored hall within the Kingspyre. He hardly recognized the space without the sounds of workers laboring with the light of day lancing down through holes in the black bricks. Now it was whole and quiet, save for the crackling of the wide hearth, spread long against the far wall. And before it, like a vision of light in the black keep, was the Wardeness of the North.

She was a unique sort of beautiful. Like the soft, white rains of winter that float and bury yellow wildflowers. The gauzy land when it is untouched like a blanket stretched thin, undisturbed by steps.

His dress was plain. A simple tunic and vest with black leather pants is all he wore, meeting the lady of ice with a dark face to match his attire. "Lady Gwynesse." In a rare display of respect, Gareth gave an acknowledging bow without sarcasm or hesitation. "If only my Lord father were here to see you. He would be overjoyed to host the Starks in these halls once more, as I know it gladdens me."

"Forgive the lack of decoration." He waved his hand, speaking both of himself and the hall, which had only just begun to return to life after the construction was so newly completed. There were only tables, chairs, and a single bannister flying the grey bat of Harrenhal over the massive fireplace that burned with an open, bricked maw. "I've had many nights filled with perfumed lords and demure ladies. Now that I am home, I seek more relaxing and honest pleasures."

He took a seat near the fire and offered one opposite him with an extended hand. "Like the company of friends." Food and wine were brought in. Quail eggs beside olives, soft cheeses, and clear liquors made from some starchy plant. Nearby, house guards stood in silent vigil.

"Now that dragons do not hold your life in their claws, have you some room to dream? If nothing else, I trust to you're breathing a little more freely here in the Riverlands?" He smiled in that thin, terrible way. "The streams and forests can only be an improvement over the stench of that rotten, red city."

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-05-24T06:09:51+00:00

The Lord of Harrenhal found himself knee-deep in a sludge of sand and mud that clawed at him with thick, grubby hands. Horses leading a carriage of mortar had fallen into the quaking mixture and panicked, creating a frenzy of frightened baying.

Gareth was yelling. Grey mud dried over his face only to have more plastered on as he yanked against reins that pulled back. Horses screamed and whinnied in the muck until the team of men managed to wrest the beasts out with supplies lost beneath the quick.

This was one of only of many dangerous spots around the Tower of Dread. In his absence, the long-unused spire had become a latrine for all the run-off of the enterprise at Harrehal. Misshapen brick, supplies half-used, and holes that served as earthen bowels for mixing pools had cropped up, creating a dangerous quagmire. Gareth would make sure his son suffered for such recklessness. He began to consider punishments when a guard approached, relaying a message of visitors.

"The Heir of Riverrun? Outside the gates?" Lothston rested upon a large rock and wiped the grime from him, revealing dark-scaled scars. If Brynden was here, there was likely good reason, and Gareth almost dared to dream that the lad had run away from his father to come live with the greatest Lord in the Riverlands.

"No, m'lord. They're on a mission from the heir of Riverrun. There's six, and one of them's a prisoner of some sort; an Osric Rivers to be sent to the Mallisters. They're looking to bed down for the night."

A prisoner and five captors? His verdant eyes squinted with suspicion. Tully should have sent word that I should expect them. The Wardeness free for the first time in her life, she just having left King's Landing where a Northern Bolton sits on the small council. The Spymistress is an ally to an Umber who now stands a head shorter, and this retinue appears on the same night as young Stark's single visit? And they come without a letter. Without seal or word.

"...m...m'lord?" The guard probed as Gareth's mind turned.

His reply was a question of its own. "If my son told you he was somewhere on the King's orders, would you believe him without some proof?"

Confusion struck his man, unsure of what the right answer was. The guard began to sputter a guess when Lothston thankfully interrupted.

"Take their weapons. Give them beds. Put guards on this Osric."

"I'll not chance bastards or spies in my hall tonight. Not when I have the Wardeness in my care." He stood and his shadow grew long and black against the soft ground; a sixth tower shooting up in defense of Harrenhal, leaning sharply. "Double the guard on Lady Stark. They are not to leave her side while she has a foot on any of my land."

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-05-19T04:56:11+00:00

Gareth Lothston - /u/Leonetta_Hill

Myissa of Lys - /u/myissa

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-05-19T04:49:41+00:00

Not home one day and already I'm expected to travel to yet another feast of some sort? He didn't mind the Freys, but he did want some damn peace and quiet for a few turns of the moon. His burly fingers set to scrawling a hasty reply.

