ladyregentclarice

[ladyregentclarice]

The swirl of skirts as ladies and lords of the realm danced in time with the musicians who were hardly heard over the sound conversation and laughter, and hazel eyes watched them all. They watched as the blossoms of youth interacted with one another, likely for the first time in such a setting for some, the young maidens with bright, hopeful eyes and the proud looks of the young lords and sers when they had a particularly pretty maid on their arm.

Her good sister had insisted on her attending, her and Roger vowing to watch Lyonel while she and Jon represented House Tyrell and Lyonel, who was far too young even to make an appearance at such festivities.

It was the first she attended not clad in mourning black with a veil covering her hair. Clad in a costly gown made of gold floral brocade cloth and designed in the latest of Reach fashion, as was her hair, braided and looped and covered with netting and pearls. Showing the might and wealth of the Reach.

She would not dance.

Jon had offered, for he had been the one to escort her about for the evening. A stolid, dependable presence that she was ever thankful for, but not even he or any of her brothers nor her own father would be able to beseech her to dance though blessedly none of her brothers nor her father were fool to ask. The last time she had danced, it had been with Lorence.

It was still too soon.

Jon, however, had been plagued by many of young ladies who had sought out a dance with him, though none had been so forward in simply asking him forthright. It was always a bit of a chase, a game of words, though it pleased her a great deal to see Jon dancing and being about eligible ladies. It was about time for him to start looking for an eligible bride.

There is humor in her eyes, a small smile blooming on her lips, as Clarice sat and watched as Jon danced with rather enthusiastic lady that hailed from the Stormlands by Clarice’s estimations, by the cut of her dress and the style that the young lady had done her hair. From the corner of her gaze, she had seen the young woman - one of Prince Daemons daughters with the late Lady Laena Velaryon, though of the two girls Clarice didn’t know which by sight - take a seat in the unoccupied chair besides her, Clarice shifting herself in her own seat as the young woman began the introductions.

“Lady Rhaena,” Clarice gave a courteous bow of her head, mentally pulling forth what information she had heard of the Lady Rhaena, daughter of the Rogue Prince. The more lady-like of his daughters, if rumors were true. Charming, elegant, gracious but with a soul of a dragonrider - a true heir of the lady Laena. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Indeed I am, and thank you. Your own gown is quite exquisite. Your dressmaker has a wonderful eye for detail.” Clarice complimented genuinely, before glancing back out at where she had last seen Jon to ensure he was still in one piece before looking back towards Lady Rhaena. “I must admit, I am surprised to see you without a dance partner.”

Rose Colored Lenses

(Closed starter for @ladyregentclarice)

Rhaena had always held a great love for balls, feasts, and masquerades. In fact, when she had first come to live at the Red Keep a decade ago it was the thing she'd looked forward to the most, and maybe the only one—besides her dragon, Silverwing, who came a bit later—that had never lost it's magic for her. She knew for many, maybe even most, of the people who resided in The Red Keep on a regular basis these kinds of grand events ceased to bring them any real joy or novelty after a time, except perhaps, as an excuse to overindulge in either liquor, gossip, or often both. But where the glamour, festivity, and opulence seemed to so frequently fall flat for the people she was closest with, Rhaena could always succeed in finding a way to make it fun. She loved to dress up, to converse with new people, in the right company to even pull pranks and cause a little chaos, and endlessly, without fail, she loved to dance. The night's ball had officially been hosted by Queen Alicent, a lavish affair to welcome nearly a dozen Houses from The Reach, including the Queen's own, House Hightower, and the regions ruling Lord's the Tyrells.

After nearly two hours straight of dancing Rhaena was forced to take a break as her feet began to buzz with exhaustion, feeling a little bit like they may fall off. She knew how she wanted to occupy her rest, however, because she'd been hearing whisperings for a couple of days now that the young Lady Regent of High Garden, a young woman not much older than herself named Clarice had arrived to represent House Tyrell with her young son, and Rhaena was eager to make her acquaintance. Though few had ever heard her confess to it, Rhaena had often fantasized about marrying into a House in The Reach. She enjoyed the dances that originated there, she enjoyed their fashion, the plays and books that got shipped in from the region every now and then, and she greatly enjoyed chivalries, curtesies, and cheer so many of its occupants she'd met seemed to hold so dear. It wasn't so much about marrying someone from there specifically, she would be happy to marry anyone as long as they were kind and liked children, and were not some second-son or petty Lord who only viewed her as a status symbol. But she wanted some reason to live there, and even more so, a reason to surround herself with people who enjoyed all the same things she did about the place.

