Ruby

Word association Game!

Planet.

Marvel Comics: Dawn of X

The woman had arched a blonde brow as Jean Grey walked into the Grove, the scent of fall and freshly fallen rain mixing with the blonde’s perfume, Krakoa looming over them all, watching, leaves a brilliant reddish brown today. The metallic scent of the old man that stood behind her, watching as Jean approached, hit her last.

• --|A|-- •

Her mind instantly translated the Krakoan to what she had always known him as before: Apocalypse. That he was the first, the most notable, among so few mutants to change their names from what they had always been to a Krakoan language variant did not escape her, but there was time for curiosities between the blue giant and Jean.

“You’re going, I take it?”

Jean smiled a thin, bemused smile at Emma Frost. “What gave it away?”

Frost’s head tilted, as she took in the full view of the redhead, before blue eyes widened and her frosted lips looked to near gasp, “…my God, Jean Grey, is that a designer you’re wearing?”

The smile on Jean slipped, but the bemused look in her green eyes did not. It was a designer, though Jean refused to confirm that aloud, or even tell Emma which designer…not that Emma wouldn’t know it, already, knowing Emma Frost. She wore black; skinny black slacks, a thin black cotton V-neck sweater, her feet in black leather hiking boots with black steel tabs and black laces. The coat atop was a rich brown wool peacoat, her red hair long and straight, offering contrast between the black and rich brown.

”I would not recommend the Manhattan gates, Jean Grey.”

Jean blinked at Big Blue, surprised, “Surveillance?”

“Worse,” Frost sighed, a heavy, deflating thing that seemed to signal no end of annoyance within the White Queen, “those human cultists have only become more fervent. We’re concerned, well…”

”You are the Phoenix. You are the Mutant Alpha. They are fools, but they are not ignorant to who we are.”

Emma cringed, though otherwise ignored it, “Just…you’re going alone, we don’t want a scene…may I recommend the Capital District gate?”

“…there’s a gate in Albany?”

Emma smiled, and, once more, Jean was smiling back. Catty, playful, “Have fun, Jean.”

There was something Emma wasn’t telling her. Jean knew that because of her telepathy, but not because she was reading Emma. She knew from experience what Emma looked like when she was holding back, because she had seen the woman’s mind when she had done it before in the past to others. Shaw had “casually” asked Jean to explain the tell on Emma, but Jean could do nothing but disappoint Shaw. If you hadn’t seen Emma’s mind as an active observer, before, you just weren’t going to pick up any tells on the White Queen. Shaw had muttered something about telepaths before giving up.

Whatever it was, Jean was certain she could handle it. A nervous, anxious energy filled her as she left the Grove. It wasn’t whatever Emma kept to her chest; it wasn’t the Cult of X warning from Apocalypse. It was going home. She hadn’t been since the Phoenix held the entire area hostage, attempting to persuade Jean to stay in their union.

Instead, with Logan’s help, she ended the relationship as best she could and moved on. But that didn’t seem to count, to Jean. She had experienced it within the White Room, yet, still, the extermination of nearly her entire family; brothers, sisters, their little children haunted her. Going home meant experiencing it all anew, a feeling that pressed down on her as she let out a sigh and felt her booted feet leave Krakoa’s ground and her body slip into telekinetic flight, to expedite the trip to Carousel, where most of the gates to major population centers could be found. It was after clearing the canopy and descending that she saw the gate—and the figure next to it, awaiting her.

What are you playing at, Emma?

Her booted feet touched down just feet from the gate, and him. Green eyes regarded him softly, if curiously, “Hello, Max. You look dressed for a funeral.”

Marvel: Judgment Day

Re-starting this in two weeks. (When I graduate.)

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

Lord Barthogan of House Stark & Princess Saeria of House Martell
_{Collab with @Apollosarcher}

Barthogan Stark tent was along the coast, and the natural harbor gave them a view if the skags went for their long ships. Autumn winds. His banners flew high as the Direwolf were in the air giving pause to the damnable Skags who were off along the countryside. They wouldn’t organize for a battle, no they were scavengers and carrion pickers. He had half a mind to wipe the island's entire population out after this stunt of theirs waging an armed rebellion. They were fools and traitors; the lot of them, Karstarks, had lost near three hundred people by his scouts' guess if they didn’t find more bodies.

He had made a sound plan, he’d called the banners of Manderly and Karstark, not to mention the aid of House Arryn’s Knights eager for some kind of fight. The Night's Watch knew of Torwynd, King of Stone as he called himself; they wanted the bastard Lord Commander Forrester was already getting his rangers back to come southward. He might have been a minor house from Glover but the Forrester lad was quick with a blade and better with a plan, no wonder he made Lord Commander. Skags didn’t want a fight; they wanted to be like the Ironborn raid and pillage; he'd dealt with fools like that before.