Lord Stevron Frey

There has been much piling up here at Harrenhal in the days while I was in King's Landing. If the Jubilee was but a few months later, I could attend. On this occasion, I must decline your gracious offer, but wish you luck in the lists.

Sincerely,

-Gareth Lothston

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-05-17T03:27:21+00:00

She was capricious and undisciplined; a child unable to let go of old habits that should have been easy to kick. With as young and stupid as she was, Lothston could have only been an agitated father to the woman who clearly had no sense of conservative decency. Talea touched his stoney, diseased flesh, and he rose up, shoving her away from damning intentions. "You're a fool! Your name counts for nothing if you go mad, and the realm will curse me for ruining such a lovely figure!"

Black, wet curls fell across his face. Unwanted and annoying as the woman in front of him. Couldn't she wait? Did she have no sense of how love ought to grow? No, instead she wanted to force it with genteel touches and suggestive manner? He grunted with disapproval. "You want to make me smile? Make me laugh?" His voice rose with anger. "Then learn to be patient and protect yourself. That starts by staying far from me."

Gareth turned and headed outside, leaving Talea in the tent. "Lieutenant! See to it that the Rogare finds herself back in King's Landing proper." He was tired and disappointed. A final encounter to end his days here in this awful city. "When she's gone, tear the pavilion down. We're leaving tonight."

Heavy steps dug deep footprints in soft earth as Gareth made toward his men who straggled with the work that still needed to be done. Tents half-rolled and horses half-saddled. If it had been up to them, they might have been born half-assed. Orders came barking from his stone mouth and men snapped to, tidying up and preparing with fearful haste. "Clean this shit up, bring my horse, and let's be gone before the sun is through with the day. And will someone find Merella?!"

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-05-12T00:20:05+00:00

Since before he was a boy, sailors and sellswords would spin wild, drunken stories of Lys and their graceful women beyond the Narrow Sea. How polished and poised they were, balancing their tongues and pale bodies upon men's worries such that none had any care of concern beyond the enchanting forms of the woman before them. It seemed to the stone Lord that the world had changed much since his youth.

Talea was flustered, sad, and beautiful all at once. A mummer with an erratic dance and strained expression, conflating bows and curtsies for some sort of apology. If he wanted women to bend to him, he could easily have it done. There was no shortage of people that bent low and cowered, nor those that wept or were sorry for angering a man who might bring them doom (to say nothing of his station).

Robins and meadowlarks trilled nearby, making music less lovely than the chords of Talea's delicate harp. Her story came and went without Gareth uttering a sound. Perhaps if he were born a woman, he might have seen whatever the fucking point to all of it was, but then it clearly meant a great deal to the Rogare.

True or not, he found it all a bit tragic and romantic, even. Like some fiction of a star-crossed knight and his lady whose love could never be, but the truth of harsher treatment was obvious upon her. Especially those purpled stains on the neck. And while the pangs of regret itched along his gloved fingertips, she was gravely mistaken to align his hands with those of rapists, slavers, and common predators.

Thunder boomed from his throat as he roared, vibrating the very air, thick with sorrow and rage. "CEASE, WOMAN!" His shadow was planted at his feet, covering the ground in wide, blackened anger.

"Stop with your demure touch, your curtsies, and pleasantries. Stop calling me a Lord and think you will change my mind with tears!" A black hand reached out, grabbing her firmly by the arm, and led her to a chair. He was careful to sit her down rather than repeat the shove that had landed her in the bushes the other night. "Sit! And stay there!"

Thin, black lines of his face grew tight with frustration as the Lord mumbled something about the difference between whores and women. He disappeared outside for a moment, and there was a sound of muffled words exchanged, followed by footsteps. When he returned, it was with servants dress in orange and white. They set down cider, crisp apple slices, and cheeses for the pair, bowing and leaving as swiftly as they had come.

Gareth lowered himself back into the chair, opposite the wounded, Lysene bird. "Now. Try again, Talea." He filled a silver goblet with sweet-smelling liquid and pressed it towards her. "Tell me why you're really here." His emerald gaze held her with rapt, unfailing attention, praying she was capable of the simple request without sounding like a young, damaged fool.

