red rain

╰     ┈     [    peter  gadiot  ,  32  ,  cismale  ,  he/his  ]    in  the  time  of  dragons  ,  victarion  drumm  is  entering  the  game  of  thrones. said  to  be  sharp  +  ambitious  ,  we  can  only  hope  that  is  the  case  as  regrettably  they  are  also  well  known  to  be  zealous  +  morbid. when  asked  about  them  ,  people  are  always  reminded  of  the sensation  of  drowning,  the  uncharted  depths  of  the  sea,  a   waterlogged  oath  to  one’s  father,  and  sun-bleached  bones  on   the  shoreline. though  they  are  the  son  to  the  ruling  lord  of  old  wyk  ,  their  true  loyalties  lie  with  house  harlaw/drumm  and  rumour  has  it  that  if  given  the  choice  they  would  support  the  independence  of  the  seven  kingdoms,  their  family,  and  themselves  above  all  else.  those  of  us  in  the  shadows  wish  them  luck   and  can  only  hope  they  will  survive  what  is  to  come. ──

"Given is an interesting word." The splintering of wood, near-death's hold of a god. His god. In the midst of screams and brokenness, one's will had been revealed. "One way or the other, Lord Captain or not, I would have taken to the sea all the same."

closed starter for @drummsinthedeep​ ! when: before new valyria, after maeve’s arrival to old wyk. 

the whent had spent her previous days exploring what old wyk had to offer, keeping her son entertained by letting him play supervised on the beach, and helping herself to a few books that violet had offered to her on the history. a few days alone before victarion returned hardly compared to the five years they spent apart. especially since she’d been spoiled by a week alone the road with his full attention on her. but today was different, maeve’s curiosity was getting the best of her truly. the book had mentioned something about giant bones being kept in the iron islands, and by gods, did maeve desperately wish to see them. 

the lady knocked politely, well aware she was a guest in his family’s home, before slowly opening the door to let herself into his room. “ victarion,” she called softly, grinning excitedly at the sight of him. the butterflies in her stomach fluttered, despite having shared such an intimate tragedy together, after admitting to him that he was ever constant in her thoughts. “ are you free today, perhaps? your sister has offered to watch the little bat.”

.

Victarion thanked the Drowned God for the years spent at Aurore’s side having prepared him for the what it meant to be Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet. The logistics and tireless nights spent with ink on his hands. He lamented that he and Alanis had not challenged for it together, as they had planned, but he could not do so forever. The Drowned God had different plans and it was his duty to abide to them, cruel as they could be. And wallowing in the grey water was an impossibility when Maeve Whent walked through the door to his room, in his home, and called to him.

“Maeve,” he called back as he stood from his seat by the window, the night’s candles nearly burned halfway through. Her smile coaxed his own out from under his clouds and he went to her. His eyes went past her, expectant of Emmon, but her words answered his question before he could pose it. His eyebrows lifted above his warm eyes. “Without a bat today? Violet was feeling generous this morning, I see. And so is the tide. Consider me yours for the day.”

He pushed his hair back from his face as his eyes searched hers.

“I believe I know that look,” he said, his low tone teasing. “What did you find?”

The Eyrie had not been a place that Victarion frequented during his travels. Far too landlocked with only a river to sail upon, a day or two’s ride after that. It was a terrible place made all the more terrible by ill deeds. Even worse, the blatant disregard for the fractures in the land brought about by each bloody beat of the heart at the center of it all. But lingering on the malignant thoughts that settled inside his temples and caused unrest would do nothing. It would not bring back the lost or restore the broken. Westeros would do it with or without the crown. He walked with his thoughts threw the hallways of Staerdale and slowed his hurried pace when he shifted his eyes from the walls to the figure a few steps away.

His opinions on the kingdom could wait.

“Lady Brax,” he greeted with a small dip of his head. Between tavern ale shared with Minella Lannister and his home shared with Maeve Whent, he had became far more aware of the Tully family then he had been prior to the disasters. He did not regret that. Not for a moment. Not in this lifetime. “Any luck finding the library or has that been lost as well?”

Victarion's gaze lingered on a gathering storm in the middle distance away from the Iron Islands. Bare forearms against the stone of Pyke’s walkways, a cold pain lingered in his bones. The journey home had been needed. It was behind him by a sunrise and sunset but he was tired. The weight of what he was meant to tell was nothing against the sudden weight that would be put upon the shoulders of Alanis Harlaw’s blood. He would do his best to help carry it. A promise. As far as they needed him to until they could carry it on their own. He pushed away from the stone and made his way down to the sand and rock beneath.

“Uncle,” he called. Thought of what to say but there was no way of prettying it. No reason to with Ames. It was an ugly thing, as most terrible truths were. “Alanis is dead.”

Staerdale looked better in the dark, Victarion thought. The stars blinked black into existence, sleep in their eyes while his own turned skyward. Any other night and he would have stretched out on the deck of Ravenfeeder just to count as far as he could go. The sea would be there when he needed it. It was too soon to leave. Inclined by recent rumors to bring his own flask to this godsforsaken place, he opened it and leaned back against one of the stone pillars. He wasn’t alone in the moonlit garden and he offered a small greeting, a nod of his head, then who it was came into view and he offered something more. A blink-and-you’d-miss-it smile.

