gael-hightower

[gael-hightower]

Gael smiled a little when she told him she had heard a part of the last play recited by someone she knew. It was an endearing image, to picture the other woman giving voice to those lines, however imperfectly, and Laena listening, absorbing all of it. He wasn't too precious about the right way to read poetry in casual situations, as he was about a proper performance of it on the stage. He liked to think people could enjoy verses without the pomp and circumstance of the theater. He hummed softly, wondering which of the last three monologues had stayed with her. “Was it King Constantine's monologue?” he asked, raising his eyebrows with some curiosity. It was one of the most popular ones in the whole trilogy, after all. He did not think it was accidental that Constantine, who was inspired by their own King Cedric, happened to be one of the most well-liked characters in the tragic plays. “What stayed with you, if you don't mind me asking?” he said after a beat, “I enjoy learning what lingers with people”.

There was something about Laena’s quiet composure that reminded him, very distantly, of when he’d first heard about Florence's existence. Gael had been younger and so eager to meet someone else of his blood, to know what sort of relationship he could build with his half-sister. Laena was not like Florence in a way. She did not seem to guard herself as much and speak in half-truths. The young lady before him had a way of being steady and sharp even in her kindness. And she appeared to be a sincere listener. Gael found that the more he conversed with Laena, that he wished to keep speaking with her. Perhaps a good relationship could be formed for the distant cousins. “It isn’t foolish, by the way,” he said in a gentler tone, referring to her sewing. “To create something with your own hands is no small feat. That’s art as well”.

The lady took a seat, and the Master of the Arts walked towards the bench as well, but he didn't sit down. He remained standing before her, a few paces away. His posture was more relaxed than when she found him, moving his arms to leisurely rest behind his back. Understanding what silence could hold. He was still thinking about her words, about what she spoke of her grandmother, and the reflections that came with the diligent work of creating something. “I suppose some of us observe and listen more than we speak,” the writer added after a moment. “But I do believe much of what we don’t say ends up coming out in some way in the end”. In the emotions between a line of verse. In the patterns that a needle and thread could create. “Especially if there isn't someone close to us to lend an ear,”. He didn't have that in his brothers growing up, and only began to open up his mind to friends like Conall or Omer later in life. But by then, Gael Hightower had long started to wield his pen.

laena’s expression softened at his words, not with pity but with recognition. something quiet passed through her, gratitude, perhaps, or the faint ache of hearing truth spoken aloud by someone unafraid to sit beside it. she let the silence linger again, not out of awkwardness this time, but reverence. the garden around them seemed to pause with her, the breeze stilling in the lavender, the hush of birdsong briefly held in the trees.

“i haven’t seen it performed,” she said at last, voice low, “but i've heard fragments of it. some time ago.” her mouth curved slightly at the memory. “one of the girls i was seated with read aloud one of the closing monologue's. she had no sense of rhythm, but still, her voice caught when she reached the end.” laena looked over at him then. “it stayed with me.”

laena moved to settle onto the edge of a nearby marble bench, the cold stone pressing through the fabric of her gown. she smoothed her skirts absently, then glanced up at gael. the air between them remained unhurried, filled with the rustling of distant ivy. it was peaceful, comfortable.

“i suppose,” she began, her voice low and thoughtful, “i put my feelings into the seams.” a wry breath of a laugh followed, not quite amused, more self-aware. “sounds foolish, doesn’t it? but it’s easier that way. fabric doesn’t interrupt. it doesn’t ask you to explain. and when it pulls or knots or refuses to lie flat, you can blame the thread instead of yourself.”

she looked back up at him. “my grandmother taught me to stitch when i was small. said a woman’s hands should always be busy, lest her thoughts wander too far. but i think she knew. i think she understood what silence could hold.”

she tilted her head slightly, her mind clearly far off in the past, yet still present. “i didn’t understand that until much later. but even now, i find it easier to speak in thread than in voice. perhaps it is similar to your writing, though i envy the clarity of your ink."

[gael-hightower]

Perhaps there was some expectation for Gael Hightower to be completely distraught over the sudden death of his wife. Or perhaps no one actually expecting anything at all, since it was known that the marriage had not been forged with love but merely followed duty. The couple even spent time apart during events, lord and lady going their own way, not seen enjoying each other's company too often. So, the truth was that the Master of the Arts did not feel grief. Not truly. He did feel sorry, however. Gael felt truly sorry that Talia's life had been cut short so abruptly, and that he, as her husband, had been unable to foresee that something like this could happen.

His mind had been turning the situation over and over. The reasons behind his wife's murder. He tried to make sense of the timing, the way it happened, the target. Had it been an attack against House Hightower, meant to chip away at what little remained of Oldtown’s legacy? The culprits should have gone for him, right? Or go for Rosie, perhaps. Why Talia? An initial warning, possibly, with more to follow. Or perhaps the target had never the Hightowers, but House Tarly. Something tied to Harlon, maybe, remnants of Alaric's wild claims before he died...