After only a couple minutes of looking, Rhaena was directed to where Lady Clarice was sitting. She was not hard to identify once pointed out, blonde, bright-eyed, and lithe as was to be expected of the region, and wearing a gown of Tyrell gold completely covered in flowers. She smiled at this, Rhaena's own gown for the night was absolutely crawling with floral motifs as well, all of which were sewn by her own hand. Lavenders, hyacinths, orchids, lilies, and azaleas all decorating pale lilac silk she had taken dozens of hours to ensure would not tear or bubble under the sparkling gold, pink, and light blue thread. If there was one thing Rhaena could appreciate, it was a woman who shared her taste in fashion. She sat down gracefully in an unoccupied chair beside the Lady Regent at the table to the direct right of the Great Hall's grand dais. The older Lady seemed to be watching the crowd, but could just as easily have been in contemplation; she knew she had lost her husband only a year or so ago and could not imagine the kind of hardship it must have been to her, only hoping it had not robbed the kind of festivities she enjoyed so much of all their magic for her, though she would not blame her if it had.

"Hello, I don't believe we've met, but I wished to introduce myself," Rhaena smiled as she spoke, with an easy charm she'd always been praised for, and a delicate, encouraging tone she had inherited from her mother and perfected under her stepmother. "I am Lady Rhaena, of House Targaryen, Prince Daemon's daughter, and niece to the King, and I've been told you are the Lady of Highgarden, Clarice, right? I hope it is not too forward of me, I just wanted to say I think your gown looks stunning, my Lady."

[ladyregentclarice]

What must she look like to the Hand of the King and the future Queen? A woman barely out of her girlhood, no matter how she was attired, with a delicate face and the weight of the Reach on her delicate shoulders. Could the princess see her exhaustion? Her unending worry? Could she see the cracks in the regal mask Clarice wore? The Hand smiled, but there was something in her eyes that Clarice couldn’t put her finger on to name.

At least her attire was one of neutrality, of a pinkish-violet hue that suited the paler coloring held by those of Valyrian descent far more than the harsh blacks and reds of their sigil.

Clarice could see the moment Lyonels interest was caught at the mention of toys, and her heart breaks when he turns to look up at her with eyes that begged for her to allow him to play. To allow him to be the toddler he was, not the little lord he was forced to be. How she wished she could turn back time and force Lorence to stay away from the competition so that Lyonel could be a child.

At least now, she can give him small moments of childishness.

“Play gently with them.” She stated, with a little nod of encouragement and a bittersweet smile on her lips as her son toddled his way over to the toys as quickly as his young legs could carry him, his chubby hands grasping onto the wooden knights that, unlike his own toy knights, did not possess the Tyrell rose on their shields. She watches him for a heartbeat, two, three, before her attention shifts back towards Princess Rhaenyra.

“As is yours, Princess.” Clarice replied, taking in once more Rhaenyras attire and the power of such display. For even she had known that what you wore sent out an important message to people. And when Rhaenyra flipped her words around, for a moment all Clarice wished to do was ask her to keep the dragons out of the Reach, away from the grasping hands of House Hightower. It was a delicate situation, when a vassal house was far more powerful than their liege lord, and the Hightowers were surely that. And with Prince Daeron with his dragon often at residence among his Hightower kin, along with visits from Princess Rhaenya and her own dragon, it was an increasing worry that Clarice saw little remedy for.

But such a thing could not be spoken, for Clarice worried in what Rhaenyra would think if she spoke of it. For would she look down on Clarice for having such worries? For no maintaining absolute control as Regent! Would she inform the King and revoke her being her son’s regent? Would the crown take Lyonel away from her? The fear of the unknown should she speak kept her silent, flinching as Rhaenyra mentioned Lorence and his passing.

A fresh wound still, even after all this time.