Break his forces up and press from each side, pin them in and use rides to bring down runners. The Skags had few horses or their one horned goats, morons might call a unicorn, but cut them off and push. When it came time for battle they were savages with poor steel, little armor, and no knowledge of the land. This was not their bloody island and he was not going to tolerate their barely contained Wildling notions.

Of course, the final concern of the evening made its way to him, one of his sworn swords out scouting the enemy. Reynar Holt had found something far more interesting, a Dornish Princess lost in a land of ice and snow. If this had been thirty years ago... He might have tried to hold her captive but his tempers had cooled... Somewhat. Dornish had still taken Rickon from him; it was hard to forgive that. Princess Saeria Martell was brought forth, she’d been given a hot bath and a fresh change of proper winter clothes from his own forests. The older man leaned back, the famed Greatsword Ice was next to him in its sheath. It was said Barth the Blacksword earned his name by taking that up and cleaving half dozen men in twain with a strike.

He was big, gruff looking yet he was old and tired, the cold did little to faze him but it was the authority, he never wanted to Lord it hung on him. Like weights it dragged in how he stood, how he moved even in just how he welcomed the Princess. “Ah, welcome princess. I’d offer you something more... Suitable but I don’t know much of courtly manners and practices, we care little for it here. What we will have is words, soup, meat, bread, and beer if you partake in those sorts of things with barbarians like me’self.” He spoke with a grin, as moments later food was brought a thick brown soup filled with mixed vegetables from the north hearty and filling men burned off food at an astounding rate in the cold so they ate plenty more here.

Gods, he believes I’m who I said I am.

The shock of it took her a few moments, though doubtful such a pause was noticed, as the Stark Lord spoke. It made her reconsider the dagger at the small of her back—the Stark men had ordered her to hand over her weapons. So, she gave them the bow, the quiver of arrows, and two daggers. They never searched her, however, allowing her the dagger at the back of her thick belt under the many layers that even a tent and brazier fit for a Stark Lord wasn’t enough to make Saeria feel anything but chilled even in his tent.

The Stark Lord was older but could easily beat her to death if he got his hands on her. Two guards outside the tent. She believed she heard footsteps in snow on the other side of the tent’s far thick canvas wall; there would be men all around, armed, and ready. Without the bow, without Reginald, who they tied up near their primary entrance to the camp along the shore…running wouldn’t do her much good. Where would she go? It was hard enough with her items and her stubborn horse. Without them she’d be good as dead, with no good-hearted commoner to save her this time, she reckoned.

Left with precious few options, the Princess simply took the few steps towards the nearest table, stool a mug of beer that didn’t seem claimed, and brought it up to her mouth. It wasn’t a sip, it was a quaffing that left lines of beer running from her either side of her mouth, down her chin and to her neck by the time she pulled the mug away, all but empty, a few heavy breaths and…a belch that could have rocked the wooden foundations of Barth’s tent.

The kind of sound that had no business coming from the Dornish Princess as she wiped her chin with her forearm in a lazy wipe, setting the mug down and nodding at the Stark Lord. “Speaking of Barbarian life: I killed someone. Your man wouldn’t tell me who he was. It looks like you’re here for a fight…I killed one of the other side, I’m thinking?”

Barth cracked a grin. “I like you girl.” He answered watching the beer run down her face. “Aye, Skagosi are up in arms, something something King of Stone. We’ve found evidence they’ve been ritualizing and eating the smallfolk here.” He spoke as he sat up, cracking his neck as he tried to get comfortable. “I am Barthogan Stark, to you folk down in Dorne you call me Blacksword... Unless you prefer to use the title the men with purple eyes give me.” He let her note he wasn’t stupid like many of the southern houses claimed the Starks were. “Warden of the North. We are here for a battle but as you can see they don't want to give us one... So I’ve got the Manderly’s and Karstarks gathering up the banners. While Knights of Vale sail on in to give us a hand, even the Night’s Watch are on their way... Lord Commander Forrester wants Torwynd to hang from the walls. I'd just settle for his head off his shoulders.” Grunted the man as gestured to the seat across the table from him. “Eat something girl wandering around the North like you are, you need food. Walking through snow requires three times the food of a normal march. Body burns more energy in the cold trying to keep you warm... New clothes should do you some good. Those pelts come from the Wolfwood.”

He stopped and took a few spoonfuls of the hearty stew before them. It had stayed hot it must have been near boiling when it was brought in. “I won’t go around spreading who you are... But you're here for something and I swore an oath to Dragons... So what does the little lady need, I’ll see to it even if I think little of the Dornish. My word is my oath and I gave it to that blood of yours so ask away... Though try to remember we're in a war child.” He added with a teasing tone, he didn’t bother with titles or flowery words. He was every bit what the Southerners called him but he wore it with pride and honor if half the men in seven kingdoms were like Barthogan their King would never want for anything.