Gael glanced up when Conall spoke, taken away from the silent spiral of his thoughts. “You don't have to say anything,” the lord replied, “Especially since I’ve not given you much to say or reply to”. Whether they talked or not, the Hightower lord felt truly appreciative of his friend's quiet support. Last night, the news spread like wildfire across the Verdant Concord, and Con had been quick to find him, to stand steadfast at his side.

“No, I don't want you gone, my friend,” Gael said after a moment, his voice lower, staring into the contents of his cup. In between trying to make sense of what had happened and trying to move through the shock of it, he had also turned the questions inward and considered in his role in it all. Not as a suspect, fortunately, for no doubt had been cast on him about his lady's mysterious death. Her murder, he amended it in his own thoughts. Gael thought about his role as a widower now. “I keep thinking I should be grieving her better”. In some way, he felt monstrous. What was it about him and his continuous absence of grief? What did it say about him that he'd not truly mourned his brother, his mother, and now his wife? “She deserved better”. In life, and also in death.

closed starter for @gael-hightower setting: in the aftermath of talia hightower, conall offers his support to gael.

dusk had begun to settle over the hightower's quarters, casting shadows around the room conall sat in with gael. without a word, he rose from the table, bare, save for two cups and a full bottle, and busied himself with the act of lighting candles to stave off the darkness with the golden glow of the flame. beyond the windows, the lush expanse of the reach, a vibrant green bisected by the blue of the mander, unfolded, one of the many magnificent views highgarden offered. if he stopped to listen, he would hear the distant sounds of the versant concord carried on summer's breeze. it felt a million miles away from the two of them, sitting silently in this quiet room.

conall would be lying if he said this did not stir up a strange sort of emotion in him. he could easily recall when it was him in gael's shoes, him that people looked at with pity or accusation, though it did not seem as though gael had the misfortune of the latter. he and abigail may not have been a love story for the ages, but that did not mean he was not marked by what had happened to her, that guilt did not linger still. he could not save her, nor talia, nor did he think he could really help gael, but conall remembered, and he understood in a way that perhaps no other could.

the candles lit, he returned to his seat, uncorking the bottle on the table and pouring the amber liquid into the cups. considering he had been in gael's shoes himself, you'd think he'd be better at this, at knowing what to say that might offer a sense of comfort, if not total peace. but he was present, and surely that meant something?

"i don't know what to say, mate," he spoke tentatively. "maybe there's nothing to be said. i don't know. i just... remember what it felt like, you know?" and he remembered how gael had stayed steadfast when others had turned their backs on him. he could not, would not, forget that.

conall cleared his throat, raising his cup to his lips and taking a deep gulp of the drink inside it. "say the word if you want me gone," he offered, one brow raising as he returned the cup to the table and looked at gael. "if you need to be on your own for a bit. otherwise i'll be here for a while. as long as you need me."

[gael-hightower]

A QUIET DEATH DURING THE VERDANT CONCORD

Amid the revelry and brilliance of the Verdant Concord, tragedy has struck. Lady Talia Hightower, wife to Gael Hightower and younger sister to Harlon Tarly, was found lifeless in her chambers by one of her maids. Albeit somewhat distant and not overly enthusiastic about joining her lord husband in all events, the young lady enjoyed good health. Lady Talia was even seen only hours before in quiet conversation with several guests among the gallery and crowded forums. Her death came with no apparent struggles and no wounds. No sign of foul play marked her body. Yet those who know the ways of court know too well that not all deaths bear marks or leave behind traces. Lady Rhea Florent, goodsister to the deceased, has taken up the silent thread of inquiry. A discreet investigation has begun. A list is forming. Who last saw Lady Talia. Who dined with her. Who might benefit from eliminating another figure in Oldtown, or ripping away a Tarly from Horn Hill. The splendor of the Verdant Concord continues, but the gathering of realms has now been stained by something more unsettling. The threat of not knowing who to trust is present. Every guest is a potential witness… or a suspect.

OOC Notes:

NPC Talia Hightower née Tarly, Gael's wife, has died suddenly during the Verdant Concord with no sign of violence or illness. The official cause is unknown, but whispers of poison have begun to circulate.

Rhea Florent, Harlon Tarly, and Gael Hightower are leading the investigation IC. Feel free to DM the muns to engage more with this plot drop in the following ways:

Investigators: Dig into the mystery, uncover secrets, and find the truth.

Suspects: Let your character fall into suspicion, whether through motive, opportunity, or just bad luck/timing.

Others: Be a witness, offer a clue, divulge a lie, stir up rumors, or fan political flames.

There is a planned culprit who will be revealed in due time. No one will be wrongly blamed or punished in an official capacity (unless you want to make your muse suffer). Everyone can feel free to explore suspicion and tension without worry!

Have fun and bring the chaos!