But a wound that Rhaenyra was familiar with, Clarice focusing on her words and trying to ignore the familiar pressure behind her eyes that warned of tears. And there they were, as the Hand of the Kings breath caught in a way that Clarice was all too familiar with these past few years, which may be why Clarice found herself extending a handkerchief out to the Princess while dabbing her teary eyes in her second one that she had gotten into the habit of carrying. Clarice had heard a myriad of rumors about Ser Laenor and the Princess, for one would have had to be deaf not to hear of them, but Clarice had to believe that the depth of emotion in Rhaenyras words spoke of an affection that had been overlooked by the naysayers. That, or the Princess was a brilliant actress.

“I thank you, and the Crowns, condolences and words of support.” Her hands twitch, fighting the urge to play with her handkerchief to distract herself from the open wound that was discussing Lorence. ‘Our Roots Go Deep,’ Clarice silently thinks as Rhaenyra brought up the Tyrell motto. “I will admit that being regent has been quite the education, yet still I have much to learn.” Clarice admitted, her gaze flickering to her son who was playing so happily with the toys provided by the Hand. “Not all are pleased in my regency as there are many within the Reach who do not believe a woman should be governing when there are male relatives available for such position.” Her gaze shoots back to the princess, knowing that she’ll understand exactly what she was saying. “Though I find myself most fortunate to find myself with a good brother and dear cousin who seek not this advancement of position, along with a large family who have married well among the Reach houses and are supporters of my regency.” There is bitter sweetness in her expression as she thinks of how she and Lorence had once spoke of having a large family, one to rival her own if the Gods allowed it. How cruel they had been, to deny them such a family. “But I shall do what is best for the Reach, that I swear to you.”

What is Said Behind Closed Doors

Part of @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood

~ Starter for @black-queen-rising ~

The Red Keep is a terrifying maze of staircases and passageways that would likely take Clarice a good amount of time to come to understand and be able to navigate herself. Though she wished that she would ever remain in such a place long enough to do so, Clarice knew that as her sons regent, if he had need to be in Kings Landing and its Red Keep, then so should she.

Her gaze focused on the attendant before her, guiding them through the labyrinth that was the Red Keep to the Tower of the Hand, to where Princess Rhaenyra claimed as her domain as her father’s Hand. Up the many steps they went, her hold on her son tightening as she felt his small, chubby fingers tighten in the fabric of her dress.

Silently, she thanked the Seven in learning something of the delicately and subtlety of politics, and had seen to it that they weren’t gowned in green nor black for this meeting. Instead, they had taken inspiration from the city and the Red Keep itself, in dressing in red. That deep scarlet of blood, of health and prosperity and conquest and tradition. It suffused every building save few, Clarice noted before when the Tyrell envoy entered the walls of the city. Red was traced on doors, on gables, eaves, and walls.

Lyonel, whose wardrobe contained a majority of greens and golds and rich browns, had been uncaring in the additional color in his wardrobe as one would expect from a two year old. Clarice had ensured that their attire was heavily embroidered with flowers, especially the golden roses of House Tyrell, though she had ensured other florals were added to ensure none mistook them from Lannisters. Her hair had been braided coronet that’s interwoven with a velvet ribbon, though how odd it felt to be about without a veil as she has worn since Lorence died.

She feels the slightest of touches on her back, of Jon ensuring her steadiness of foot while holding their little lord. He and Roger, who was tending to his lady wife, had been her lifeline these past two years in ensuring that her son remained safe. In ensuring that peace and order was the law of the land in the Reach. To give the Targaryens no further cause to cast their sights towards Highgarden, or give their kin in Oldtown the opportunity to further their hold on the region.

And now, set before the future of House Targaryen, it took everything she had to set her son - her only child - down before the Hand of the King and curtsied with her head bowed low as the Targaryen attendant announced who they were to Princess Rhaenyra. Silently thankful that Lyonel had remember what she had told him to do, in bowing politely and uttering a polite “Hallo, Princess.” Her heart filling with pride in her little sapling and bittersweetness that Lorence would never witness this.

“How may Highgarden serve the Realm, your Highness?” Clarice finally spoke, begging her voice to not break and for her hands to not sweat as she gazed into the eyes of a dragoness.