Smallfolk, he said, and Saeria Martell felt herself twitch. She thought of Wendal and that cabin. She thought of his little boy. Suddenly, Saeria was reaching for a second drink and plunging her mind and heart into darkness. “Torwynd?”

The name played again and again and again in her mind with the deep tone of the Stark Lord. Torwynd. Torwynd. Torwynd. She drank once, twice. Each beat of her heart only seemed to make her angrier; common folk slaughtered for some hopeless, pointless, dumbass violence. It was cruel. It was evil. Torwynd. Drink. Torwynd. Drink. Her string hand twitched; once, twice. On the surface, however, it might have looked cloudier.

Except for one thing: the intensity of the Martell survivalist was increasing by the second. “Right,” she said, another smaller belch and a wipe of her lips, blinking at his question. “…NEED? This ‘little Princess’,” she stressed her title to correct him, an irony considering she never blinked when he called her girl, “Needs to kill Skagosi before they kill more commoners.” She snorted, loudly, the combustible mix of Rhoynish and Valyrian blood boiling, the Northern beer enough to make her outspoken about it. “I can track, hunt, and fight. You won’t find a better archer.”

There was no further qualifier. Matter-of-factly, she had declared it impossible with a sip of beer. There was no pride in her voice, there was no ego creeping about the edges of her eyes—there was nothing but steel in those big purple eyes.

“I’ll learn the land, I’m sure your scouts have some helpful tips. I’ve already had a rude introduction to the North,” she said, head shaking at the memory of her ignorance and lack of foresight. She should have known better, and if it weren’t for Wendal…his little son…Saeria felt herself burn all over again.

“Maps. Where are they? Why are you waiting for so many men? You’re sure a small force can’t go in hard and fast and cut off the head of this ice serpent of stupid? Wargs?...worse?”

She asked, looking sharply at him. She heard stories, and from men who were no fools.

“We called up aid because the Skags won’t organize because the North is a big place girl.” He explained as reached for a map. “I have hundreds of miles of coastline to cover to find where they landed. As you saw they didn’t stay together, they’ve spread out across the lands of the Karstarks perhaps further. I bicker with my advisors on how to deal with them. Some say spread our forces out and try to hunt and kill them, a long and slow process which we do not have time for... Don’t want to be here when Winter comes.” He tapped the locations on the map.

“Manderlys I need to locate their landing. The Karstarks I need help from because they know the lands. If neither come... The Watch will be useless too. We have only more than a couple thousand blades... Which is why we are considering another option.” He explained as he showed her locations of villages and farms on a survey map. “Ride out, spread our men to villages and towns and bring a lot of smallfolk to Karholds Wintertown. Leave half our army’s supply trains with them and their men gathered on the walls. They can defend from Skags at the old castle and keep their smallfolk safe.” He explained as he sighed a moment. “I cannot fight someone who does not organize for battle. I cannot force a battle without martialing up the might of the whole north, with Winter around the corner it would doom our crops.” He explained his predicament.

“...Your bow and your skill are appreciated though.” He offered honestly as he took a long gulp of beer draining half the cup. “But what my men have in training and discipline they counter with survival skills. That barren wasteland of an island has given the ability to endure harsh winters and subsiste on even less.” He groaned and stood up showing her the map. “So I can fight and get more and more killed, then lose even more in the Winter... Or I make things a little worse and take all the smallfolk back to Karhold and have the Karstarks batten down and hold till winter freezes the skags out.” He had no good options.

“This isn’t an honorable foe, not a real king either... He’s a pretender and traitor seeking glory off the backs of backwards people.” He groaned a moment. “We ought to burn their island down...”

“Batten the smallfolk in Karhold, then gather a pack and do what you direwolves do: hunt. There’s a trail. We can find it. He’s a pretender, not bringing ruin to their seat on that island would be neglect of your duty.”

Princess Saeria had gotten that lesson more than once from family, close and distant.

“Aye, we can hunt them... But not in Winter. We are only in autumn and the cold nearly killed you. What is it like when forty feet of snow buries the roads and trees. When homes are not regularly clear of snow it might collapse inward and kill you.” He explained with a sigh. “My men cannot spend all of autumn hunting Skags. I can spare some yes, but the rest are needed with harvests... A long winter here... Mean famine and death for thousands.” He took a breath and then walked over clasping her shoulder.