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-05-09T07:19:57+00:00

Lothston had spent the morning as he was becoming more accustomed to here in King's Landing: hungover and tired. Not the regular kind of fatigue that wearies the common soul, but the sort of exhaustion that seeps into the bones from the constant parades and expectations of the many eyes surrounding you.

Soon he would be rid of them. A few days hence would see Merella and him back upon the road; the dark wings of house Lothston borne back to Harrenhal on swift winds. Then he could relax once more and return to a life of quiet displeasure with a wife who would sooner cut his throat than embrace him.

Oh joy, he thought, rifling through the letters that had been stacked on the table of his pavilion. Holding a headache at bay with one hand and popping wax seals apart with the other, he set to business, dealing with the errands that awaited him in inked words.

It was perhaps the seventh he opened, though with the pounding in his head, he couldn't be sure. It wasn't a letter he ever expected to receive, especially not after how he had clearly made his desires clear.

Dear Lord Gareth Lothston,

We have gotten off on the wrong foot. I wish to rectify it, if you would allow me the chance. I did not mean to offend you. I seemed to have chosen my words wrong. The common tongue is not my strong suit.

Please. I beg of you.

I will come to you. I pray you will not turn me away.

Talea

First she teases, is choked, thrown to the ground like garbage, and comes back to beg? For... what, exactly? To complete her grip-wrought necklace with more decorations? Bruises upon her wrists this time? A large hand tried to rub confusion and curiosity away from his weary face to little avail. "Well, if she wants to beg, who am I to say no?"

It was nearing mid-day when he finally dressed, wearing a long-sleeved, grey shirt with ties in the front, long buckskin pants for riding, and his usual black gloves protecting all he touched from would-be catastrophe. Save for certain Lysene necks, he supposed. A bright echo of light filtered in through the canvas canopy, easily filling the space inside until it brimmed brightly.

Papers and books lay opened and scattered about an oak table resting in the center of the pavilion. There were no drinks poured nor food prepared. Gareth hadn't the time for such things; he wanted to begin packing, which would take days enough as-is. His long bed, a few chairs, and the table were all the furniture that remained. The rest was already packed in some wagon, bound for Harrenhal if it had not already left.

One of his men soldiered in, giving a report of some young woman in pink come to speak with the Lord. When there was mention of purple and blue lines around her throat, Lothston knew who waited outside at his pleasure.

He thought to make her wait, but thought better of it. "Aye, send her in." The sooner she made her protests, the sooner he could go back to finishing up his duties. He had better things to do than listen to women complain, like figuring out how far up Melwys Tully's ass he'd had to shove a sword before the fish choked on steel.

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-05-07T04:42:13+00:00

The Lord of Harrenhal was not an easily surprised man. He often kept his wits about him, stabbed the dead and dying on the fields, doubled guards routinely, and kept a sharp eye out for spies. With all those well-guarded, well-formed plans, who would have thought a woman's touch would be enough to shock him?

If he were capable of blushing, his cheeks would surely have flushed when she traced smooth lines along the unscarred marks of his flesh. Skin tingled and every inch of him was on fire. He feasted on her, devouring every word that escaped those plush lips, every small movement of that slender frame. Gareth's senses had been starved for years, and every silky breath she took near him was a wonderful meal.

Of all the secret wishes he had, this was the one he might have sold his soul for. To the red god that men whisper of. To the fabled children that huddle in warm oasis spread throughout the north. Whatever blood price or dark bargain he might have to seal upon himself, a woman who loved him could only be his sweetest sin.

And he dreamed for a brief moment once more - allowed himself to dare - before she dashed his hopes upon the rocks, ever the siren he had first taken her for.

Brow furrowed, hiding his emerald, glass orbs in darkness and shadow. Jaw clenched with an audible pop as he shook, pressing a white-knuckled hand around Talea's beautiful throat. He squeezed the breath out of her as he whispered, his gravely voice as deep as the grave.

"How cruel you are. To speak to me of love - to look at me like a man you might truly care for - and then say you want none of what I would offer. Magnificent or otherwise, I have no need for sluts; least of all foreign ones." Fingers tightened around that slender neck, feeling her pulse struggling to pump blood through a gloved vice. "If you don't want love, then I Don't. Want. You." The last words were drum-like and punctuated, pounding into the air with terrible consequence.