[ladyregentclarice]

Lord: Clifford Oakheart, 67

Lady: Selyse Serry, 57

Daughter: Olene Hewett, 35

- m. Lord Barquen Hewett

- 12 children

Daughter: Talla Chester, 34

- m. Lord Manfred Chester

- 4 children

Son: Ser Franklyn Oakheart, 32

- m. Lady Alysanne Crane

- Seven children

Son: Ser Bayard Oakheart, 30

- m. Bethany Florent

- A daughter

Daughter: Denyse Grimm, 28

- m. Lord Torman Grimm

- 4 children

Daughter: Leona Tarly, 26

- m. Alan Tarly

- Three children

Son: Septon Armond, 25

Daughter: Victaria Hunt, 23

- m. Ser Horas Hunt

- A son

Daughter: Clarice Tyrell, 20

- m. Lorence Tyrell (d)

- lyonel Tyrell

Son: Gyles Oakheart, 19

Daughter: Elinor Oakheart, 17

Daughter: Meredyth Oakheart, 14

Son: Willas Oakheart, 14

[ladyregentclarice]

[ladyregentclarice]

Golden Rays, Golden Roses

(Closed starter for @aliandramartell-1)

She hadn’t expected an envoy from Dorne to be in attendance at court, let alone headed by its ruler.

The day was no different in King's Landing, even as the preparations of more arrivals came to be known to Clarice through the whisper of her maid as she ensured her mistress was readied for the day. Over the past few days, if not weeks more and more men and their families had arrived, with those of higher standing and rank staying within the Red Keep and those lower finding lodgings within the nicer sections of the city.

And while Clarice knew that the Targaryens had, apparently, ironed out who will be next to sit upon the iron throne, there was still a flutter of fear in her belly. Wondering if it was a mistake in being here, in bringing Lyonel here. Surely she should’ve had him stay within the safety of the walls of Highgarden, with Jon and Roger remaining there to protect him should anything happen to her. So that only she would be in harms way, should the dragons fight among themselves.

Even as she walked the halls, she feels their ogling gazes of the court.

She would not pretend to entertain the idea that she wasn’t pretty, for she knew her looks were agreeable. But it was not her looks that made them look, but her position as her sons regent. It was the power she possessed, ruling for her infant son over the fertile, powerful, and wealthy (though surely the Lannisters would argue who possessed the wealthiest region) Reach. It almost made her wish for her mourning veils again, to hide from their hungry gazes as she walked past them all, until she caught sight of some Dornish nobility, something she hadn’t expected to see at the court of the dragons given Dornes refusal to join the realm under Targaryen rule.

Princess Aliandra Nymeros Martell, or at least that is who Clarice presumed the elegant young woman whom the Dornish nobility circled like the moon circled the world, was a beautiful young woman. Regal, Clarice would say, with thick, dark hair and equally dark eyes from what Clarice could see. But what she couldn’t see is the why.

Why would they be here? Is Dorne seeking to merge with the rest of the realm? Are they to bend the knee to the Iron Throne? To King Viserys, or to his heir? Or was this their way of seeking out any weaknesses in which to strike against them all and bring chaos and death to the Stormlands and Reach borders?

She had to find out, for her poor nerves would not be able such uncertainty. Not with Lyonel here at court. Seven, she’ll even put him on a dragons back herself- with a dragonrider, maybe Prince Daeron or one of the young ladies who were dragonriders- if it meant keeping him safe.

“What a rare delight this is, to see Dorne represented so elegantly here at court.” If Lorence was alive, he would know the right words to say to this Dornish princess, but Clarice wasn’t him and was still learning the delicate nature of politics. However, she did know her courtesies and so when she approached the Dornish Princess she had smiled, and gave a bow. “An honor to meet you, Princess.”

[ladyregentclarice]

House Tyrell

"Growing Strong"

Sigil: Rose

Colors: Green and Gold

Seat: Highgarden

Their Vanity was Exceeded Only by Their Ambition

A Tyrell can be graceful, beautiful, kind, and gentle as well as cunning, scheming, protective, and vain.

House Tyrell values family, image, and power.

[ladyregentclarice]

Hannah Dodd as Francesca Bridgerton

Bridgerton 3.01

[ladyregentclarice]

ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ  HANNAH DODD GIF PACK  ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

By clicking on the source link at the bottom of this post you will be able to access #260 gifs that are 268x151 in size from Bridgerton 3x01 - 3x04.