“But, I can see your set on this... So I will give to the Karstarks one hundred of my best to help hunt and kill Skags. Since you want to help, you choose from my men. The best archers, stalkers, trappers, and scouts will be brought up. Test them for me, pick out the best to fight and kill these savages and if you wish go with them till Winter nears.” He answered with a sigh. “Then... I’ll take you to Winterfell where we might finally get warm... And proper hot baths in the springs underneath the castle. You may be a guest of honor, perhaps by the time we return my Brandon will be home, you’d be able to meet the rest of the family.”

She nodded, slowly. “I’ll need a message sent out through the nearest raven,” she said, sadly, “I will have to tell…my mother. I’ll write it now and hand it to your man.”

”Mother. Tell father I love him. Tell my siblings I love them. I miss you all. There is war here, and I must fight it. It’s the right thing to do. Need the RIGHT assistance, will help ties with Starks. Like the Starks, so would you. — Your Little Sun Dragon.”

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

The sky looked like the shadow of a shadow to her, a never-ending voice of grays and lifeless pale blues that threatened the world with snow all over again. She took slow, painful, breaths and focused her eyes on the haze upon the horizon. The first two weeks in the North had been, by far, the worst in her young life. It wasn’t winter. It was barely autumn. She checked, twice, with Maesters before leaving.
Tell that to the North.

She had wandered to nearly every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, save the Vale and the North. The North just sounded more amusing than being boxed into a valley with a bunch of steep mountains all around. First men, Andols, First men, Andols…the First Men won. And, really, all things being equal, it was Winterfell and the Wall that had won.

And in her few days out from White Harbor, she had never been so cold in all her life. The last night she could fully recall had been such a misery, she had come to terms with wanting to die. Not actually dying, the girl was just too stubborn for such nonsense, but the desire to let it all end, quietly, in the dark and cold like so many before.

She understood the urge, now.

Sheer willpower saw her another few nights. The days and nights blurred, pooling in her mind as one long grey and white and painful stain. If it weren’t for her well bought clothes, the voice told her, she would have lost toes and fingers. Instead, she just needed rest. She understood the voice to belong to some god. She didn’t believe in your gods, or their gods. She could see gods having been a thing, once, long ago. But to her…it would just be some god telling her to make sure she closed the door on her way out for the last, final, time.
It was half a day before she realized the voice belonged to no god, but a man who cut and sold wood. There was a cabin, there was a little boy, hiding behind things. It was nightfall before she could speak to the man, ask what, how. He explained it was the wet that did her in. She had been too exposed to snow, she had clearly fallen in snow, and she had never properly dried off. Staying dry, he said with a puff of his pipe, was the key to staying alive in the North. “You’re an archer? Keep yourself as dry as your strings up here, girl.”

He noticed she didn’t look like any woman he had seen when he changed her, dried her clothes. The amount of near strangers that had seen her in her nameday pride, between being dressed by ladies of court and the water gardens all her life, it frankly wasn’t that strange. It was honor that forced her hand in the end. She knew he might not accept it, so she smiled big and sweet and gave the gold coins to the young boy, and told him to give them to his papa when she was gone.

Reginald was beside himself when he saw her again. He looked, he snorted, he looked away. “I MISSED YOU TOO!” The horse might have bolted, had he not been tied. Not that it mattered, eventually Reginald always found her. Eventually, Reginald always returned to her. “I love you too, I’m an idiot.”

She spent a few days not far from the cabin, accounting for everything from various pastes to salt beef to small blocks of steel, strings, jigs, feathers fletched and unfletched, and a variety of shafts in firmness and size. Small saw, various small blades, bow, leather wraps and casings. The bedroll she kept upon Reginald, but sleeping under the stars was ill-advised if the clouds looked stormy, and if they didn’t, it would just be freezing cold. Fire became necessary, a large wineskin of Dornish Red, but true freedom came in the map Wendal had given her. A hunter’s map that highlighted trails, and more importantly, every cave and hunter hideaway between the south shore and the Wall.

The next few weeks just rolled together. She adjusted to constant freezing, even spending the evening two nights ago wild and naked in the snow and moonlight. Possible, of course, because of the natural hot-spring she had discovered nearby under some of the largest, oldest, trees she had ever seen in her life. They had been her favorite few days in the North, so far, outside Wendal’s cabin.

Her mind and her eyes seemed to focus on the horizon, again, at the same time. The synchronization of their focus allowing her to see past the haze of travel in the wilds of the “autumn” North. That haze on the horizon became something else entirely; it became a horse, it became a rider.

It became a danger as she watched from under tree line upon a ridge. And a danger made Princess Saeria Martell focus like nothing else in her earthly trials. There was new life to the girl as she disappeared where she had been standing just moments before. She had seen him first. In the wild, that could make all the difference. She returned to Reginald, removed the thick cloak and pulled up the hood of the layer just under the thick cloak; hooded tunic, woolen and lined with fur.