“Kashvi,” he offered with a low hum. Then his monotone continued. “Is it just me or do we all seem to gather at one blessed place then another?”

Victarion’s wonder of whether the dead made the grass grow greener went answered as he wandered through Staerdale, his gaze harsh upon the yard. What were they supposed to make of it? Was it a threat, this invitation to walk upon devastation and renewal? The change of his title, of his responsibility, didn’t change the questions he had when he had been at his cousin’s side. They sounded louder in his head but his face withheld the cloudy grey that thundered under his skin. A face, familiar and welcome in such a place, coaxed him out of the storm.

“A place like this graced by an Allyrion,” he said with a short huff of amusement through his nose. “What do you make of it, Lady Aliandra?”

Victarion ran his hand along the stonework that supported Staerdale. One would think the decimation of an entire family hadn’t occurred but everyone there was all too aware. History would be as well. He wiped his hand off and set his hand against his hip. The presence of the ruling lady of Bear Island coaxed a smirk out of him. She looked none too pleased either. Both of them far happier on their respective islands than whatever this was that the Targaryens paraded.

“An interesting graveyard, isn’t it,” he said as he approached her. His tone was level, quiet. “How is your island, Lady Mormont?”

closed starter for @drummsinthedeep​ when: shortly after victarion’s return to old wyk, before the kraken attack. 

the   past   few   months   were   far   from   kind   to   violet,   the   first   time   since   she   was   a   little   girl   that   she   had   been   separated   from   her   brother   for   so   long.   far   too   accustomed   to   falling   asleep   to   the   lull   of   waves,   knowing   he   was   merely   a   few   steps   away,   safe   because   he   was   within   her   grasp.   when   the   news   had   reached   her   of   his   boat   arriving,   violet   had   tossed   aside   the   book   she   was   reading   to   run   for   the   docks.   her   bare   feet   stung   from   the   rocks,   the   pain   barely   registering   as   violet’s   feet   hit   weatherworn   wood  .   they   had   began   the   process   of   unloading   the   ship   and   it’s   passengers,   her   dark   eyes   searching   frantically   for   victarion.   ignoring   the   somber   look   some   of   the   other   men   carried.   violet   acquires   their   target,   feet   racing   again.   “   victarion!”   it   is   the   only   warning   their   lips   allow   before   they   are   flinging   themselves   at   their   brother,   arms   wrapping   tightly   around   him.

.

The shores of Old Wyk were a welcome sight, though it did little to settle Victarion’s nerves. He shifted his weight from heel to heel and when his ship docked, he steadied himself. The thought of throwing himself into the sea to simply just float with his thoughts for awhile was present at the forefront of his mind. It wasn’t the time. It wasn’t the place. Just as he took in a breath, inhaled the sea salt air, home came running to meet him. The stormy thoughts that clouded his head parted and his stoic face broke. A smile. One of joy and relief that belied a bone-tired ache. In King’s Landing, he had wanted his sister there with him and their cousins. Her presence a light. But he was glad she hadn’t been. King’s Landing would not dull her.

“That terrible then?” He laughed as he wrapped them up in a hug. “Don’t let me leave to King’s Landing again in this lifetime.”

“It’s different from when you last saw it,” Victarion said, his tone somewhat light as he posited himself beside Nymeria. His eyes shifted across the night-dark water to where Ravenfeeder rested. Idled. Waited. The cold of New Valyria under a dragon’s shadow threatened to slip under his coats. “I can show you it later if you’d like.”

A knowing laugh then, a quiet sound before he looked at her.

“I’m glad you are here, Nym.”

An echo of what he had said at the wedding. But it was laden, heavy, with more than what it had been then. Seven months. Much had changed, where they stood now the apex of it. Change that could have too easily seen them gone, not even a footprint in the sand. Hardly a breath on the wind, a thought in the sea.

“Have the months been kind to you? To Ashara?”

The weight of the words he carried slowed Victarion, made his hand leaden as it hovered over the heavy door. He had not yet rested and the shadows under his eyes, the red streaked through them, told a story. Parted from Maeve, avoidance was no longer in his peripheral. It was the simple truth of it. Alanis Harlaw was dead and he had been tasked with casting a darkness across the family. Word by word. Greater than any that a dragon’s wing could possibly throw. Unless they were the Arryn’s, which he thanked the Drowned God every day that they were not.

Victarion shook his head, steadied, and pressed on into the room. It should have been a comfort to return home to the islands after such a journey but the pressure against his shoulders, swelled inside his throat, would permit no such thing. Whatever storm he could hold back from the islands, he would. He prayed he would never be where Dyana stood.

“Dyana,” he said after a moment of silence, the Drumm stood in the center of the room. He loosely wove his finger together. “I’m home. The islands, how are they? How are you?”

He hesitated. Shifted his gaze away before he returned to meet hers.