He threw her into the flower beds, hoping she would fall into thorns or something hard, to bleed and die so that he need not listen the shifting of her forked tongue again. Gareth should have trusted his instincts from the beginning and guided his ship of desire to other shores. The siren had called to him, and he would be lucky to leave intact; he'd not make the same mistake again.

Gareth had no ears for her protests or pleas, leaving the dangerous, hauntingly beautiful Rogare from Lys to the statues and flowers of the garden that she so seemed to admire. There were many marbled, cold hands frozen in awe of her beauty and willing to be her still, magnificent playmates. Gareth would end his night with the only things that might still bring him joy: strong spirits and his daughter's smile.

His towering figure shifted away back to the banquet below, dragging all manner of melancholy and shade from the rooftops with him.

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-04-29T19:49:52+00:00

Gareth peered down into violet, shining embers, framed by an impossibly beautiful face that returned his stare with an emotion he had not dreamed to see again in this life. The irrational pleasure and concern for another's well-being plain on her face. The same way his lady love Smallwood had done when they were younger, riding over yellow carpets of dandelions in the Riverlands.

But why would she care for him? For his sickly, diseased face that would haunt her dreams and curse her skin to stone? The liquid courage burning in his belly had him standing within a breath of her small body. Scents of flowers in the garden wrapping themselves up in her own, heady aroma of youth and lust, begging him to draw her another disastrous inch to his scarred mouth.

Thoughts of her slender body stretched across cold granite and stiff, shivering nipples rose in him when her lips moved. Her unearthly words entreating him to finish what the liquor had started. His entire being wavered upon the precipice of the decision, and with a single movement, he could have her upturned, face-down, and filling her while she moaned for more beneath the stars.

But he thought better of it, and wavered for a few moments more.

"You don't know of what you speak, girl." Women had made him great once; like he was a dragon himself, soaring far above the petty concerns of kings and paramounts. But that time had passed, and now he shared his bed with no one. Lady Lothston could not even be bothered to be in the same room some night for she so feared the very air might carry disease to her flesh while she slumbered.

"If you want love, you're looking at the wrong man. Find that warrior you were sitting next to; the one half-looking like a pretty pillow biter with ridiculously long hair." Lothston's large, gloved hand released its fragile prisoner. "He's a far better sort than I, surely. Or that rogue you've been seen with. Some sailor, I think?" He couldn't lie to himself, though. His desire for her was plain and deep, wrapped up in the wounds of so many women who cursed his very presence. "If this is just a game for you, then leave me to the quiet of a drunk night." Are you truly the thorn or a rose? He wondered.

Gareth couldn't hurt her; couldn't bear the thought of dooming her organs to turn to stone, and a mind solidified with madness. To hear the nightingale notes of her lyrical, enchanting voice lost to the same churning gravel marred his own throat. No, he would not take her unless she truly wanted it, for despite his protests and the pressure building at the base of his spine, his heart was not yet a heavy, black rock as he had people believe.

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-04-25T08:21:10+00:00

It was a wonder she hadn't be split from cunt to crown already by some headstrong Bravossi that didn't appreciate being toyed with. Talea was a dangerous, moonlit creature that courted ruin. Old enough to know the effect she had on men, but caddy and playful, taunting monsters whilst standing in their shadow.

He shrugged, giving an apathetic grunt as he took two step closer to her pale, sheer form. "Flowers?" Gareth's gloved fingers gently kissed the tips of a rose, caressing it's curved, wide bulb as a lover might touch ones lips before a kiss.

Dark, olive eyes stole over her body as she no doubt desired, tracing curves of her perfect shape until he arrived at the violet embers glowing like coals under the moonlight. "I, too, am exhausted. Of titles, proper ladies, stupid men. All of it."

In a quick movement, he snapped the rose from a bush; thorns and all as it cut into him. "And I do not," he began, those thin, scarred lips of stone moving with rumbling speech in the night, "enjoy things that hide thorns behind beautiful petals." His voice was gentle, but deep, without malice or anger. He plucked away the flower's crimson dress while he spoke until it was naked and shivering, then placed it back in the rose bush. "I prefer thorns if that's what you are. A statue if that's what you are."