“Fade away, Reggie, I’ll be back.”

That was nearly noon. It was nearing sundown when she found the danger again. The man was, by quick looks behind trees, a scout of some sort. He busied himself with a camp, which meant a fire. She understood his concern, she had been regretting the shedding of her heavy cloak for hours, but it was more than enough noise cover for her to make slow and careful movements. He was hacking away at a tree nearby when she got to his camp. She soothed the horse the best she could before a quick pick through. Steel and salted fish and wools to keep warm. Nothing Stark, or any other noble house she recognized.

“Wha’ th…”

The voice grew quiet as his dark eyes surveyed her. When they met eyes, she knew trouble was coming, she'd seen that look in the eyes of many men before the violence came. He let the wood of the tree he had hacked at fall to his feed, thick chunks of wood for a long, slow burning fire to get him through the night before he went back looking for smaller bits, before the sun set.

She knew the schedule. Anyone who lived out in the wild did.

She’d seen the look in his eyes before. When he lunged forward, she was took his own dagger up from the neat pile he had created in order to make camp. She went back when he went forward, moving awkwardly in the snow under the tree he had picked. He lunged again, she circled around, keeping in mind the obstacle he had created. When he swung back around and gave a short shout, his eyes were narrowed on her, and the next lunge landed his foot awkwardly on one of those pieces of firewood, rolling the ankle and sending him to the snow. Another piece of firewood smashed the back of his head before he could recover. A hand gloved in rotting leather squeezing at her neck, and her hand brought the dagger down.

The scout howled, screamed—he wanted to make noise. Who was around? How many? She’d have to make a quick escape, thoughts she thought as she kept stabbing. When the noise stopped and the man’s twitching mostly died off, she caught herself standing there, removing the hand from her neck, panting as her mind dazed and her eyes narrowed to a tunnel.

Noise.

Panic struck through her heart like steel as she moved for the tree she had originally hidden behind to watch him. The tree she had left the bow at. The snow seemed thicker here, like a sludge she had to struggle through, sweating and freezing in equal measure. The doeskin cover was in her hands, then the bow itself, stringing it, and rearing around with arrow notched just in time to see another man, on a horse, ride up with a blade in his head.

She nearly felt the pressure fall and the string release, until the horse spun in place, and she noticed the shield. Grey, with a direwolf. She rested the bow, all but panting again as her heart raced. “Stark?...Princess Saeria of House Martell…really, really,” she said through huffs, catching her breath, “hope you’ve got a camp around here, somewhere.”

The scout snorted at her when she gave her name and her house, to no surprise of her’s. “Disarm. Lead me to your horse.”

From Ashes We Rise: An Alternate Warhammer 40,000 Unification and Great Crusade RP

Yes.

Song Reference time

You don’t believe in no fate, uh
Every day diggin' a grave, uh
Step in the pit with the snakes, uh
City of dreams, city of gang
You don’t believe in no fate, uh
I might just dig up your grave, uh
Step in the pit with the king, uh
City of dreams, city of gang
Gang, gang, gang, gang
City of dreams, live in your grave
You live in your grave

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

WIP

Name Princess Saeria Martell
Age 18
House/Affiliation House Martell

Appearance

Personality

Biography

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

Hider

Name: Prince Aelor / Princess Aelora
Age: 18
House/Affiliation: House Targaryen

Appearance

There is no doubting what blood flows through the veins of Aelor and Aelora Targaryen. Tall, regal, with Valyian hair and features. Aelor is the taller of the two, wide shouldered and narrow waisted with years and years of training and fighting at least semi-regularly; as a result his body certainly looks it. Strong jawed with high cheeks bone and purple eyes that always seem a little distant, maybe at times even a little lonely. Aelora is tall, though not unusually so for a woman. Her eyes are a deep purple and her long silvery-white hair long. Both are beautiful, attractive people on the outside.

Personality

On the inside, every account of the twins is positive. Aelor is courteous, curious, kind with a deep love for reading and maps. His map collection has already become something of a must-see for certain types when they visit the Red Keep, including maps from before the Doom, and a few said to originate from the Age of Heroes. He is often serious, joking mostly with those precious few close to him, with a work ethic that seems unusual for royalty. He is at his most serious when training or sparring, though he was anything but a warrior in the making as a youth, once he became a man something deep in Aelor seemed to activate and his dedication to his martial skills are nothing short of extraordinary.

