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It is currently WINTER in WESTEROS during the year 303 AC. The new moon cycle marks a full twenty years since the Mad King was murdered, and his son King Rhaegar ascended the Iron Throne in his place. Though the year is fresh, war in the Narrow Sea has left the Free Cities of Volantis and Tyrosh in ashes, and the Long Night continues to beckon from the Northern fringes of the Seven Kingdoms. With the Queen Lyanna presumed dead, the citizens of the realms look only to each other for survival.
[x] SURPRISE! Please enjoy our new skin, and let the staff know if you find any bugs! (Shelbs accidentally overwrote the old skin and posted this too soon so it's entirely possible the dumbass she forgot some things!)
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 Caught up in the webs you've spun, Bobby Bbbbbb
CERSEI BARATHEON
 Posted: Dec 20 2017, 06:46 PM
Quote
Ash is Offline
37 years old
STORMLANDS
House Baratheon
House Lannister
Storm's End
Lady


A Greyjoy. Myrcella was promised to a Greyjoy. Cersei had left her golden-haired daughter with her brother as a babe so that he might have a piece of her with him always, and this was how he repaid her? By garnering a betrothal for their only daughter to a barbarian? Isn’t it good news, m’lady? Your niece is to marry the heir to the Iron Islands.’ As if that made it any better. The future Lord of the Barbarian islanders was not a worthy match for her daughter. How could Jaime let such a thing happen? Surely he wasn’t pleased at having made this match? Especially when Ashara’s daughter had been given to a Targaryen - now that was an appropriate match for a Lannister. Even a Stark would have been better. Or Garlan Tyrell - he was said to be handsome, and more importantly he was the new heir to Highgarden.

Better yet he could have named her heir to Casterly Rock. Had the She-Wolf not made such a fuss over daughters being placed second in the line of the succession for the noble houses of Westeros? After their brothers but before their uncles. Myrcella should be Jaime’s heir, not that brat her father’s new wife had whelped. The possibility of her daughter inheriting the Rock one day had, in fact, been in the back of Cersei’s mind when she made the decision to leave her with Jaime. It was hardly a certainty with Tybolt ahead of her after all, but war had taken care of him for her. But not only had Jaime denied their daughter of her inheritance, he was giving her to pirates to be treated as little more than a whore, most like. That was not the life Cersei had imagined for her sweet daughter.

Sitting at a desk in her chambers, the lioness grabbed a bit of parchment and a quill, scratching out a note to her brother.

Dearest Jaime,

Word of your daughter’s betrothal has newly reached me. Is it true that she is to be Lady of the Iron Islands one day? Your wife must be pleased at such a match.

It has been too long since I have been home to the Rock, and with these wars over I think it may be time to visit home once more. Unless my husband protest I intend to leave within the fortnight. I look forward to seeing you and my sweet niece soon, dear brother.

-Cersei


Jaime would understand her intentions. Only his simple-minded wife could thing such a betrothal was promising. Perhaps this was her doing. How could such a woman have been left to decide the fate of Cersei’s own daughter? It had been foolish to trust Jaime to care for Myrcella all those years ago, she saw that now. But she would go to the Rock and make things right - Robert’s potential protests be damned. As if her husband could seriously prevent her from going home if she wished it.

Pressing the Baratheon seal into a bit of wax to close the letter, Cersei beckoned one of her ladies to come over, thrusting it into her hand. ”See to it that the Maester gets this sent at once. Go now.” Cersei sucked in a breath through her nose, pursing her lips and resisting the urge to furrow her brow in frustration. It would only deepen the wrinkle that had formed there, and signs of aging were to be avoided. Exhaling and crossing the room, she ran a finger along the edge of a decanter of wine, debating whether to pour herself a glass. It could wait - she had other matters to attend to.

Cersei exited her chambers and made her way down the corridor in search of her husband. He ought to be easy enough to find, kicked back somewhere with an injury as an excuse to take it easy and drink all day. After confirming with one of his guards that Robert was in his solar, she made her way to his apartments, entering without being announced. Emerald eyes flicked from his heavily bandaged arm to the cup of wine in his opposite hand.

”You appear to be doing well enough,” she said. Cersei’s tone was one of indifference as she crossed the room to pour herself a glass of wine, though she joined Robert nevertheless, taking the seat across from his. ”Does the Maester think you will regain full use of it?” More likely than not it was still too early to tell; it could go either way with breaks. That now-dead Tyrell boy had been crippled by one bad enough. Not that Robert would likely let it stop him from participating in any future wars. Still, Cersei would rather her sons not be required to put themselves in danger coming to his aide when he could no longer swing that great hammer quite so well as in his youth.