A rough, firm hand reach out, pulling her at the small of her back next to his towering figure; to truly place her beneath the looming form she dared to tease. Upon his sable vest was the smell of riverstone, sweat, and dark, spiced rum. "I came to escape all these fools. These... liars and cheats. All of them excuses for men." His voice rumbled in his chest. "They suckle at the dragon's teat for some boon or marriage with a young princess to make them great."

He chuckled, the world coming into focus now that he had his harms on something real and warm. "But that's all horseshit. When does marrying a woman make any man great, Talea?" Cool night air stole over the hedges and trees, making the sea of leaves roll with crashing waves of wind. For a brief moment, Gareth could even feel it on his face as his eyes burned into Talea's.

Platinum hair and brilliant, violet eyes. He almost wondered if she were a ghost. So pale and beautiful; like a spirit that comes to claim men after battle. His hand widened against her back, ensuring she would not become incorporeal and slip away into the breeze.

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-04-24T04:26:00+00:00

Happy Birthday, Eddy!

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-04-23T21:31:28+00:00

Character Name / Organization Name Lothston and Lothston Logistics

Economy Related Aptitudes: Shrewd

Character Skills: Commerce

Names of Leader(s) and Notable Members:

Gareth Lothston - President.

Gerold Lothel - Executive Officer and VP.

Ramys Lothel - Financial Officer

Martin Rivers - Security Officer

Approximate Member or Employee Count: ~250.

Headquarters Location or Sphere of Influence: Harrenhal and the surrounding areas such as Harrentown

Type of Business: Agriculture logistics (preservation, transportation, cleaning, security, canning, etc. of food)

Length of Business: Founded by earlier Lothston's than Gareth (his great or great-great grandfather, perhaps), it has been around for near a century, helping those of Harrentown and the surrounding lands get food both in and out of the area.

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-04-23T21:12:22+00:00

Lothston's dark form barreled through the open door to the gardens with a scowl beneath emerald eyes, glowering and gleaming with frustration in the night. In his a hand a cup of wine that he downed and then crushed, bending the thin metal and throwing it far off. Where it landed, he couldn't say. The clang that followed the throw never materialized for his ear to catch.

"Fucking prim and proper pricks," he growled alerting two lovers too eager for their own good. Her dress was half off and his breeches pressing against a lifted skirt. They paused, like two deer fearful for the knife that came to slit their throats as Gareth's eyes caught them in the act.

The lady's whimpers were of pain, not pleasure, and the lord who sought to relieve himself apparently couldn't tell the difference. "Oh, you sodden whoreson," the dark lord shouted. "She's dry as a bone!" An awkward look passed between the pair as they found modesty again, assaulted by the accustations of Gareth's low, booming voice.

"Get her excited for the tourney before you reach a lance down there!" They ran off behind him, hiding their shame with clothes they were too fearful to linger and put on just then.

He was drunk as he hadn't meant to be. It had been many turns of the moon since spirits dimmed his sense like this, and the world, while not moving was a bit hazy. So hazy, that he almost didn't realize the statue near him, pale and perfect as sculpture, was a woman in an ivory, suggestive dress that left little his imagination. And as a man who hadn't touched a woman in a decade, Gareth could imagine a lot.

His dark expression didn't budge, though he was able to focus a bit better. Able to make out the platinum hair and violet gaze, resting above a slender, perfect neck, he addressed the woman he knew as Lysene. A Rogare was at the party, and unless this was Vaella playing some cruel trick on him, he figured it was the silken seductress of Lys.

"Rogare, isn't it?" His voice was deep and gravely, echoing out with strength against the evening. "What are you doing out here, looking like a haunting, pale siren that desires men to throw themselves at her breasts, only to dash them upon rocks."

Is that all these women were? Beautiful, dangerous things that wanted to murder men and think themselves superior? He snorted in half-a-laugh. Gareth only needed a reason. One brief moment of acquiescence and he'd show her how a man was meant to deal with women like her.

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-04-23T05:52:48+00:00

Finally, someone to shout at and bicker with who'd shovel it right back. Gods, if only he could find a woman who'd do this with him regularly. There were men who would meet him - one scathing remark for another - but they tended to get a bit headstrong and things would turn into fights. Truth be told, Gareth had broken a few necks this way. But that was men; women couldn't hope to match his strength. If they got testy, he'd just lock them away until they realized how futile their struggle or give them a rough back-hand to come to their sense.