Aelora is similar; curious, kind, with a warmth that often escapes Aelor in public. Despite the warm nature of the young Princess, there’s no denying the distance she and her twin brother keep nearly everyone outside their family at. They whisper to each other often in High Valyrian, and some Maesters who have served in the Red Keep that swear they’ve heard the two speaking some custom form of the old language of Valyrian nobility. Both twins have few friends outside each other and other family, though Aelora does have an extensive network of contacts she keeps in good social standing with, a mix of merchants, septons, and sailors that call King’s Landing home.

It is not uncommon for the Faith to feature Princess Aelora spending time with the commoners of King’s Landing, a regular enough occurrence that a fair number of Flea Bottom’s beggar children have met her before, even shared soup and bread with her.

When the twins do seem to be at their lowest moral or ethical point is with each other; their petty fights are known to last fortnights. Though should someone beside one of them say a single bad word about their twin, the pettiness is instantly forgotten, and the twin present defends their sibling with their whole heart. They’re also quite protective of their little sister.

Biography

The twins were born to Prince Baelor and Princess Jenna on Dragonstone eighteen years ago, a shock to those who had belabored the point of Dornish influence in the Targaryen court: from their earliest days it was obvious Aelor and Aelora Targaryen were descended from Valyrian dragonriders. Though in their youth they were known to tease their father about his dark hair and Dornish features, today the twins never seem to bring any attention to their appearances. Women who tell Aelor he is handsome will find a young man who dislikes compliments of the sort, and the men who tell Alora of her beauty are often met with politeness and little else.

Their youth was filled with stories and wonder. The twins would read to one another endlessly, leading them to a childhood filled with tomes and scent of leather and dust. They imagined Old Valyria, they imagined the Age of Heroes, they learned how ships sailed, how weapons of war worked. Though Baelor had tried to keep Aelora free from the political and martial, if one learned something, there was no stopping the other from learning it too.

Their adolescence saw an obsession with their status. Their fierce loyalty to one another, their seeming inability to spend any real time apart from one another, as well as their secret language and hidden-away reading sessions. That Aelora learned to cook what Aelor loved to eat, and Aelor learned to work with wood to give Aelora the wooden duck she talked about wanting as a toy. That the two would be wed to one another in the ancient Valyrian style caused uproar within the Faith of the Seven, and even concern among the Maesters of Oldtown.

Finally, when they reached six and ten of age, the start of real adulthood for both, their father made it clear: they would accept marriage proposals from other Houses outside their own, meaning the twins would not be wed. It seems of little consequence to the twins; they simply smiled and shrugged and thanked their father. Only their mother seems to have any insight on the secret reality of the twins. And Princess Jenna is worried. Though she repeats her eldest children never seemed as interested in marriage to each other as everyone outside their household seemed to believe, she will admit something is off with them.

Something has been off with them for a long time. Aelora is a dreamer in the ancient Targaryen fashion, Aelor holding his sister in an almost spiritual regard as she confines in him the secrets of what she sees when she sleeps and dreams. Together they are certain they must act, though the how and the why seems known only to the two of them. As the second in the line of succession, Prince Aelor seems aware of potential responsibilities and duties, while simultaneously understanding between his father and his uncle, there’s a window of luxury for him to live, and decide what kind of man he will be.

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

_{Collab with @SunsetWanderer with guest appearance by @POOHEAD189}

The morning sun peeked over the Red Mountains and flooded the valley where Summerhall stood. He’d spent most of last night just sitting and staring at it from a nearby ridge, nursing a cider the woman had pressed into his hand with one of her hands while pushing at him from behind with her other hand, insisting he, “GO! There’s no more work. No fighting, no stealing, GO.”

She said it, laughing, but her tone seemed to carry a weight to it. Deeper parts of him thought she was just trying to rid herself of the annoying boy she must regret bringing alone by now. It wasn’t until she added the last part that made him uncertain what to think, at any level: “Just don’t come back TOO late, be safe.”

Not, don’t be out late, there’s work needs doing in the morning. Just be back, because it was the safer thing to do. He just stared at her. She was beautiful, so maybe it was just that making it seem so strange? Although, he admitted, he didn’t remember the last time someone gave him a curfew out of care, instead of needing him to do work for them.

He thought of his mother as he took sips of the drink the woman gave him. Well, not just some woman. She was stranger than most women. She was nice, like a proper Lady. She was very rich, with more gold than he would ever see. She spoke strange tongues he’d never heard before, throwing bits and pieces of unknown languages at Ser Markus and he often, usually in a playful way—another unexpected turn. She was rarely serious, she rarely seemed to take herself so serious…but as Ser Markus had warned him, never let his properness slip none, not even a little.

That didn’t seem to be a problem for him. The problem for him had been not thinking about her chest: the one with the lock, and mysterious contents. When Ser Markus realized shortly after Dunc had awoken and scurried to be of use that the Lady wasn’t even in her tent, that she had obviously slipped away in early dawn, he seemed irritated.