@ROBERT BARATHEON
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ROBERT BARATHEON
 Posted: Feb 10 2018, 01:04 AM
Quote
Nica is Offline
40 years old
STORMLANDS
Targaryen
Baratheon
Storm's End
Lord


If there was any benefit to be counted from the disaster the previous few moons had been, it was a simple one. True enough, it was more an unintended side effect than anything else, and perhaps it was better that Robert had not discovered it sooner. Milk of the poppy, and dreamwine, perhaps ironically, caused dreamless sleep. No more did Robert sit bolt upright amid tangled sheets damp with sweat, heart racing as if he'd just returned from the fray. No more would he be haunted by the blue-green waters just beyond Storm's End's walls, hear the crashing of the waves in his dreams, feel his lungs grow heavy, full of saltwater. . .at least, until his arm healed, until the splinters of bone no longer felt like needles, like daggers slicing into his muscle. Some part of Robert hoped that the bones would never mend, that the torn muscle would never weave back whole, that the stinging ache that consumed his waking thoughts would still twist blackly through his mind. He'd never have to part with the dreamwine then. Would be condemned to the horrors that hid just behind his sea-blue eyes no more.

But Robert had seen the wreckage of once-great men, reduced to so much rubble. Reduced to mere shadows of their former selves, driven only by the urge to feel nothing. Old soldiers with injuries from long-past battles, knights with tarnished honor, tarnished armor, glassy eyes. With a shudder that uncomfortably jostled his bandaged arm, Robert took a swig of the Arbor red clutched in his hand, before returning a rather distant gaze to the papers strewn before him. Half-written letters, expressing his condolences to the families of dozens of young nobles, the looped handwriting was strained, yet somehow legible. While his right hand was his stronger of the two limbs, he was mildly ambidextrous. His sinister hand was far weaker, but as he had little grace to start with, little was to be lost. One letter stood out to him, starker than the others. Prince Doran Martell, it began, the rest of the page blank and white, daring him to place words upon it. This was itself a task Robert typically left to his squires, his advisers. His fist clenched at the thought. Last time, Stannis had done this.

Robert felt almost lost. Adrift. His anchor had come loose, and he was but a ship floating aimlessly, without even a wind to guide him. He'd relied upon Stannis for so long, that he hadn't noticed he was even doing so. The two men had never been close; not since early childhood. But they worked together like a fist and steel gauntlet; Stannis being the dexterous fingers wreathed beneath Robert's hard steel. Stannis ran the Stormlands more than Robert ever did; keeping the rain-lashed region moving like a well-oiled machine. Though Robert was loathe to admit the fact; Stannis would have been far better suited as a first son, and Robert as the second. After all, second sons were intended to be knights, after all. And, perhaps -- just maybe -- Robert would have been happier were that the case. Alas, there was no use in questioning the whims of the Seven; in analyzing their cosmic jokes. As much as this was a time of reflection, the past could not be changed, no more than the future divined. At least Steffon and Joffrey were unscathed, and Robert himself lived to fight another day. Whether that fight would be upon the vanguard, or within the commander's tent, however, well...that remained to be seen.

A few quick steps, and swift movement at the door were Robert's only warnings of an impending invasion. Cersei. Of course. Robert knew he wouldn't be able to avoid his wife forever. A man could hope, however. "Surviving," Robert replied succinctly, tones brusque and clipped. He hadn't had enough wine to properly survive an encounter with Cersei. A half-hearted shrug supplied his next answer; and indeed, it was half-shouldered too. "It's too early to know," Robert responded, taking a draught of his own wine. He hadn't the energy to fight with Cersei today. Perhaps she had sensed that, and that was why she came. "Make yourself comfortable," Robert invited, watching his wife pour herself a glass from his carafe of wine, and seat herself. There was only a hint of sardonic amusement in the words. "What brings you here?" Pleasantries were never Robert's strong point, nor was skirting around a subject. And his wife never did anything without a purpose, much less purposefully inserting herself into his presence, something the two of them avoided as much as possible. Robert knew better than to believe she was concerned for his health.


