#young!cedric001

[omerflorent]

| @visxionaries | | flashback week | | setting: around the red keep |

Omer walked through the apartments of the Reach, made his way out to the training pitch, crossed the grounds and then made his way where he'd last heard someone saying they'd seen his cousin.

They were strained when reuniting, distant in events where Florent and his cousins travelled in packs, Cedric not among them. Eventually, as always, they found themselves together, in the same space.

"Tyrell."

Omer called out to his cousin, rolling his eyes as he watched him chatting with some painter, no doubt talking about her stroke.

"Get over here, my lord." He smiled, "Come on, i'm hungry."

[omerflorent]

visxionaries​:

♠

“not laid my eyes upon the carons, so i’ll be taking your word on it.” he spoke, exhaling lightly at the prospect of conversing with stormlanders. he knew little of them, nor did he entirely expect to. the pair walking briskly through the bustling halls of kings landing. they crossed large amounts of space rapidly, no doubt due to the length of their legs.

cedric looked sideways over at his cousin at the word, almost as though he wondered why they found themselves in this place time and time again, only for nothing to ever change. not truly. they realised they were more alike than they thought they were when they were together, knew to talk more…and then they did not. because that was simply how things were.

“you won’t believe me, but i was genuinely impressed by the textures of her brush work.” cedric spoke, and yet despite the fact he were telling the truth, there always was a look in his eye that made him appear suspicious. he almost laughed, even though he were telling the truth. “we’ve all come here to do what we’re meant to, yeah? put on the armour, aim to knock people off their horse. don’t give me that look.”

for he knew omer would be looking at him, before he even confirmed it. “yes, knighthood is important for the reach. chivalry. consider my service as trying to work out what tensions are stirring. that’s why i’m here.”

.

"Yes, I plan on unseating Caron and several others while I'm here before I inevitably come up against that fucking Prince Daemon, the father not the son. If the father is still interested in his glory hounding." Omer spoke casually with his cousin, distance closing between them. They two sides of the same coin. The little brother he'd always wanted but never saw.

"Of course. Textures and brushes and tits." Omer looked at him and then laughed, chuckling while dragging his fingers over his dark hair then smoothing it down on the sides.  "I like art, as you know. I enjoy landscapes and trees, animals. I've never held much interest in clouds."

Omer nodded his head, agreeing with him. They were there to show the realm that the Reach created knighthood and chivalry. Even if it technically was an Andal tradition from the Vale.

"Of course it is." He raised a brow. "You know not why we're here? I could tell you, cousin, but I wish to watch you figure it out and I get you 100 gold dragons you cannot." Omer would probably lose the bet, it was a good thing the knight didn't gamble often for he often lost his shirt to Cedric.

[omerflorent]

visxionaries​:

♠

“You’re always hungry. Go see a Maester for that.” Cedric spoke, wordlessly turning back to the painter and passing her over the brushes, bowing his head slightly in a way of thanks before turning on his heel, walking alongside the heir of Brightwater Keep. He could smell the food, the smell of roasting meats that would be laid out in the Great Hall for feasting. 

It was enough to make his own belly rumble. And it did. Loudly. “Luckily, I’m famished. Real work that was.”

“The Dornishman?” Cedric asked, when he referred to Criston Cole. Many heard of the fierce fighting skills of the esteemed knight, who had become a member of the Kingsguard. “How’d exactly he get here anyway?”

The two men had begun to make their way down sweeping flights of stairs, both choosing to leap down onto the stone of the Red Keep as they neared the bottom rather than continuing to walk. It were wordless, but done in complete unison. "Thought the Dornish hate the Targaryens.“

.

"He's not dornish. He's from the marches they all look like him or the Carons." Omer shurgged a shoulder, "looks dornish." He'd heard the other knights talking about it and he'd made conversation with Pearse Caron while sparing, he could have also easily been Dornish. In fairness, Omer didn't think he'd ever seen a Dornish person and only knew them to be varying shades of brown.

He only knew of one Dornish house, the Daynes and they were apart from all houses in truth. Mythical swords and falling stars creating an island or islet or whatever it was. He didn’t know but he hoped to see it one day. 

"They do. I heard they do. Perhaps he's an Andal washed Dornish. I've heard of them. Or was it the other way around." He looked thoughtful for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders, stifling a laugh. He didn't care.

"Meeting the painters of the realm, cousin? I hear there will be singers, mummers, and those little men who tumble across the ground. I like those little folk."

[omerflorent]

visxionaries​:

♠

He had been on his way to the training grounds, his shadow passing by the figure of a woman working on the large stretch of tapestries when he slowed his pace; not because of the curve of her body, but rather because of the type of dyes she seemed to be using. And so that’s where Cedric Tyrell had been for some amount of time, bright blue eyes fixated on the intricacies of how textured something as simple as a cloud looked - all due to certain techniques of a brush.

“Show me.” He spoke, indicating for the woman to continue painting. Perhaps she was pretty. Perhaps he found her creation more fascinating.

It were not as though he were unsocial; if anything, Cedric Tyrell found inherent discomfort at the prospect of being alone. The talking drowned at the sound of the other talking, the sound of his father’s words in his ear, the strained voice of his mother. His brother’s voice becoming more and more monotone.

“Florent.”

He knew who was addressing him before he turned around, for there was the hint of an accent that never showed in his mother’s voice, despite them sharing blood. The second son of Highgarden turned to look upon the heir of Brightwater Keep, who was his cousin. They always grew into the distance when they were no longer in one another’s company.

“Gabrielle here was showing me how she manages to achieve such texture in the clouds. You see it?” He asked, indicating towards it. He passed the brush silently back into the hands of the woman, looking at Omer. “You’re done training already?”

.

"Yes. Very nice clouds, madam."

Omer barely spared the woman or her painting a glance as he focused his attention on his younger cousin. The man experienced more freedoms than Omer and as much as he admired it he also found it quite ... well he was jealous. If he didn't think his father would ruin the house, he would wish for another place.

"I am done. It's getting crowded out there and that Aemond Targaryen is in there with his crowds and Criston Cole."

The lord stopped short of calling the Prince and Lord Commander cunts for he didn't need words to reach them.

"Come on, I'm hungry, I'm sure this lovely painter will be here when we finish. Right, lass? You'll be right here or close." He looked at Cedric. "I'm hungry."