[color=787b81][sup][h1] [center][img]https://i.pinimg.com/564x/87/fa/ab/87faabf0e1b9a6190ae25f2e9266db23.jpg[/img] [b][center][color=black]𝕴 𝖓 𝕸 𝖊 𝖒 𝖔 𝖗 𝖎 𝖆 𝖒 [/color] [color=#fff200] 𝕴 𝖓 𝕸 𝖊 𝖒 𝖔 𝖗 𝖎 𝖆 𝖒 [/color][/center][/b][/center][/h1][/sup] [right][sub][color=fff200]interactions:[/color] [color=#f3e5ab]Argella[/color] & [color=#e3993b]Orryn[/color] [@Sini] reunited once more [color=fff200]mentions:[/color] [color=white]Cyrenna & Gowen[/color]... the little shits | The rest of the Baratheons [/sub][/right][/color][hr] [color=787b81] There was a tempest of the highest calibre raging within Orryn Baratheon, its fury hardly matched by the weather outside. Winds violently thrashed against the crags and cliffs of Durran’s point. They conspired with the rain to beat and lash the waters of the bay into a foaming frenzy which crashed onto the rocks with all the force nature could muster. Gods were beating sheets of lead in the heavens. Grief-stricken, it was as if the elements imitated the seething emotions within him, threatening to tear him asunder. By the Seven he had missed such weather. Even within Storm’s End’s smooth walls they could hear the howling winds and flogging rain. Not even the spells woven into the mortar and stones could keep the drumming skies out. It made for a heavy, laden undertone against the ephemeral chanting surrounding his mother’s casket. The wooden box, decorated with lightning bursting from clouds in honour of her House, served as a focal point for his agony. He had arrived ahead of the blackening clouds rolling in from the south, on a darkness all his own. Argella had written him, telling him of their mother’s declining health. She’d spoken of how she was rapidly wasting away, one of her wishes being to see her second son before the Stranger finally came for her. Orryn had broken his contract and departed from Myr. Adverse winds had held him up, so after they had made landfall at King’s Landing Orryn had pressed his company hard, dreading the consequence of delay. Normally, a scion of Baratheon arriving in the capital would have called for an audience or celebration, but instead they had remained hooded and cloaked. News of Lady Amarei’s passing had reached them at Bronzegate where some Bucklers had joined them to pay their respects, and served only to strike more sparks from their horses’ hooves as they barrelled down the Kingsroad. [center][color=#F3E5AB]✦[/color][color=#F4E692]✦[/color][color=#F6E87A]✦[/color][color=#F8EA61]✦[/color][color=#F9EC49]✦[/color][color=#FBEE30]✦[/color][color=#FDF018]✦[/color][color=#FFF207]✦[/color][color=#FDF018]✦[/color][color=#FBEE30]✦[/color][color=#F9EC49]✦[/color][color=#F8EA61]✦[/color][color=#F6E87A]✦[/color][color=#F4E692]✦[/color][/center] No happy reunion, but a funeral shroud awaited him in his family’s ancestral seat. Incense cloyed at his lungs, stung his eyes. The prattling of septons disturbed his sense, the dirges disrupted his sleep, and the attitude of mourners grated on his nerves. Orryn did not see it was himself he blamed, and so projected his bitterness outward. The Baratheons were assembled in the small sept within the massive drum tower which jutted skyward like a gauntleted fist. Light shone through the mullioned east window, turning the dust motes dancing atop Lady Amarei’s coffin into flecks of gold. Orryn resented how beautiful and serene it all looked. Working his jaw, he glanced at his relatives, sensing nothing had changed. Lord Ormund, always emotional and theatrical, was in his cups and would wax hysterical soon. Perhaps he would declare he was to be buried with his lady wife in the same crypt. Royce, his heir and Orryn’s elder brother, would surely not stop him. Drink affected him differently, made him sour and prone to violence. Harlan and Argella, then, stood a little closer to one another - they were the youngest of Amarei’s children and Orryn suspected that after his departure it was Harlan who had filled some of the gaps he had left. When he raked his gaze across the other end of the room, he caught his uncle’s baleful gaze assessing him, and Lyonel’s sympathetic one. He could not stand either. It was hard on her, hard on them all. The loss of a strong-willed woman, a wife, a mother, grandmother and mentor. Grief came in waves not unlike the ones outside, past the furthest point in Shipbreaker’s Bay. Shaking and wracking as thunder does the old walls of Storm’s End. Though Argella imagined she looked out of place of sorts. No longer did tears stream down her face leaving tracks in their wake. Her eyes might have mist over but who was to say it was because of circumstances and not because dust motes danced through beams of light as if putting on a private show for only those in attendance. Argie shed all the tears she had before, when the Stranger came to claim her mother. She had been there, speaking with her about the day how the little ones were spitfires and a handful, how she didn’t know if she could continue on with this [i]duty[/i] of hers - it wasn’t like Lady Amarei could relieve her of said honor and Argella never expected her to; clasping her mother’s hand firmly yet with a certain grace to it. She had cried then. Sobbed. There was still a damp spot upon the linen sheets when she returned with her Lord father. A difficult time indeed. Orryn moved closer to his youngest sibling, his boots scraping on the starry mosaic, and exchanged a somewhat awkward glance with Harlan. Gowen held his uncle’s hand, sniffling. [color=#e3993b]“How was she in the final days? Did the Maester at least provide her with Milk of the Poppy for the pain?”[/color] There were many burning questions, but only so much he could torture into meaningful sentences. They must all feel bereft and numb right now, he thought. And as much as he wished to apologise… he simply felt blocked and choked. Harlan nor Argella mustered up a rapid response, undoubtedly weighing their words. Someone small peaked from behind Argella’s skirts - a pale face with the biggest, bluest eyes Orryn had ever seen, framed by wavy hair the colour of midnight. She watched him with intense interest, and it felt as if the little one pierced his skull with the sapphires in her sockets. As if she laid bare all his shortcomings and sins, weighing him and thinking he might come up short. [color=white]“Who are you then?”