[gael-hightower]

Gael listened with quiet interest, her voice steady and light, yet the weight of her words did not escape him. The silence between the moments, she said. It was a curious thing to say, the sort of poetic thought that caught his attention, but he did not press it further. Not because he didn’t find it worth pondering, but because he understood that some thoughts were more compelling when left partially veiled. Instead, he allowed his gaze to linger on her a moment longer. She didn’t turn to the view like he had, instead she studied him. Gael wondered if the Templeton lady had any artistic pursuits of her own. People who observed like that, with deliberate restraint and well-measured curiosity, often did. “You strike me as someone who likes to pay close attention, my lady,” he remarked, his tone even.

Her teasing earned a soft breath of laughter, not quite a chuckle. “And what would you qualify as interesting, Lady Ginevra?” he asked, lifting a brow as he turned slightly toward her. “A beast difficult to catch? Or else?” The Hightower lord asked with genuine curiosity. She seemed the sort who found games engaging, and in a subtle way, that made Gael become more alert than he'd been earlier. He was no stranger to games of ambition, having seen that close before, and he rarely wished to be a part of it.

The sound of stirring horses and distant voices behind the trees reminded Gael that the morning was progressing quickly. “Breakfast will be served soon,” he said, the words offered with calm politeness. “If you’ll allow me, I’d be glad to escort you back to the tents, my lady”. His tone remained unhurried, formal but warm. “We can continue our conversation on the way. Unless, of course, you wish to linger here longer. Stand with the silence between the moments,” Gael offered, quoting the phrase she'd used earlier.

Ginevra caught the curiosity in Gael Hightower’s gaze, though his words remained measured, thoughtful. She tilted her head slightly, intrigued by the way he seemed to study her in return. His question, so direct yet laced with a quiet interest, stirred something in her; a mix of slight discomfort and a curiosity of her own. Nature was soothing, indeed, but more often than not, her mind found rest in the unpredictability of people, of their motivations, their desires.

“Solace, yes,” she replied after a pause, her voice steady but gentle. “But not in the way you might expect. I find comfort in the way the wind stirs the trees, the rustle of leaves, but it’s the silence between the moments, the stillness, that speaks louder than anything else.” She didn’t look to the landscape as he had done, but instead focused on him, noting the subtle shifts of his expression.

When he asked about the hunt, her lips curved into a smile of her own. “I admit,” she said, her voice teasing, “I find it rather more thrilling to observe than to participate. Though,” she added thoughtfully, her eyes narrowing with intent, “I could be persuaded if the chase promised something… interesting.”

[gael-hightower]

Gael's expression shifted ever so slightly at her question, his lips curving up into a subtle smile. “The Ballad of Thorns and Roses,” he said, his voice touched a certain fondness, as if naming an old friend he hadn’t meant to revisit today. “It was a collection of three plays”. He glanced toward her, curious to know where she meant to lead their conversation. If it was mere civility to inquire about his work, if there was more to it she wished to discuss. “Have you read it? Or perhaps seen any of the performances?”. Laena had only said she'd heard of it, however, but he did wonder if she knew more than she let on.

“I’m writing more now,” he went on, managing to speak with ease despite not always knowing how to speak of his work. “I’ve written more poetry in the past couple of years, but playwriting seems to summon me back. There’s something about shaping a voice for others to carry, for an audience to witness”. His tone was light, but his words were deliberate. “And yes,” the Master of the Arts added after a pause, his gaze returning to Laena with more gravity, “things like this... grief, duty, the weight of history... It all makes me reach for the quill”. Gael paused for a moment, hesitating on whether to go on or not. In the end, he did choose to share the more vulnerable element of writing with Laena. “I do think every artist pours something of themselves into their work, whether they mean to or not. Writing helps me… understand what I’ve lived through. Or at least sit with it for a time”.

He offered her a small, knowing smile. “It’s not intrusive to ask, Laena. We are kin, after all. Perhaps it’s time our family began asking questions that matter, and answering them honestly”. There was no accusation in his tone, only a reflection he had evidently thought about many times as a Hightower. “I don’t mind your curiosity. In fact, I think I welcome it,” Gael admitted, willing to open a door for her that had not been there before.

laena nodded, letting the conversation settle like the ripples in the fountain before them. she had never quite known what to say to the hightowers, never certain what part of herself they might accept or reject. gael, at least, seemed less inclined toward the weight of expectation, but there was still something carefully guarded about him, something she wasn’t sure even she could unravel.

her gaze lingered on his hand, the brief warmth of his touch before it fell away. a quiet understanding passed between them, and laena did not press further. “yes,” she murmured, “what’s done is done.” the words felt final, but not dismissive, simply an acknowledgment that no amount of conversation could change the past.

gael being a poet was not something laena would have expected before, but now, standing here with him in the quiet of the gardens, it made a strange sort of sense. there was a depth to him, a careful consideration in his words, even when speaking of grief and duty. perhaps that same deliberation found its way into ink and parchment.

"i’ve heard of your work," she admitted, her tone light, but sincere. "a play, wasn’t it?" she tilted her head slightly, watching him. "are you working on another?"

laena let the moment linger, the soft trickle of the fountain filling the space between them. then, with a curious tilt of her head, she asked, “do you find muse in it?”

her voice was quiet, but not uncertain. “in all of this, the past, the grief, even duty. or do you look elsewhere?” her lips curved, just slightly, as she considered him. “i wonder if inspiration comes easily to you, or if you must chase it.”

she pressed her lips together, rolling them as a surge of awkwardness settled over her. "i apologize if that is intrusive, i've always been curious how others' minds work in that regard."

