malyias - Tumblr blog

* ── [ jessica henwick, cisfemale, she/her. ] : in the frays of king aerys iii's reign, therein remains malyia manderly, the twenty - nine year old lady of white harbor. rumor has it that their loyalties lie with houses stark and manderly and they are neutral to the targaryen reign. they're so shrewd + insightful that it makes sense, but most seem to look past their reticent + resentful nature.

* ── act one: the shellskinned girl, the softeyed shrew. candlewax. to pull at a tight thread. a clever step on the ice, and the river swallowing you whole. act two: the cautious fable, the careless ending. a mermaid, a needle, a drop of blood. the sea is coming in through the windows, now, the stones are slick with saltwater. it’s act three: the unraveling.

to begin:

full name: malyia meralith manderly. pronounced mah - li - yah.

title: lady of white harbor.

familiar nicknames: lyia, m, the shrew of white harbor.

born: eleventh day of the eleventh moon, 371 ac. new castle, white harbor, the north.

zodiac: scorpio sun, gemini moon, aries rising.

familial connections: the late ruling lord wyman manderly ── father, dowager ruling lady mara manderly née mallister ── mother, ruling lord manderly ── older brother, lady melony manderly ── younger sister, lord orwen umber of the last hearth ── ex fiancée / deceased .

relationship status: betrothed. * wanted connection !

character parallels: katherine minola, siobhan roy, margaery tyrell.

sexuality: lesbian with comphet, probably. tbd.

shrewd: lyia is undeniably astute. she’s clever, discerning, and sharp. generally, she’s quite calculated and levelheaded. she can be cold and austere.

insightful: perceptive and observant. always listening. she has a strong grasp on people and their motivations.

reticent: unwilling to communicate her thoughts and feelings with those around her to the detriment of her emotional wellbeing.

resentful: jaded and cynical, she often expects the worst from people. trust issues.

stop ! content warnings: allusions to self harm , language that may be triggering in the context of eating disorders, mentions of parental neglect / emotional abuse, mentions of domestic violence, drowning / ship sinking.

to elaborate:

you are born the eleventh day of the eleventh moon in the heart of a summer storm, where the white knife meets the bite. you are so quiet, so calm, that had you come out any bluer they would have thought you already dead. you are a near - silent child. a clever girl ── an avid reader, an avid listener. and a sponge. you absorb everything around you. you take after your mother. her posture, her affect, her resentful nature, her cynical brow. you learn to dance, sing, sew. you learn to strategize and manipulate. you understand quickly how to tie knots, to think in concentric circles, and to manage other peoples emotions. you will make a good lady, this is clear. a good person, however, is yet to be seen.

this is girlhood: the kelp winds up your legs, pulls you down. your needlework is excellent, your dancing keeps crowds. your fingers bleed, your toenails pop off like tiny, transparent, shells. you pick at the inside of your elbow, you stab your thigh with a dinner fork. a flood of embroidery floss and oysterpearls wrap around your neck, and the waves of pressure crashing on the shallow rocks of your ribcage are relentless: unforgiving. it is like being choked from the inside out.

eldest daughter: what did you expect? to be free? to man the deck of a ship, to slide along the planks, to dangle from the mast? what did you want, girl? to be poor? to be starved, empty, clawing? are you not satisfied? are you yet starved, empty, clawing, under your oysterpearls? you do not get to clamber up the crows nest, girl, you are the masthead: hold still, don’t shout, don’t scream, don’t wail. you are the masthead: be perfect, frozen, half-naked, beautiful. you are the masthead: keep us steady, bring us luck.

your father is the master of ships, your mother master of you. she watches your every move, categorizes your every indiscretion. ( and, as you age, the indiscretions do number. ) you are quick to note your discomfort with your various suitors. each of them noble, each of them rich, each of them completely dense. you have no interest in marrying, particularly not at sixteen, and so you make scaring away potential husbands your full time occupation. you snark, you torment, you make it clear that should you be married into their family, you would be a never ending nightmare. you gain reputation as a frigid bitch, which you feel suits you quite nicely.

enter: lord orwen umber of the last hearth, eldest son of the ruling lord. you’re twenty - four by now. it’s winter, and you wonder if you’ll ever see your sister again. ( where you are a masthead, the minnow is a ship: she gets to scrape at the freedom you so long for. ) orwen is handsome enough, and if you scare away another potential husband you fear that your parents will send you off to take your vows and live the rest of your life a septa. he’s handsome enough, so what does it matter that he’s brutish and cruel? he’s handsome enough, and you are running out of options. nothing you say can scare him away, nothing you do. not even cutting off your waist - length hair in the middle of the night with a pair of kitchen scissors. you pray to the maiden, the mother, the crone. the night before he is to arrive in white harbor one last time and steal you northward, you pray, in desperation, to the sea.

his ship is sunk in the early morning by a swell of bewildering proportion. there is only one victim. orwen. who was handsome enough, but once cut your cheek with a bone handled knife. you begin to speak to the ocean, on occasion, like she is an old friend who has done you a kindness. because, you decide, she is. years pass and your parents let you try your hand at playing diplomat. they allow you to mourn for your betrothed by allowing you the freedom to travel the north, the reach, the crownlands, to bounce from keep to keep. you prove yourself useful, teaching young ladies to embroider and dance with your acumen, and teaching them the art of listening while you’re there. your political savvy is nothing to balk at either, touring your ancestral lands and rallying bannermen for your father, securing resources to ensure his territories survive the long winter by cementing longstanding alliances in the reach.

everywhere you go, you honor house manderly with the smallfolk, especially in the north. you travel with a woodswitch for about a year, learning remedies for common ailments and how to put that aptitude with a needle to use stitching up wounds. while your reputation among the highborn remains mixed, the lowborn folk of the north spread tales of you saving their children from dog bites, of teaching their daughters to dance sing and sew like noblewomen, of writing letters of advice to young women that are honest and touching. you learn perspective, something your mother never had. you learn empathy, something that you were sorely lacking. you find purpose in writing letters of political insight, spreading your northern sentiment through the country.

but then your father dies. and you travel home for the funeral. and now there is no escape from the prospect of marriage. your days of mucking through the northern countryside, of sailing along the white knife, and of lounging in the noble gardens that would have you come to an abrupt end. you could have taken off again after the funeral, but your mother is alone now. your sister didn’t even come home to see off your father. you can’t leave the dowager to fade into the walls of new castle. you stay. the next two years are a retraining in the ways of castle management, lessons in courting a husband when you’re in your late twenties and a massive bitch. you are betrothed again, to your widowed mother’s delight. once again, you have no interest in marrying this person. you make the decision to leave again when, by luck, you are summoned to king’s landing. you say goodbye to white harbor again, maybe for the last time.

to summarize:

the middle child and eldest daughter of the late ruling lord & dowager ruling lady of white harbor. twenty - nine & unwed. raised to be the perfect lady, suffered in silence for years, scared away potential husband after potential husband, escaped a particularly horrendous match by begging the ocean to kill him for her and then seeing his ship sink which probably was a freak accident but also *britney spears voice* woah girl, ran around the country for a few years doing whatever she felt like, moved back home when daddy dearest croaked, got engaged again, decided she didn’t wanna be married again, was about to run for it when she was called to king’s landing for the coronation. fin.

uhhhhhhh i’m sorry this took me eighty years to post and it came out long and winding. the end is a bit rushed bc i just wanna wriiiiiteeeee. pls come plot with me i promise i’m fun xxxxxx