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CERSEI BARATHEON
 Posted: Feb 20 2018, 12:28 AM
Quote
Ash is Offline
37 years old
STORMLANDS
House Baratheon
House Lannister
Storm's End
Lady


Robert’s invitation to make herself comfortable was hardly necessary; Cersei intended to do just that regardless of whether he desired her presence or not. A lioness eager for the hunt, her husband was little more than a barrier preventing her from stalking her prey - and in this case that prey was her half brother. It was such a shame that Tycen had chosen to make an enemy out of her. Aside from herself, he was the most like their father, though Cersei would never admit it out loud. He would certainly have made a better Lord of the Rock than Jaime’s recently deceased son. A betrothal between Myrcella and a Targaryen could have elevated her station, and the fact that Casterly Rock was her birthright might have been overlooked. But what Tycen had done was akin to selling Myrcella into slavery. Ironborn. The audacity!

Ignoring her husband’s question a moment, her gaze wandered over the papers strewn about the desk. Letters. How diplomatic of him. Or at least it would be if they were not so sloppily written. Then again it was surprising Robert even had the ability to write at all, certainly this was the sort of menial task that Stannis performed for him when he had been alive. It must be torture to be made to actually do the work that was expected of him. For a brief fleeting moment Cersei considered offering her assistance. It was the sort of task that she ordinarily would have considered beneath her, but given the importance it was one she would have been willing to take on. Anything that ought to fall under the duties of the Lord of the Stormlands. Still, she would not give Robert the satisfaction of thinking she cared - or that she was offering out of sympathy for his present state. But if he asked for her help she would not turn him down.

Gaze lingering a moment longer, Cersei raised her cup taking a tight lipped sip. ”Surely you don’t actually intend to send those?” she asked, tone clearly condescending.

The lioness sat back in her chair and crossed her legs at the ankles as she stared at her husband, mulling over his question. What brought her here? The fact that her twin was lacking a spine; that her half brother was overreaching his bounds. That her daughter - the daughter Robert could never know about - was being shipped off to savages. But Cersei said none of these things. Nor did she ask permission to go, for that would have given Robert the opportunity to refuse. “I’m planning a trip to the Rock. My brother still mourns the loss of his son, and the imp has yet to be found and tried for his crimes.” There, that sounded plausible enough. People wished to be with their family in times of tragedy, did they not? ”I am thinking of taking Argella with me,” she added for good measure. ”Steffon has spent so much time with his Lannister kin, I think it prudent that she is able to do so as well before both she and Myrcella are married and starting families of her own.”
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ROBERT BARATHEON
 Posted: Mar 13 2018, 09:57 PM
Quote
Nica is Offline
40 years old
STORMLANDS
Targaryen
Baratheon
Storm's End
Lord


Where the large man's sapphire gaze might have typically been hard while gazing upon the woman he called wife, today, it was merely tired, and the gem-toned gaze was glassy rather than glittering. He felt like a faded tapestry; the colors might still have visible, the images still clear, but without depth. Without vitality. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of dreamwine, the current effects of the wine in his goblet, or perhaps it was something else. Perhaps it was the memory of water flooding his lungs, the memory of how he'd nearly succumbed. Or perhaps it was grief; the feeling settling over him like a shroud, darkening his vision, the weight heavy upon his chest, rendering it difficult to breathe. Still, at her barb, he felt himself bristling, felt some of that Baratheon fire rise into his chest. "I invite you do better with your left hand," he snapped in return, spreading his good arm out as if to demonstrate his invitation, and gesturing at his quill. An eyebrow was quirked, and his gaze darkened. "They're legible. I can't imagine anyone expecting more from a one-armed man."

A trip to the Rock. Robert could hardly be dismayed at the opportunity to be bereft of his wife. "Excuse me while I contain my disappointment," he replied, voice as dry as the Dornish sands. The stare he leveled the blonde with was flat, uncaring. Perhaps, once, there had been passion in that gaze, whether anger, lust, or maybe, just maybe, love. Now, all had burned away, leaving but a husk. A skeleton of emotion. Still, there was some kindling lurking deep behind his gaze, the suggestion of future blazes. "Don't let me stand in your way," he commented, shrugging again, the movement of his broad shoulders jostling his injured arm. He couldn't contain the involuntary grimace of pain that crossed his features, but the scowl returned as swiftly as it left. "Does Argella wish to join you?" Robert asked, the words just a breath away from being termed a demand. "I very much doubt she'd revel in your presence," he commented, a twist of his lips something like condescension. "Further, with her recent capture, she is not leaving Storm's End without half an army." He growled the last words in the sentence, some of the absent fire flaring in his deep blue gaze.