[gael-hightower]

Leonid Pasternak  (Ukrainian, 1862–1945) - The Torments of Creative Work

[gael-hightower]

It was an odd thing, to find himself at Longtable for celebrations. The city and its surrounding fields were filled with laughter, music and the scent of rye. Once, years ago, this place had been a part of the battlefield —a place for a brutal siege led by his own family. Despite such bitter history, Seffora Merryweather had extended her invitation to House Hightower too. Surrounded by the revelry, seeing bright banners and listening to music, Gael couldn't quite believe it was all in the past and forgotten. He just hadn't figured out the angle the ruling lady of Longtable played.

The warmth of the fires and the music had a way of lulling one into ease. The Master of the Arts wasn't quite there yet, but he was trying, at the very least, to calm his tension and have a good time.

He had not been searching for the Blackbars, not intentionally. But perhaps the subconscious wish for familiar faces led him to her. He was not as close to Caitria as he was to Con, but having paid a fair share of visits to the Blackbar lord meant he felt quite at ease around her. “Ah, so that's the secret,” he mused with a smile. “And here I thought luck required enough prayer, or perhaps a coin in the right hand”.

His gaze flickered to the great horn of plenty being paraded through the square, ribbons with blessings fluttering in the evening air. He could appreciate having such traditions to celebrate the cycle of life and the seasons. Of beginning again. He turned back to Caitria then, offering a playful smile to his friend's sister. “But if all it takes is a dance, I suppose it would be foolish to waste the opportunity,” he said as he held out his hand for the lady to take. “And your brother would never forgive me if I doomed you to bad luck, Cait”.

open starter: 0/3 location: set at the RYE SOWING FESTIVAL at longtable in the reach during the celebration. open to anyone who would like to attend

the scent of freshly tilled earth and spiced rye ale filled the air as caitria blackbar moved through the festival grounds, the hum of laughter and lively music weaving around her like a familiar melody. the chill of winter had not yet fully loosened its grip, but the warmth of the bonfires and the energy of the celebration were enough to chase away the last remnants of the cold.

dressed in a gown the color of spring leaves, embroidered with delicate golden wheat along the bodice, she fit seamlessly into the festivities. a crown of woven rye and wildflowers rested upon her dark hair, though a few loose strands had already begun to slip free in the evening breeze.

she lingered near a long wooden table laden with food and drink, watching as ribbons tied with blessings fluttered in the wind, attached to the great horn of plenty being paraded through the square. there was something about the festival’s traditions that fascinated her,a celebration of life starting again after the winter. it was always a joyous party and one that she looked forward to each cold season.

lifting a goblet of rye ale to her lips, she cast a glance over the crowd—familiar faces and strangers alike, each lost in their own revelry. it was the kind of gathering that encouraged all types conversation.

a slow smile played at her lips as she turned slightly, tilting her head in curiosity at the approaching figure. "tell me," she mused, voice smooth and inviting, “will you be dancing tonight? it’s supposed to bring you good luck if you do”

[gael-hightower]

Gael regarded her with growing interest as she spoke. Something shifted, almost imperceptibly, in his expression. The Master of the Arts had not expected to find this commonality with the king's cousin, such a kindred understanding of beautiful expressions of a creative nature. It was one thing to simply admire beauty, to acknowledge a piece’s grandeur, but it was another entirely to see more deeply into it. He found Matilda's words almost poetic, as she recognized the hands that shaped the structure they were looking at, as she considered the purpose behind every stone.

“There’s something powerful in it. The idea that something crafted with care could outlast the hands that made it,” he added after a beat, smiling as his attention shifted from the Lion's Tor to the Tyrell lady. “A piece should stand on its own, but I admit I also think about those who made it more often than not. What was the purpose? What were they hoping to achieve, to communicate”. It was likely the artist in him, who thought of other artists too, not only their creations.

“By the sound of it, you an artist's heart, Lady Tyrell,” the lord offered with an affable tone, a subtle smile gracing his lips for a moment. It takes one to know one, people said. It wasn't idle distraction to have an eye for beauty and the artistic expressions around them, and to articulate a worldview as poetically as she had, was a clear sign in Gael's mind. It was a special sensibility, and he wondered just how much it might have been nurtured in her or not.

The poet, in his own way, also wondered what stories could be born from this space. It was the very reason he'd come here with a notebook in hand, open to the inspiration this location brought. He'd drafted lines and ideas, impressions, nothing quite finished or fully formed. The idea crossed his mind that he might just share a future draft with the Tyrell lady, since she had taken in this place so fully, and thus could be a good judge of whether or not his writing did this place justice.