These gifs were all made by me from scratch, for roleplaying purposes. Feel free to crop/resize/edit for personal use. Please don’t repost into gifsets/gif hunts or claim as your own. Please reblog if using. Hope y’all enjoy! 

[ladyregentclarice]

[ladyregentclarice]

Challenge:

Write a scene (at least as long as the post requirement so 200+ words but it can be as long as you like) between your character(s) and any other character within the RP that is NOT currently written or playable! This can be between your character and someone else who is writable but hasn't been taken yet, between your character and an NPC because they're too young, or even a flashback between your character and someone not playable because they've died before where we currently are in the story's timeline!!

She visits him, with a bouquet of baby’s breath, sunflowers, and lavender before the sun even began to stretch its rays across the eastern sky. She comes alone, the only time she was these days, and silently she is thankful for the silent agreement to allow her this time with Lorence. Especially now that his statue had been completed, the likeness both a comfort and a knife in the heart as she placed the bouquet at its feet and gazed upward towards its face as she remembered the horror of that day.

“He is not in pain,” The maester tells her as they stand in the entrance of the tent, the air thick with the scent of sweat and horses and blood. “He has been given milk of the poppy to ease his pain, however…” Clarice could barely hear the man as he spoke of her husband, of the injuries done to his person that gave no hope of recovery. She feels as though she is in a daze, hardly aware of those around her or even the gentle press to cross the threshold into the pavilion that felt like a floral tomb.

And there, laid out as though already on his funeral bier, was Lorence.

She moves towards him slowly, with each step silently begging to be woken from this nightmare as she gazed down at her husband. His eyes were shut, his skin so pale he would’ve blended with the sheets if they weren’t so stained from his blood, his skull incised under his skin, as if his injuries was determined to devour him to his bones.

Clarice choked back tears, fighting furiously against them as she didn’t want him to see her like this. To see her disconsolate; he needed to take strength from her presence, know that she—

“Clarice.”

Immediately she is at his side, taking his hand that felt alarmingly cold to her touch. And in his eyes, red-rimmed, she saw fear. For he did not feel the pain of his injuries anymore, because of the drugs administered, but there was a deeper pain that caused that fear.

Lorence knew he was doomed.

His fingers dug into her flesh as he rasped at her to listen, weakly tugging at her until she leaned in, breathing in the fetid smell of blood and sweat and death.“You must listen to me. I must tell you…I…I failed you. I was a fool, and I have spoiled your happiness with my foolishness.”

“No, you haven’t. Don’t say such things.”

“Clarice.” His hand gripped her wrist, not hearing her refutes as he fought to speak. “Jon and Roger will be castellan and steward for ly-Lyonel, but you will be his regent. You must be his regent.” She must have looked as though she might pull away in disbelief, but icy grip held her in place and his face- By the Seven, his face! “You must work with them, to make Lyonel safe in his lordship. Promise me.” And with tear filled eyes, she promised, and Lorence sighed, fingers unraveling from her wrist, his body limp.

Clarice gazed up at the stone rendering of her husband, tired in a way that she felt in her very soul. It clung to her like a marriage cloak, a heavy weight of exhaustion from just trying to survive one day to the next. Whoever came up with the lie that time healed all wounds, Clarice wanted to scream at them for such a lie.

For time will not heal this wound.

[ladyregentclarice]

credit to @aboutgandw on twitter

reblog or like this post if you save

[ladyregentclarice]

Hannah Dodd as Francesca Bridgerton

Bridgerton 3.01

[ladyregentclarice]

Tyrell and the Reach Hairstyles

Pre-constructed hair pieces made from silk, fake flowers and butterfly wings, so many flowers, and fake fruits. Hair is typically worn loose or in a loose braid/up-do. Ribbons and pearls are used in abundance. Major fairy vibes.

[ladyregentclarice]

05/05/24

"That life is beautiful.

Heart, just be wise."

- Anna Akhmatova; The door is half open…

[ladyregentclarice]

– Audrey Hepburn

[ladyregentclarice]

[ladyregentclarice]

Francesca Bridgerton is really the diamond of this season 💎