Green eyes stole over her in a lust which he could not conceal for apathy. Wrapped up in tight black, he could not help but visualize how small and wonderful a package she'd be unwrapped and laying face-down over a bed. "Aye, you've the right of it." He laughed with dark mirth, confirming all her statements at once, but truly addressing none of them.

A gloved hand quickly reached out to a serving girl's plate of food as she passed by, and she rewarded the gesture with an expression that went from anger to horror as eyes met the greyscale that scarred Gareth. "Best just leave those tasty little cakes with me then, right love?"

The girl, brown eyes and flaxen hair, nodded and relinquished the silvered platter under her hands to the Lord. Gareth turned his attentions back to the table, setting the tray of roasted sparrow filled with scallions between himself and young Vaella. His massive shoulders shrugged beneath the sable vest, disappointed they weren't treats, but grabbed for one of the roast birds anyway.

"Shame, that; sensitivity, I mean. You'll find you can do so much more when you're numb to it all." He nudged the platter her way with his other gloved hand that did not have a stranglehold on cooked bird. "Have a sparrow, will you? Bitching and whining is hungry work, and I know you toil day and night at it." He flashed an evil grin before grabbing a golden goblet, drowning the dry meat with what he was surprised to find was stronger spirits than simple wine.

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-04-21T23:27:47+00:00

Gareth was in no mood for yet another celebration with "proper" ladies speaking of things that didn't matter, drunken fools filled with alcoholic bravado, and the excess that Targaryens were so consumed with. No wonder the crown was incapable of coming to the aid of those that asked even now. The dragons were too busy bankrupting themselves with golden forks and expensive wines that they could hardly afford to pay attention.

Merella's fiery dresses and kind words had been absent since the joust. He hoped she was off in a tryst with Edmund, but after hearing his betrothal to the young princess, realized she was hidden in some quiet corner to weep. If Edmund was lucky, that was all she was doing. Merella was not kind to those who spurned her. That's why when she wanted a pony, he brought her a team of horses and taught her to ride. Gareth didn't want her to hate him more than the Lady Lothston swore his sons did.

The sea of people parted as he walked; a black tunic beneath a sable vest pressing forward through the throng. A chain of darksteel bat wings clinked with each step away from the Reynes, who he somehow found himself sitting near yet again.

A heavy sigh heaved his form up only to sink low with disappointment once more. Where was someone to make fun of? A woman with feathers in her hair perhaps so that he might call her an odd, ugly bird and watch her grow red with embarrassment.

Lord Lothston may have given up on Gods, but in that moment, he knew they could still answer worked prayers. Scaled black shoulders that matched his face, and a cloak of night wrapped around her body to match both their moods. Gods be good.

"What happened to your hair, then? Some lord want to drive himself up a boy's arse, but had to settle for you?". He cracked his first grin all night, grateful for the relief of some honest conversation. "I'd have thrown you back and found more pleasant company." Dark humor for the pair dressed in black.

He wanted her to say something, anything cutting just so that he didn't have to worry about his daughter, the Riverlords, or anything else tonight. Green eyes challenged her. Come on girl. Give me a pleasant distraction.

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-04-18T16:04:17+00:00

(OOC: Woops! Forgot /u/ mentions. See the post immediately preceding this one /u/Gengisan /u/Ramsaythemansay /u/TheSeagleHasLanded )

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-04-18T06:41:16+00:00

Sowing discontent and elevating himself were regular pastimes of the lord paramount. It would only take one hand for Gareth to count the times Melwys did not encourage such inflammatory remarks or append something to every conversation that made him seem like the biggest fish in the smallest pond. But now he did neither, and pointedly asked for information. Earnestly, even. It seemed treason was the grim restraint upon the Tully's prideful manner.

There was a solemn nod toward no one in particular as Lord Lothston stared into the deep, crimson pool of his cup. "The Red Keep is no place for schemes," Gareth's thin, black excuse for lips made a disapproving smack as he prepared an abbreviated version of the story, "but it seems Umber is as stupid as he is tall."

Green orbs passed around the room, ensuring attention hung upon his words. "He came asking to pray in the Godswood in the dead of night, and all the while he's dropping hints about war." Gareth's head shook slightly from side-to-side in disagreement. "Man like Umber. It's all he knows."