He exhaled lightly, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s a shame, truly, that we hadn't spoken much before now, my lady,” he admitted. There was something genuine in his tone, an appreciation not just for the conversation but for the way her mind worked. The Hightower lord was curious to learn more about her, truth be told.

the lion’s tor loomed before them, its jagged silhouette etched against the pale gold of the afternoon sky. sunlight spilled over the ancient stone, casting long shadows across the ground, while the wind carried the faint scent of wildflowers from the surrounding hills. hazel eyes, curious and bright, were drawn upward to the structure's weathered facade, a testament to both the skill of its builders and the weight of centuries gone by.

“it’s imposing, isn’t it?” she murmured, tilting her head as though the shift in perspective might unlock the secrets of its design. “not simply in size, but in the way it commands the landscape, as though daring time itself to erase it.”

she glanced at gael hightower, a faint smile playing on her lips as he spoke. his words, thoughtful and warm, matched the reflective mood of the moment. “an eye for detail, you say?” she replied, her tone light yet edged with playful humor. “perhaps. though i always fear my interest in such things might be mistaken for idle distraction rather than genuine curiosity.”

her gaze returned to the tor, her fingers brushing absently against the embroidered vines on her sleeve. “architecture intrigues me, yes. it tells a story, doesn’t it? of the people who dreamed it, who shaped it, who walked these halls and looked out from these gates. each detail, deliberate. each stone, a legacy.”

she turned back to gael, her expression thoughtful. “but it’s not only the walls that hold my interest. art, music, even gardens—anything crafted with intention and care. there’s beauty in that. in shaping something lasting.” matilda also yearned to have such an ability to craft such visions, but alas, she would content herself with admiring others, instead.

at the mention of the children of the forest, her brows lifted slightly. “a gateway,” she repeated softly, her gaze drifting back to the grand gate. “a relic of what was. how strange, and yet how fitting, that their touch lingers here, so far from the forests. i wonder what stories this place might tell if it could speak.”

[gael-hightower]

Gael hummed softly at her words, contemplating how to respond to them. Laena was well-meaning, of course, in offering condolences for people she did not know well. She offered her condolences because she was supposed to offer them to him, and Gael in turn, was supposed to mourn those hacked away from his family tree. In many ways, he'd mourned the loss of his relationships with his mother and brother many years ago. Now, speaking of them in the irrevocable past tense, there was a strange, hollow sensation in his chest. Not grief, not quite, because for better or worse, as callous as it could seem, the lord had buried his family while they still lived. “Thank you for your words, Laena,” he said again, finding nothing else to say about it.

His gaze momentarily shifted to the cascading water of the fountain. The gentle rhythm of it was soothing, an idle reminder that like water flowing, the world carried on, indifferent to losses. “I haven't been to Oldtown in years,” he admitted, his voice even, though there was an edge to it. It was subtle but hard to miss. There was no sorrow in the statement, nor any nostalgia. “I've divided my time between Highgarden, the Arbor, and Brightwater Keep,” he added after a beat, his lips pressing into a faint, almost wry smile. “Apologies, perhaps I ought to have let you know that”.

Gael did notice there was something measured in the way the lady carried herself, in the way she chose her words. He wondered if she too experienced what it was to be tethered to something without ever truly belonging to it. “But well, I suppose I'll have to go back more often now,” he mused. Far too few Hightower remained, and it was likely he would be warden to his niece until she became of age to rule Oldtown in her own right. It was something he had yet to discuss with the King, but he imagined lawfulness would dictate matters were conducted that way. “Please, don't worry, you need not say more about this,” he offered, letting a hand rest on her shoulder for a moment, a softer expression appearing on his face. “What's done is done”.

the gardens of highgarden were quiet, the usual murmur of birds and wind lost to the weight of their conversation. laena clasped her hands before her, the rich green of her gown blending into the hedges behind her. her cousin stood a step away, his posture seemingly tense, the soft light of the setting sun brushing over his sharp features. the distance between them was not just physical; it was the unspoken chasm that had always defined their relationship, rather, laena's relationship with her hightower blood as a whole.

"it's okay, i understand,” laena admitted, her voice measured, she could sense the guarded wall he kept, which was understandable given the topic of discussion, and all that he had been through in this. “i did, sort of, but not well. i visited the hightower a few times when i was younger." she wanted to explain her lady grandmother was close with alicent, but just the thought of her other grandmother felt bitter, and so she left it be.

the breeze stirred, brushing a strand of her silver-blonde hair across her face. she tucked it behind her ear, her movements slow, contemplative. "i wanted to say something to you sooner, but i'm afraid i could not find you when we were in oldtown." she was uncertain if he took his grief alone and in isolation, or was simply busy with other matters at the time. lilac gaze flickered to gael briefly, then back to afountain at the garden’s center, where water spilled in a soft, unending rhythm. "though i wish i had more to say."

[gael-hightower]

Gael’s gaze shifted from the towering structure back to the Tyrell lady, looking at her with an interest that went beyond polite curiosity. He had a tendency to wish to build bridges between himself and those who also had an eye for beauty, for any artistic pursuit. “I imagine you have an eye for detail, my lady,” he said in a more light-hearted manner. “Most people look but don't pause to observe. Not everyone would linger on a place like this, let alone wonder about its history, its purpose”. The faintest of smiles appeared on his lips, warm enough to soften the edges of his more polite, guarded demeanor.