[/color] she demanded though whispering due to the gravity of the situation, like some curious sprite. Her forehead creased in suspicion as Orryn went down on one knee. [color=white]“You look a bit like father… but not as big.”[/color] A tiny finger ran across his chin, pulling at his beard. [color=#f3e5ab]“Renna!”[/color] Argella hissed under her breath going to catch her niece by the upper arm as she tried to dart out from behind her skirts, a makeshift safe haven for the Littlest Storm. The young one just looked up between their faces, little fingers still buried in his beard, as if daring the older woman to [i]try[/i] and stop her, before turning back once more to Orryn’s kneeled frame. The middle son nodded sagely, strangely feeling some of the anger dissipate as if it dripped off his shoulders and sank into the mosaic floor. [color=#e3993b]“That might very well be possible. I am his younger brother, and thus your uncle.”[/color] [color=white]“Lies,”[/color] she hissed as if burnt. [color=white]“Ser Harlan is mine uncle. He is very funny, you know. Though, not that happy of late.”[/color] [color=#e3993b]“Yes, I can imagine. However, I am your other uncle.”[/color] [color=white]“Oh. The one who left? Grandmother did not like that. No, ser. She missed him.”[/color] Her blue eyes flickered from the coffin and back. [color=white]“I will miss her too. She also left. Where did she go?”[/color] [color=#e3993b]“Yes, but I am returned.”[/color] [color=white]“I would much rather have Grandmother.”[/color] It was moot to reprimand her once more, instead Argella opted for a glare which seemed to help tamp down on her attitude. If only for a moment. [i]Honestly? So would I.[/i] Disarmed and exposed, Orryn scrambled for words. [color=#e3993b]“And who are you then, gherkin? Are you Cyrenna?”[/color] The littlest Baratheon drew herself up and puffed out her chest. [color=white]“Aye, I am. But everyone calls me Renna.”[/color] She gave him a critical once over, inspecting him with her head tilted sideways. [color=white]“You may also,”[/color] she pronounced her verdict at last, then quickly thought of a condition. [color=white]“But only if you will carry me!”[/color] [color=#e3993b]“Always.”[/color] Orryn’s calloused hands moved as if on instinct, and before he knew it he had the blackclad Baratheon child up on his arm. Argella could do nothing more than sigh and smile widely, the corners of her eyes crinkling at the sight before her. It was a rare instance where her siblings showed so much as attention to the little ones. Positive attention anyways. A wonderful sight for the youngest Baratheon to witness. [color=#f3e5ab]“You give into her whims and you won’t ever be rid of her.”[/color] Rustling from the other side of Harlan alerted Cyrenna to her older brother. Stoic in his place between his father and uncle, wild hair as black as night pushed flat in some areas where she had tried to tame it. Gowen had been looking forward with bright eyes for the entirety of the memorial, paying homage and respect to his late grandmother. It broke Argella’s heart to see him trying to grow up so fast, to be so much like his father. Though as he looked towards the three of them huddled together she couldn’t help but beckon him over shooting a scathing glare at Royce who tried to hold the boy back. [color=#f3e5ab]“Introduce yourself, young buck.”[/color] The young man shuffled himself over, eyes keen on his steps before him though his posture screamed of stern regality. Still just a boy of eight summers, Gowen tried to carry himself with all the knowledge and experience of his father. A difficult task for any child; to mimic a parent in any aspect let alone all. A firm hand to his back from Argella had him snapping his gaze to the man who held his sister in his arms, an almost sneer dancing across his face. [color=white]“You must be Uncle Orryn.”[/color] A series of words that dripped with a sort of unimpressed quality to them. [color=#f3e5ab]“Behave,”[/color] Argella would have smacked him in the back of the head had they been somewhere else and instead pinched at the lessening baby fat around his midsection, earning a yelp from the Baratheon fawn. Directing the glare back towards his aunt he muttered his name for present company, [color=white]“Gowen, ser. Pleasure to meet you.”[/color] With a slight bow he turned back on his heels and resumed his position between his father and Harlan. Between the two Argella was sure to join her late mother sooner rather than later. Sighing deeply she searched for Orryn’s free hand, clasping it tightly and refusing to let it go as they stood there, side by side for the duration of the service. [color=#f3e5ab]“Things are going to start changing, aren’t they? A storm coming?”[/color] There was no gentle way of broaching the topic that seemed to cling to the Baratheons’, a topic the screamed of things yet to come. She could feel it, coating her like a second skin, weighing her down. It brought the hairs along the back of her neck to stand at attention; it was felt before at her mother’s bedside when she passed, anytime she caught the glances of Ser Balon. Something was on it’s way for them and she wasn’t entirely sure it would bring good tidings. Orryn’s eyes glided over his assembled kin, nodding as his sister uttered her concerns. [color=#e3993b]“Oh aye, but we will endure as we have always done.”[/color] A tempest was coming indeed, he felt it in his bones, but they had weathered worse and they would weather this one too. [color=#e3993b]“Our House is not so easily blown down.”[/color] Orryn gave her hand a gentle squeeze and adjusted the littlest storm on his arm. [i]We will endure, yes. No matter the cost.[/i] [hider=TLDR] [list] [*] Orryn makes it back to Storm's End in time to attend his mother's funeral [*] Everyone is present [*] Argella thinks back on the passing of her mother [*] Cyrenna and Gowen introduce themselves to their uncle Orryn [*] The two feel a storm brewing in the distance and heading their way [/list] [/hider] [/color]