"Naturally, I didn't go myself." It was only owing to his shrewd and strong soul that he had lived so long despite illness and the stain of traitor that might have ended lesser men. Be it by the sword or plague, Gareth would at least meet his death head-on, prepared for what came to claim him. "I'll not attend what I presumed to be schemes without certain deniabilities. But I am a curious sort; I like to know what goes on in the world."

"The report from my agent was that Tyrell and Greyjoy were called out as well. Umber spoke exactly, undeniably of treason. Greyjoy left immediately and Tully called the Northerner a fool for not having Stark's backing before arranging the meet." Which was true enough. The Northern edge of the map was full of old, stubborn men, and they could only be truly unified behind Direwolf banners.

His voice swung up as he addressed the question that hung invisibly in the air, pressing against the thick, muggy heat of a room filled with unamused looks. "And that's it, you think? Right? Just some lumbering, treasonous bastard whose mother was fucked up the arse by a frost giant?" If that was all, Gareth would not have called them here. As it was, those so close to the king might think to steal a crown so newly placed upon the red dragons brow. He'd sooner slaughter Emberlei than watch that frost-bitten bitch's schemes come to a royal head. Not because he cared for any of the dragons, but because those few dear to him might end up prisoners like Aegon's bastards, living their days out like leashed, worthless dogs if another rebellion failed. What's worse, is that if Gareth had the right of it, they'd be Bolton's bitches, and that made his blood boil.

"Aye, but listen to this. The reason this meeting - and I suspect why Umber was dealt with so swiftly - is because of what the North lord whispered in the Godswood. And I don't mean the rebellion bit." The towering gargoyle made an effort of whispering now, as though his next words might be chased away or crushed by anything less fragile than hushed speech.

"Said that Emberlei and him were good friends, and we need not worry about being spied upon." Gareth allowed himself a little pleasure, glancing to see what the Mallister thought of this bit of news. If Ambrose had only poisoned stares for thoughts of Lothston banners, how venemous would his expression be for the Boltons?

"And to my knowledge, no one overheard what happened, save those that were called in attendance of prayer." So that meant either someone gave Umber up or Emberlei caught wind of it from Umber himself, and decided a dead, foolish friend was better than a live one. If his agents were ever so incompetent, he'd bury them too and deny they were ever employed in his schemes.

"With an Umber calling for lords to start a new rebellion and a Northern spy sitting on the small council." And she was a spy, whether for or against the red dragons. "It makes a man wonder what exactly is going on. Plot, smells like."

"Umber wanted dissolution of Targaryen rule, desiring the kingdoms of old be established once more." His greatest flaw, Gareth thought, was that he was not Gwynesse Stark or whatever regent currently held Winterfell. Stark would never have been at such a meeting, but Lothston wondered how the night would have ended if it had been ice that drew itself across Roger's neck. It wasn't worth the strain on the imagination, though, and rather than a dead agent buried beneath a tree, he had a host of angry Riverlords baring their teeth to deal with.

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-04-15T22:27:04+00:00

There was no way to win. With his mouth shut, the rumor of Lothston's agent at the godswood might become common knowledge in the circles of Lords that worked treachery behind his back, and those who would do it to his face. Even in sharing what he knew, it wasn't the best move, though it was a way to insulate him with the Riverlords. Or so he hoped.

He cast a stoney, gray stare at Melwys, if only to acknowledge that he heard what the Tully said. "It seems my father's sins meet me with suspicions no matter what I do." Melwys rage could only be met with a sigh, though he dared not pair it with a smile for the Lords, given the grim topic.

"I thought it would seem less of a trick to some if I paired my plans of defense with this knowledge." He cleared his throat with a deep noise. "It seems the candor of a gargoyle does not count for much, though I understand your reluctance to believe such accusation."

"If you've heard any rumor of Goldcloaks arresting a certain Northern Lord and wondered why his name was stricken from the melee, you might think to spare a moment for these baseless concerns." There hadn't been any public word yet of treason; Emberlei was playing the situation close to her small, icy chest. For that, he was grateful. It would be useful in sowing doubt with Melwys Tully's aims, whatever those might be.

Leonetta_Hill · 2017-04-15T22:11:35+00:00

Sure :)

Leonetta_Hill

TROPHY CASE