“Tell me, is it only architecture that intrigues you, or do you find yourself drawn to other artistic pursuits as well?” the Master of the Arts couldn't help but ask. He leaned forward slightly, his posture casual yet intent, hinting at his genuine curiosity to hear her reply.

The king's cousin also appeared interested in the same topic that had caught his own attention about this place. The Children of the Forst. “I'm no expert,” he said, for it was his turn to admit how little he actually knew about the topic. “But in the ancient times, they were supposed to have lived here in this area too”. That made it all the more intriguing for him. How entirely extinct their presence felt in Westeros, except for northern regions. “And here, their gateway,” Gael smiled softly, looking at the grand gate once more.

matilda noted the way he held his notebook, almost protecting it with the palm of his head, and it only made her all the more curious. she had always thought she was cursed to not truly understand one's passion for a thing that they felt coursed through their own veins, allowed their very hearts to beat inside their chests. the lady of house tyrell simply didn't have something of that nature for herself, at least, not yet. she had dabbled in a multitude of things: music, arts, literature, but nothing had truly struck her, though, in her quest for such a thing, she had come to learn a little about a lot, and that at least made for a good conversation. conversation, at least, she was good at.

"i do." she admitted, and it were somewhat of a truth, she found beauty in architecture though little opportunity to pursue it beyond observation, at least this moment provided just thought. sea-green hues floated upwards to the top of the tower, which was just shielding the sun from her eyes, casting a halo of light around the crest of the structure. "i'm no expert by any means, but i've always been intrigued." she offered a wave of her hand at his disclaimer, a sign that she did not mind, nor expect him to be able to give her the entirety of the story.

hands remained crossed in front of her, fingers clasped as she listened to the son of house hightower speak, and while she had her own reservations about the house, she found his insight fasinating enough to draw her into this conversation. "the children of the forest?" she repeated in question, brows raised. she were surprised to hear of such magic in the realm of the west, and it's history allowed to continue amongst the many changes in this kingdom. "it is very peaceful here. i fear if i knew much of the tale, i might be able to have more appreciation for it." matilda had always found herself struggling with introspection, often filling moments of silence that didn't necessarily need to be, perhaps to get out of her own mind. she looked around at the others drawn to this area, however. "the structure alone, however, is captivating. it makes one wonder what purpose it served."

[gael-hightower]

Gael then turned his gaze from the view to study her for a moment, the faintest flicker of curiosity in his clear eyes. Ginevra Templeton carried herself with the kind of poise and grace the people of the Vale were known for, yet her tone contrasted with that. She sounded earnest, unpretentious. “Soothing to the mind,” he repeated, a subtle nod accompanying his words. His lips curved slightly, for the Master of the Arts had inevitably thought of what this sort of scenery might inspire him to write.

“Do you often find yourself in need of the solace of nature, my lady?” he asked out of curiosity. He let his attention drift back to the landscape before him as if allowing her the space to answer —or to avoid answering altogether, should she choose. He pondered if places like this one held the same enchantment for those who lived there as they did for those who could only visit. He dismissed Oldtown so casually just a moment ago when the Templeton lady attempted to speak of its wondrous views. Gael did not bore her with his musings, instead facing her again to say “You are one of the few women who chose to join the expedition, my lady. I'll admit I was surprised. Do you hunt? Or did you choose to only grace us with your company in between the moments of the chase?”.

A smile twisted her lips as she bowed her head in turn at the Hightower Lord. "I have never been, I must admit." Oldtown had never been a place her brother had taken her to. Ginevra had never had a reason to go. "So I will take your word on it." The words dripped with teasing, albeit companionable and light. Perhaps it was a natural, instinctual response to the disdain she thought to detect in his voice. An immediate urge to soothe the waves before they could even begin to grow.

His words were dipped in such true awe of what he saw that Ginevra immediately eyed him with more interest. She had always thought of the Hightowers as a concealed danger, hungering for the power they had once harbored as part of the only ruling family in the seven kingdoms. Not a lover of nature and beauty. "If you speak to Percy, perhaps he will permit you to visit more often. Spending time amongst nature and sights like these can be quite... soothing to the mind."

[gael-hightower]

Hunting had never been a pastime of his as he grew up. It wasn't something he really acquired the taste for later in life either. Gael Hightower could handle himself well-enough in hunting grounds but it didn't come naturally to him. He had to put the same focus and effort as if he were to sit and write a Dornish style Mahākāvya. He understood the form, he understood the purpose, but executing it himself did take more diligence than he cared to admit.

The Master of the Arts glanced up, his expression brightening at the sight of a familiar face. The face of a friend, as unlikely as it turned out to be. Such was life, Gael had found, finding antagonists at home and encountering unexpected kindness in a man fate positioned to be his foe on the battlefield. When the Dragons danced, so many became enemies. Some took such rivalry to heart, but for others, it was nothing deeper than one of the many repercussions of fulfilling a duty. So Gael had not hated the Karstark lord then, even less so during that brief truce and respite to gather the dead bodies from the field.