"Perhaps you ought to bring Joffrey instead." The words were dismissive, offhand, as if he was discussing a horse, not his child. 'His' child. At the thought, his gaze darkened infinitesimally. Despite recent overtures, and Joffrey's recent heroics, the Lord Baratheon would never see the golden-haired youth as his son. A resident of Storm's End, perhaps, but there was no sign of the storm in his Lannister good looks. No sign of fire in that green gaze. "Joff has only rarely strayed from Storm's End. Perhaps a change of scenery will benefit him." Another shrug, this one more careful. "He ought to get to know the Lannisters. He is one, after all." Robert couldn't resist the barb, the remnant of an ancient argument when the opportunity presented itself. And perhaps, with the boy and his mother out from beneath his roof, Robert would begin to make overtures to rid himself of him for good. Despite being the second son, the name Baratheon meant something, and Robert was certain he could locate a match far away from Storm's End. "Was there anything else I can say 'no' to? Or may I return to what I was doing before I was interrupted."

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CERSEI BARATHEON
 Posted: May 26 2018, 10:54 PM
Quote
Ash is Offline
37 years old
STORMLANDS
House Baratheon
House Lannister
Storm's End
Lady


Taunting her husband was one of the few joys Cersei had at Storm’s end, and watching him bristle at her words brought a triumphant smirk to her lips, even if only for a moment. He was right, of course. She could not have done any better with her left hand; the difference was that Cersei took little issue with delegating tasks she deemed menial. Then again, menial was in the eye of the beholder, she supposed. If Robert deemed it worthy of his attention, it was a responsibility she desired in turn, if only to berate him further for his incapabilities. “Don’t be so stubborn,” she scoffed, snatching the few that remained. ”I’ll finish them. You’ll only make the rest of us look equally incompetent for having allowed you to continue.”

It wasn’t helping if she was insulting him in doing so. Or so she told herself.

Cersei sipped her wine, her husband’s indifference not fazing her in the slightest. This was their usual dance, alternating between trying to get a rise out of one another and being entirely unconcerned with what the other did. There had been little worry that he’d forbid it - if anything this would give Robert the opportunity to unashamedly bring whores into Storm’s End and fucking them in his own bed rather than in the dodgy brothels he frequented. The only reason he might have denied her was to annoy her, which is precisely why she asked when he was tired from the recent wars and his own injury. She might have smirked as he winced in pain, if it wasn’t immediately followed by his own barbed words.

That she and her daughter did not get along was hardly a secret. Cersei loved all of her children, truly she did. But a child that preferred Robert’s company and praise to her own irked her, and she couldn’t help resenting the girl somewhat for it. Argella was the only daughter she had raised, and Cersei had so hoped for a girl that would admire her and grow to emulate her. Needless to say that was not what she’d gotten. Still, she had hoped that a trip to the Rock might offer them some last chance to bond before the girl was wed - or that Myrcella could be some sort of influence on the sister she knew as her cousin. The girls had spent so little time in one another’s presence, a regret she carried with her silently, hidden beneath the surface of her request.

Frustration knit her brow and Cersei breathed a sigh through her nose. There was no legitimate argument she could share aloud, and so she did not press the issue. Argella would remain here. “Fine,” she said curtly, not wishing to argue. Robert suggested she take Joffrey and Cersei shrugged. Generally she preferred to have her children near to her at all times, but she knew her husband well enough to know his reason for suggesting she take the boy. Sure enough Robert asserted as much almost instantly. He is one, after all. It cut deep, as intended, and it was the lioness’s turn to bristle at his words. ”He is. Just as Steffon and Argella are. Her tone was only mildly defensive, having fought this battle numerous times over. Robert had no proof, beyond Joffrey’s golden locks. And why shouldn’t her child have her own fair hair? Argella had her eyes - did that make her any less a Baratheon? But they’d worn the argument out by this point. “Perhaps if Tybolt were still alive,” she mused. Tycen was hardly the influence Joffrey needed, though Tycen was also in King’s Landing with his sister. What Joffrey needed was to feel like a Barathone - something she would never have condoned if Robert were not so uninclined to give it. ”But if you wish it I shall ask him.”

Draining the last of the wine in her glass, Cersei set it on the edge of the desk, collecting the rest of the unfinished letters. “Not today,” she responded, lips pursed as she turned to go.


Fin.
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