Then he announced he was off to break his fast, and would return with something for Dunc, too. Dunc spent the time talking to the horses, brushing, feeding. He thought about peeking inside the Lady’s tent, but every time he got close, the hairs on the back of his neck raised and he found himself looking about, this way and that, back again…no one ever seemed to be looking, but he couldn’t help the feeling she’d know.

So he abandoned the sweet perfumed scent of the air coming from the tent, and stepped away from the front of it, instead finding relief in a shady spot next to his own tent, with an apple and a small skin of wine the Lady had tossed him yesterday during the trip. He saved it then, for later, and was very satisfied with himself now that he had, smiling and watching the people pass their camp site.

Knights, men-at-arms, lords, ladies, men, women, children would give queer looks to the flag the Lady’s tent flew. Some stopped and asked what it was, a House, maybe? Dunc responded with a shake of his head and an informative bit of, “Keyholder, Iron Bank of Braavos.” You know, like a real Braavosi might, he imagined. He was into a long drink with his head kicked back when he finished, wiping his chin with the back of his hand and blinking with a tiny jolt at the appearance of men-at-arms staring him down, wearing colors and a coat of arms even Dunc the Lunk knew:

Those were Lannister men.

“You, young man,” one of them sternly started, making Dunc blink and think to himself that he wasn’t a man, yet. He was still years away, according to Ser Arlan, and Ser Arlan knew life. “Where is Lady Celena?”

“…oh, she’s—”

The sellsword came back with a fresh swagger, the kind only possible after a nice morning walk about, a nice bit of bacon and bread and hash from a lovely young lady tending her father’s cart, and a belly full of still chilled beer. When he saw the Lannisters, the smile on his expression only seemed to widen, if only but a smidge. “—the Lady is away. Better luck next time, lads.”

Their sneers seemed to say it for them, sellsword. Like any of them wouldn’t, given the opportunity, or the need. Let alone her sellsword, whatever price he imagined up in that Stormlands tavern where they met, she doubled it. And then she doubled THAT. It was, he found, supremely easy to smile at the group of crimson clad lion pets, and wait for them to make a decision.

“You are her sellsword, hm?” One said, while it’s entirely possible another muttered something about just one sellsword to protect such rumored beauty, causing his fellows to snicker aloud. Entirely possible, given the way the boy with a young man’s body stood up like a hot knife, anger twisting across the young lad’s face.
“He isn’t alone in protecting the Lady!”

His voice cracked halfway through, and the red clad Lannister men erupted in laughter, declaring to Ser Markus that the Lord of Casterly Rock demands an audience with Lady Celena, the moment she arrives. Ser Markus gave a rude gesture as they left, then looked at Dunc, frowning. Dunc’s head dropped, his eyes staring at the ground, his cheeks hot…but the Knight lived up to the teasing name the Lady had given him the day before of Ser Silence, and said nothing, just handed him a roll of bacon and stepped into their shared tent, leaving Dunc to watch the Lannister men fade away into the crowd thickening by the minute.

Morning stretched and brightened to midday before there was any actual lead to the whereabouts of the woman of the hour; the edge of all encampments, next to a towering oak tree and a little creek swollen to an actual creek from autumnal rains in the foothills of the Red Mountains. At the edge were found less savory and honorable types. Lesser merchants, common visitors with enough resources to travel and have a small roughspun tent, a tent belonging to a small troop of dwarves, and the big purple and orange slashed tent next to that tree.

It was a tent big enough to fit near forty men in, overnight it’s myrish carpeted floors scattered with bedrolls, during the day a largely open space with some chests and small barrels for impromptu seating as various minstrels plucked instruments while a pale white haired boy of ten danced a water dance with a man over a decade older, darker skinned and long hair dyed blues and greens, lithe and almost impressive.

The two were mostly idle entertainment, same as the minstrels. A game of cyvasse was being played towards the back by an older, bald, man in silks with a woman middle-aged beauty and sharp eyes that always seemed to be looking around for dangers, dark brown hair falling in curls towards her shoulders near exposed with the simple gown of light blue she wore. Nearly a dozen others mostly concentrated between the game and the performers going through their practice routines.

When they entered the tent, she was nearly hidden behind the big, older, bald man in the silk pondering intensely, hand on his chin, at the game of cyvasse. The two red, lion, cloaked men almost left just moments after they walked in unannounced—until one of them saw the glitter of golden blonde Lannister hair sparkle in the natural light let in by his holding the tent open. There, past the big bald one, he pointed to the other Lannister man.