“Thank you,” Gael greeted with a subtle, tired heave. “My gods, am I aging so poorly?” he half-joked before bringing the skin of ale to his lips for a sip. Gael knew his weariness wasn't tied to age at all but to the fact that the Karstark lord happened to be a far better hunter. Aleks and he were the same age, after all, with the other one looking very much in his element while Gael didn't quite move about as if this was all instinctive or natural to him.

who: @gael-hightower where: during the hunting trip hosted by the knight of ninestars

Some friendships were fragile things.

Forged in precarious situations, scales easily tipped by circumstance and fate. He had found such a friendship with Gael Hightower of all people. They had stood on wholly different sides of the war; one on the side of the green dragons and the other on the side of Rhaenyra Targaryen's faction.

Some friendships formed during the quiet moments, when one dance has ended before another would begin. Some friendships blossomed with kindness. An impossibly gentle moment within inexplicable violence.

Aleksander felt himself half back in a memory now, one foot on a battle field and another on jade green grass in the Vale of Arryn. He approached Gael Hightower and extended a skin of ale. "You look thirsty." The words echoed. Within the glade. Within time.

[gael-hightower]

Closed starter for @fromspringandfire Setting: Flashback, set prior to the departure to the West. The murder of Lady Simonetta and Lord Garland continues to loom over the Reach.

It continued to be an odd experience for Gael to receive condolences for the loss of his lady mother and older brother. He knew how he was expected to respond to such words of sympathy, how he was meant to feel, and yet the emotion never truly manifested within him. Not genuinely, at least. He did love his mother until the end, even if only in some distant and cold way that was but a vacant representation of what that bond between mother and son ought to be. As for Garland... perhaps it had been brotherly love that they had once, when they were only boys who followed suit in what brothers were meant to mean for each other. But in truth, in the end, there was no love for the man the late Lord of Oldtown became. It had been a clear statement that Gael did not attend that funeral. He refused to be a hypocrite in that way.

So, when Laena approached him to speak about the losses of House Hightower, Gael only stiffened subtly. “Thank you,” he replied with a light nod, pursing his lips for a moment before managing a light smile. “I don't know what else to say,” he admitted, for she took had links to his house. Having been at the Reach court for as long as she had, this distant cousin of his had seen the cracks in the family.

“Did you know them well, Laena?” he asked after a beat, brows furrowing with some curiosity. Gael had spent so much time purposely keeping his distance from his family that he supposed there were others who knew them better in the end. 'Better', perhaps was not the right word, for Gael had seen close enough into their personalities to wish to stay away. But there were people —maybe Laena included— who got to see the last colors of how Garland and Simonette presented themselves to the world.

[gael-hightower]

There was confidence in him, though he was mindful not to come off as arrogant. That was a trait that had been associated with his house thanks to his father and brother, and the youngest Hightower did not wish to keep that vile inheritance alive in himself. “I cannot —and will not claim your talents as my own, my lady,” he stated simply. With or without a partner to dance with, he'd already witnessed the majesty of her talent in gracefully moving along with the music. It almost seemed like the music followed her rhythm and not the other way around.

On the dancefloor, Gael began leading the Dornish woman in the familiar courtly dance. She was quick to match to the music like one effortlessly matched the inner beat of the heart. “I am. What gave it away?” Was it truly chivalry that made her guess his origin correctly, he wondered. The Master of the Arts posed his question as the dance brought them close together again, one palm landing on the small of her back while his other one clasped her hand. “Will you try to guess my house as well, my lady?” he asked with a hint of a smile before he guided her to spin as the music queued him, gently guiding her to land back in his arms.

“You're Dornish, correct?” he asked then. There was a cultural identity that was so distinct about the people of Dorne and he saw elements of that in her attire, the bangles around her wrist. Based on political conflicts, As a Reachman he wasn't supposed to have much reverence for Dornish folk, but he did. Visiting Sunspear some time ago, he'd been marveled by the culture, the art, the vibrancy of it all. He'd even loved a Dornish lady once. The artist madly in love with beauty sometimes triumphed over the lord in him, as it were. The artist in him was far more present now than the dutiful lord who had a wife who'd expect to see him return to their quarters later.

brows rose at the air of confidence that seemed to emit from his very being. zahra did not mind a partner who didn't know the specific steps, only that they had enough rhythm to follow the lead she eventually would take to, but this lord was different and that alone intrigued her. bangles upon her wrist rang softly as her hand gently gripped his own, allowing him to guide her to the dance floor.

