QOREN BORE THE RED ROBES of the lord of light with all the pride of a king and his crown. he had heard tales of the ironborn, with their quaint little mythologies of a fickle god who lived in the ocean like a fish. fisherpeople, thieves and ore-miners, he supposed, were in need of comfort that the sea on which they travelled would not chew them up and spit them out. never had he met a believer of this strange old-world persuasion. 

     “i am sure that is a convenient reason for his worship being confined to a few desolate islands,” a smile quirked at the corner’s of the red priest’s lips. “and the ships of the rats who disperse from them.” he waves his fingers idly through the candle-flame lighting the table on which the tankards of ale sit. qorens is untouched. “only light can make a place holy. and only one god gives light, brother.”

a  dismissive  attitude   shifts  back,  tide  replacing  it  with  something  a  bit  more  familiar  to  the  rumors  that  swirled  around  the  bone  hand’s  heir   — —   there’s  something  quite  off  about  him,  even  by  ironborn  standards  ...  perhaps  not  all  of  him  came  back  to  life,  and  he’s  been  wandering  about  the  world  half  a  ghost  for  all  his  life.  the  lazy  hand  clenches  shut  for  a  moment  and  then  rises  again,  his  pointer  and  thumb  dipped  into  his  own  ale,  dampening  the  pads,  before  reaching  out  and  pinching  out  the  flame.  derran  looks  at  the  red  priest  as  if  he  has  proven  his  whole  point   (  in  his  mind,  he  has  to  some  extent :  light  is  surely  not  that  powerful  when  it  can  be  so  easily  taken  away,  but  the  sea  can  not  be  removed  ),  silent  for  a  long  moment.

as  displeased  as  derran  is  with  his  location,  he’s  begun  to  at  least  find  things  to  consider  and  keep  his  mind  busy.  latest  on  the  list  was  whether  the  greenlanders  found  any  peace  in  death,  surrounding  themselves  with  rocks  and  still  air.  it’s  reflections  on  these,  if  you  could  call  them  that  and  not  judgements,  that  find  their  way  into  the  journal  he  keeps  — —  something  to  write  about  when  there  was  little  else  to  keep  his  attention.  he  feels  cut  off  here  from  that  which  grants  him  power,  and  he  does  his  best  to  ignore  it.

       QOREN THE RED TRUSTS NOONE. in this rocky, mountainous land of barbaric, blind unbelievers and crude temples to the seven pretend gods, there was nowhere for trust to lay it’s flaming red head. his eyes flick around to every person he passes, intense and unyielding, scoping out who’s ears may be burning for the word of his god, the true god. some, the idiot smallfolk with rudimentary seven pointed stars on leather cords around their neck, look ripe for the picking. others, like the blue-eyed man drinking ale as though it is in shortage, he can see are wizened, laying on the floor of the orchard, unplucked in their prime and therefore a wasted soul in the eyes of r’hllor’s humble servant, sent to collect harvest.  

       at least, the man’s rough tongue speaks a modicum of truth. the people could not see him yet, but the sun shone, and thus he was here. as he was everywhere. “in time, he will come.” his accent, licked with the intonations of his braavosi upbringing and the rare rounded prefix of dorne he could not lose. “the lord of light is everywhere. these nonbelievers are merely too blinded by their false gods to see him.”

they  had  reached  a  similar  conclusion  it  seemed,  yet  their  directions  from  entirely  different  maps  of  the  world.  the  cartographer  of  his  own  mind  was  not  expecting  an  answer,  and  so  narrowed  eyes  turn  upon  the  figure  with  the  unfamiliar  accent  and  bright  robes.  ‘  unlikely,  ’  he  replies  before  the  other  continues,  word  sharp  like  a  rocky  crag  on  the  cliffs  of  old  wyk.  the  drowned  god  would  not  stray  from  his  home,  and  they  were  foolish  if  they  stayed  here  for  too  much  longer.  they  prospered  in  his  seas,  with  his  salt.  however,  then  the  other  continues  and  derran  sighs,  setting  the  cup  down  with  a  solid  sound  of  metal  on  wood,  as  his  head  tilts  to  the  side  to  consider  the  mislead  fanatic  he  had  found  himself  in  conversation  with.  ‘  oh.  ’

like  so  much  water  runoff,  the  ironborn  had  arrived  in  the  vale;  building  in  volume  and  dragging  things  along  with  them.  a  queen  pulled  by  duty,  a  brother  for  a  sister,  and  then  a  friend  for  a  friend  — —  suddenly  the  drowned  god’s  favorites  stood  in  halls  quite  unfamiliar  to  them,  separated  from  their  waters  and  ships.  it  did  not  sit  right  with  derran.  the  water  here  had  no  character,  no  salt  or  metal  to  its  taste.  while  a  fresh  spring  might  be  a  sign  of  life  for  some,  it  was  an  abysmal  sight  to  he  who  guaranteed  his  life  by  brined  waves.  

at  least  he  looks  miserable  enough  to  be  respectful  of  the  dead  — —  a  sour  expression  painted  on  his  features,  though  its  unclear  if  it  is  simply  his  distaste  for  being  here  or  the  physical  impact  of  the  sudden  shift  in  elevation.  likely  both,  and  drink  has  offered  little  comfort.  then  again,  there  was  usually  something  acetic  in  the  look  of  the  thunderer’s  captain.  he  gazes  out  the  window,  looking  over  the  mountains  that  were,  for  once,  below  him.