“I have...news.”

it’s unclear which hurts more in the moment, her chest from trying to contain the giggles, or her cheeks from the smile that refuses to go away. maeve beams at victarion, as if he has complimented her, rather than simply play along. “ i wished to name him sea-burn, but I thought it may be too on the nose.” her own joke is what truly breaks her, the laughter bubbling out of her quietly. eyes catch her cousin’s questioning look, giving her a small wave of reassurance before her attention returns to the man before her.

“ his name is emmon,” she speaks, once she has gathered herself enough to use words, though a grin remains. her hand reaches out to grab his, only hesitating for a second before taking it. “ he arrived after you left, but he is not yours.” she does not dwell on if it had been his, how their lives might be different in this instance. “ minella begged me to let her watch him this evening.” maeve grips his hand tighter without realizing, admittedly nervous that victarion may reject them both, or think less of her. “ but yes! i wanted to write to you. aurore was very kind and offered to take them for you when i met her.” her face flushed at the memory of their interaction. “ did they not reach you? there were..quite a few, so they may have gotten lost.”

.

“Sea-burn?” Victarion scoffed, ran a hand through his hair with his eyes slipped shut. He tugged at the ends before his hands dropped back to his side and he groaned low. “Of all the...You would curse a child with such a name, Maeve. Throw the lad overboard before he can even walk.” His eyes mapped her face as she laughed and though he did not laugh with her, he smiled to himself. A quiet, hidden thing that he had shared with her and the ghosts of Harrenhal. It wouldn’t be shared here.

“Emmon,” he repeated as he looked at the child, asleep and carefree with Maeve’s cousin. Something stirs in him when Maeve reaches for his hand with their shared gazes on a child, hers, and he allows it to settle low in his belly. There is uncertainty in the initial way he takes her soft hand in his worn one but his fingers twine with hers loosely. A look is cast over his shoulder to search the room but he does not ask the question. Instead, his attention falls back to her. “He looks well, Maeve. As do you.” His thumb mindlessly traces along her knuckles and he can’t help but huff through his nose at the mention of Aurore.

“Ah, my captain is always quick to see to the affairs of her crew,” he said. “They are somewhere then and I look forward to reading them. My family’s time here has not been...It hasn’t been conducive towards such things.”

Darkness fell across his features, that smile she pulled out of him hidden away once more.

“Neither have the winds,” he said as he found her eyes and stepped away from shadow if only for a night. “They claimed the letters I wrote but...they have also brought me here. A fair exchange then.”

His eyes found her with ease and the distaste in Victarion’s mouth lessened. For a moment, he even smiled. Shook his head to himself before he gently shoved himself away from the wall. They were not in Lys anymore and there was no poison in his veins for her to quell, 'less the air of King’s Landing counted. Perhaps that was something she could pull from him so he could breathe easier. He walked with easy purpose towards Nymeria and caught her eye with a low laugh. Then he quieted as he found a space beside her.

“Funny that yours is a face I often find in times of great discomfort,” he said with a brow raised. The hall was no familiar room that a summer breeze passed through but he spoke to her as though it were, the tension in his shoulders loosened. “How do the winds find you, Nymeria? Terrible given where we are?”

He paused, brows furrowed in thought before his tongue wet his lips. Searched for the words.

“...Iksan glad iksā kesīr.”

🌊

Vic’s arrival had been the best piece of news Aurore had heard in…The thought had trailed off of its own accord, her memory scraping together bits and pieces in an attempt to remember the last promising thing she’d heard. Aurore came up empty. Her pride had made tonight all the worse, resenting the fact that her downfall had been so disgustingly public. She was meant to be respected- feared as the captain of the Iron Fleet. Wyllas had torn that credibility into shreds with the single kiss of a hand. The woman would have preferred for the evening not to have happened at all and thus far Vic being present was the only saving grace. The embers of her rage were still crackling in her gaze when she looked to Vic, but they were threatening to sputter into smoke. “With the King holding us here hostage?” she hissed as quietly as she could, not looking to be arrested for treason. “There’s little any of us can do.” 

.

Victarion met his cousin’s anger with a cool look, then let his eyes fall upon the room like judgment. Would that a sea of crimson crashed against the doors, broke through to the hall. Drowned the dragons, the lions, the stags. Snapped the stems of flowers. Swallowed all. A fool’s gambit to will such a power into action but it could be appeased. Revered. The thought went quickly and he sighed. Enough wrongs had befallen the ironborn the past moons. No more. A waste of good water. His temper rose then fell with a breath.

“We can pray for an understanding sea upon their departure,” he said plainly as he met her eyes again. “Until then, nothing. But we won’t waste away here. Do you want to walk?”

Victarion didn’t consider himself a hateful man but if he had to give a name to the tight ball of iron in his chest, abhorrence came to his tongue first. But he withheld it behind his frown. It would not do. None of it would. Not until he and his own were gone from this damned place. Foul winds and fouler folk behind them. Ahead of him was no one foul and his expression softened when he found his cousin away from the noise, the tempers. He offered her one of the drinks in his hand then settled against the balcony. Fiddled with one of the many rings around his fingers.

“It’s strong, Yana. I made sure of it,” he said, then breathed out slow through his nose. “For our spirits and peace of mind. And to get us through this fucking wedding.”