"if you are as good a lead as i suspect, then i do believe my success will be owed to you." she replied, a smile finding itself upon her lips as the music began. while zahra felt somewhat out of place amongst the nobles on the dance floor, she also felt entirely in her element. even if those looked at her in curiosity, or perhaps some, in hatred, there was a strange feeling of yearning for eyes upon her, anyways. years of perfecting her craft had certainly created such a desire within her.

the music began and so did the steps, hers delayed by half a second at first as she observed those around her as well as the lord in front of her, before she fell in step with the rhythm. while they initially began across from each other, the dance soon brought them together again, a hand finding itself upon his shoulder, and the other clasped within his own. "i suspect you are a reachman. i hear you are most chivalrous." she also believed that he were not of the west as she did not believe a westerman would dance so publicly with her, those of the so called new valyria despised her, and the vale seemed far to prudish for his type. "though do correct me if i am wrong."

[gael-hightower]

Gael had seen the young lady a few times before. Striking features like hers were not easily forgotten, even less by an artistic soul with a keen eye for beauty. While the two of them had never conversed like this before, one on one, he knew exactly who was that was approaching him. A proper introduction had been made the day prior when the Knight of Ninestars greeted his guests with his sister by his side. “Lady Templeton,” he greeted politely, a light bow of his head accompanying his words.

“The views of Oldtown are highly overrated,” the Master of the Arts answered with a low laugh. There was veiled disdain in his tone, for he held little love for the place he was meant to call home. It was an extraordinary place in the eyes of many, a hub of progress, some liked to think. Yet the Arbor, Brightwater Keep, Highgarden, or Bandallon felt closer to his heart as homes of sorts than Oldtown did. He appreciated those places and the people he was with there, and for that admired the beauty in those locations in a way he stubbornly, spitefully refused to do for the seat of House Hightower.

“We certainly have nothing like this,” he agreed then, looking ahead to the perfect picture of untouched nature before. “You're fortunate, my lady, to call these your lands”. It was trite, perhaps, but places like this were the sort of environments that sparked the artistic drive in a man like him that made him crave a quill and parchment. He had to commit what he saw, what he sensed, to memory.

Ginevra had decided to ride out early in the morning. It was the second dawn on the hunting expedition her brother was hosting for guests all over the realm. Familiar as well as unfamiliar faces joined, people Ginny knew from conversation and some only from the titles they held. Many were pleasant company, and those who were not, she could deal with politely and then excuse herself either way. She had never learned anything other than to be the perfect Lady. Agreeable to all, even if she found others to be less of the same.

Ginny tilted her head back, allowing her eyes to flutter shut as her horse trotted down the trodden path through the morning shade. Peaceful, the way the birds chirped between the leaves up ahead, the slight rustling in the woods to her sides.

It was luck, if anything, that she opened her eyes when she did.

There was a figure at the edge of an opening in the woods, giving way to a stunning view of the mountain tops. A horse nearby, a saddle with embossing she recognized as one in the east. Hightower, she knew by the sight of the embossings. Ginny tightened her grip around the reigns and steered her horse to the right, leading it to the tree the Lord had tied his own horse at. She swung herself from the saddle and tied her horse there as well.

"I doubt you get to see a view like this in Oldtown," Ginny called out, a smile evident in her tone. She picked the riding gloves off her hands, finger by finger.

[gael-hightower]

truth serum; do you think tirius rowan is too power hungry? would you try to plot his downfall if you could?

“Show me a man in the Reach who doesn't hunger for power or recognition in some way,” the lord replied easily. It wasn't something that happened only in the Reach, of course. It was just the way of the world. It was a near natural state for people, he thought. A state that he was not exempted from either, for Gael himself weaved his art and words with power too, all to maintain what he had and what could be salvaged from what his father and brother left behind. “Lord Rowan is Hand for a reason, and I believe the King trusts him in that position. I trust my king's judgment,” Gael added. “So no, I have no reason to plot the Lord Hand's downfall”.

( @tiriusrowan & @visxionaries )

[gael-hightower]

Closed starter for @dctyandhonor Setting: Lord Percival Templeton hosts a hunting expedition in Ninestars. Among the guests is Lord Gael Hightower.

The Knight of Ninestars welcomed them all in his keep, beginning with a feast on the day of the guests' arrival and proceeding with the hunting expedition early the next day. Not all guests chose to travel to the Vale mountains, with some staying behind in the keep. His wife was among those who chose the luxuries of Ninestars over camping and travelling about for a few days. The tents that were set up in the wooded mountain lacked no comforts, however. The larger of the tents served as the gathering space for the nobles to dine and entertain themselves between the periods of hunting.

The Hightower lord had always been most skilled with a sword than with a crossbow, a lance, or a bow. So this was both a learning experience to polish skills that were rustier than he would like, and an opportunity for him to build bridges after Garland burned everything he'd touched. The Vale was a continent away from Oldtown, but nobles from across the realm had accepted Lord Percival's invitation and so had Gael for that very reason.

It was the second day of the expedition, early in the morning. Gael had left his own tent a while back to get a clear view of the mountains as the sun began to rise, admiring the sort of scenery he'd never witnessed in his life before. Peaks as far as the eye could see, barely a trace of the manmade world beneath the mountains. He was engrossed in his own thoughts, marveled by the stark beauty of such imposing nature that he only registered someone's approach until the lady actually spoke.