Emeralds shadowed and smoldered at the man staring into them as Celena locked eyes with him, the rumor of a smile playing at the corners of her full, lush, lips pale pink and unpainted. She wore an ivory gown of Dornish silk and lace, lace of gold filtered through the bodice, with raised collar that plunged a quarter-way down her chest, the kind of dress that covered everything and hid nothing.

The big, bald, man stretched long with arms reaching behind him and nudged his chair backward just a bit before resettling in the seat, further revealing the woman seated behind the Cyvasse table. His accent was thick, Braavosi, with a voice that bellowed as deep and impactful as a large wave against a curtain wall. Booming, if dressed with a smile fueled by the recently finished morning beer Celena had brought him, “Hoy, friends, the Mummer Show isn’t ‘till sundown.”

The older of the two Lannister men, with dark hair and rough stubble, was quick to answer. “Not here for a show.”, his words sharp with ill-concealed contempt. A gloved hand lifted from the hilt of his blade to brush aside the red cloak draped over his shoulder, pointing in the direction of Celena, “Here for that one.”

The younger, with long brown hair and curious eyes, was silent for the most part - his attention fixed on the Lioness, struck by her beauty. It was he who had spotted her. After his colleague, and likely superior, had announced their intention, he raised his own, uncertain, voice. “It.. is the Lady Celena, is it not?”, he asked none in particular.

The other didn’t wait for an answer, his chest instinctively puffing out as he spoke, “The Lord of Casterly Rock demands your presence.”, he commanded firmly. If his tone and the dumb, smug expression on his face was anything to go by, this man was used to getting his way by invoking the name of his lord. His hand fell to rest on the plain hilt of his blade as he took a step forward.

The unflinching eyes of the Keyholder stayed on the young man, as he asked his question, as her lips allowed him a direct answer, rare enough as such things were from her, even if it carried the burden of deeply buried secrets with it, “It was.” She needn’t speak loudly; there wasn’t a noise made within the tent at that moment.

A deafening silence broken by the strum of one of the minstrels’ lute; one older, one younger. The younger was a tall, attractive, bright brown eyed Braavosi. The older, his mentor, had skin like weathered leather, a coarse stubble along his jaw and cheeks of gray hair, the lines around his narrow blue eyes testifying to his experience, to what he’d seen. The strumming of the lute produced a slow melancholy of a sound that drifted from the background until the gentle depths of the old minstrel’s voice could be heard giving life to the tune played.

“Every prayer was heard that night
When the golden light made the world right
Against the wicked bravos of the twenty-eight
At bloodied blade and dagger tip came their end, their fate”

Every Braavosi in the tent stared at the minstrel as his play faded to a stop, his face in the direction of the two. Everyone of them except Lady Celena, and the minstrel whose voice faded as his strumming of lute strings faded to a near whisper looked off in his own direction. She watched the Lannister men as her thoughts skewered her with memory. A freed slave lost at sea and reborn upon the tide, sailing past what was known of Sothoryos, survived where the Doom and water collide, when vessel and crew broke off it was reported she was killed. But she was still alive. Sword and dagger by her side, she rode across the Disputed Lands, too many a young man losing his lifeblood to her blade.

Braavos was the place to rest. To stop. ’With what you earn with blood spilled tonight, if you survive, you can finally rest that spirit of yours.’ He was an old friend. She trusted him, she believed him. She thought of her Sealord with suppressed sigh as she slowly slid to her feet from the seat she had taken.

Now every eye was on her, no one daring to speak, let alone move, faces watching her, convinced of what was to come and the tension that came from the very idea of two Westeros men wearing officious sigils dying at the bare hands of a woman wearing silk. A slow, deep breath, and Celena disappointed them.

It was her friend, Ohoro, big and fat and bald and glorious to her, that spoke up with his body leaning back in his seat with his large hands now linked and settled behind his head as he eyed the men, “You do not know what this Lady is to Braavos, friends. Go gently, and may your Gods protect you.” He said it plainly, almost matter-of-fact. He said it for their sake.

She saw both men-at-arms. Armor was well-fitted, but mostly leather. She read the way they stood, the way their bodies wore their weight, compared their frames and structures to similar men of the many she’d killed before. Careful estimates of their reaction time, of their balance, of their flexibility—of which of them could take more pain than the other. Which was the better blade. All with that hint of a smile, all standing there, arms down by her side and just towards her back as one finger from her left hand hooked with a finger from her right, keeping both hands at her lower back, chest out, head high, green eyes shadowed as she faced them and away from the internal light sources within the tent of brazzier and odd lantern.

That smile of hers had grown just enough to be plainly seen, and closer to a grin than a proverbial Braavosi blade in the back, “After you,” she said to them, for the first time sounding like a Westerosi noble lady. Like she was used to giving commands to men such as these two.