the prince of fools lowkey

Chapters: 3/? Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Asha Greyjoy | Yara Greyjoy & Theon Greyjoy, Asha Greyjoy | Yara Greyjoy & Tristifer Botley, Jeyne Poole & Sansa Stark Characters: Asha Greyjoy | Yara Greyjoy, A Song of Ice and Fire Ensemble, Tristifer Botley, Rodrik Harlaw, Gwynesse Harlaw, Alannys Greyjoy, Sansa Stark, Jeyne Poole Additional Tags: inspired by arrested development but just a little, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Tags May Change, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating Summary:

Asha had lived in the Westerlands for almost ten months, at first with some infertile couple in the Crag who’d decided they hated her after the first week because she had ‘behavioural problems.’ The so-called ‘behavioural problems’ really just boiled down to, of course, a lot of crying and moping and asking to see her mummy and daddy and a few other things Asha doesn’t usually get into. Even now Asha wonders what they were expecting.

She was moved into a group home after that, in Castamere. Her bitch social worker, Maegelle, a young woman who looked like a ferret and always sounded like she had to blow her nose, had informed her there’d be other children living there, which she had figured out herself - it was a ‘group’ home - and Asha had silently hoped that Rod and Maron (and, she supposes now, the other one) would be there. They weren’t. There were five other children there when she first arrived, all around her age, but she didn’t get along with any of them. She remembers pushing some little girl called Bethany down a flight of stairs, and then being hit in the forehead with a toy pony by Bethany’s friend Alys. She celebrated her sixth birthday with Maegelle in her office.

When she’d finally arrived back on Pyke, things were strange. Rod and Maron were already there, and had apparently been there for two months already, and her mother had soaked her shoulder with tears the way Maron used to do to hers within five minutes of being allowed to touch her again. She remembered voicing that the house felt empty, and her father explaining that her uncles Euron and Aeron had both moved out while she’d been gone. No one told her why she’d been gone.

Things were so… different. In some ways ‘different’ was a good thing: no more smacks; her father didn’t shout so much; the house was cleaner; her mother didn’t lock her bedroom door at night - but in some ways ‘different’ was worse: she had to go to school every-single-day unless she was really, really sick; Maegelle visited every few weeks (Asha thought she was rid of her…); and there was just something… off.

She’s brought back to the present when some blond guy with his eyes glued to his phone walks straight into her. He gives her a dirty look, and she tells him to go fuck himself or he’d be sorry. She’s at Banefort Station, one of the busiest stations in Westeros, and she hates it. The Iron Islands had gone through a pretty harsh decline in recent history, with most of Westeros choosing to get supplies like iron and fish, which the Islands used to be the primary suppliers of, from cheaper, ‘better quality,’ suppliers in Braavos and the like. The population’s been decreasing annually, and so the hectic atmosphere of a major Westerosi train station feels foreign and suffocating to Asha, who hasn’t been further from home than Harlaw in well over a decade. But she won’t look back.

The train is loud and hot and makes her feel sick. She’s gripping on to her bag like her life depends on it - it kind of does. She’s heading to White Harbour, which, along with a name that could’ve been changed and a couple of photos of a baby that could really be any baby, is all she has to go on. Well, she supposes, how many Iron Islanders could there be in the North of Westeros? The statistics she’d seen online all said they were more likely to head south. And wouldn’t her brother look like her? She’s always been told that she, Rod, and Maron look alike. She feels nervous. But she won’t look back.

It takes almost twenty hours to arrive in White Harbour, and Asha cannot wait to get off this fucking train, even though she knows this city’s five times the size of Banefort with ten times the population of the Iron Islands - still better than the train.

White Harbour isn’t… so bad, she finds, after a few days of not really leaving the shitty room she’s renting other than to cross the street to an inn for dinner and a drink. She likes the place because it’s closeby, and she won’t get lost if she has a few too many beers (which really are that good, she should take some home for Gwynesse and the boys), but also because one of the bartenders is from Pyke, and it makes her feel like less of an outsider. “Do you get a lot of Ironborn in White Harbour?” She asks the bartender, Harla, after a few days of deliberation. “It’s not uncommon…” she responds, thoughtfully. “Ever meet one by the name of Theon?” “Don’t think so, don’t remember many names.”

Asha sighs as Harla walks away to go pour beers or whatever. She stays at the inn a while longer, drinking beer after beer, watching people come and go. Part of her thinks she’ll get lucky and her brother will walk in and yell out “hello, my name is Theon Greyjoy” if she stays long enough.

Eventually she leaves the inn, not too long before closing, and she crosses the empty street back to her room. It’s small, far smaller than her room at home, but there’s enough room for a double bed, dressed in old lady bedclothes she found at a nearby charity shop for a moon, and a chest of drawers and a desk which is really just there so she doesn’t have to bend over to look through the mini-fridge when she’s hungover. It costs her a dragon every two weeks, which Asha thinks is outrageous for one room and bathroom access, and no TV and no kitchen or utilities access, but it’s fine. Technically, by all means, she has the money - she thanks her grandfather for dying.

She shuts the door to her shitty bedroom and falls back onto the not-that-uncomfortable bed, where she notes a funky smell - probably nothing to do with her spilling half a bowl of cereal over it yesterday and not bothering to clean it. She sighs, ignoring it the way she’s ignored far worse back home.

A week into her White Harbour stay, Asha finds herself at a library. She doesn’t think she’s ever been in a library other than her uncle’s or the shitty one at her high school that only had crumbly outdated textbooks and a few donated copies of popular children’s books. She doesn’t know if Pyke even has a proper public library. She doesn’t know if anyone else on Pyke can read.

The ground floor of the library is for kids, with colourful walls and carpets and coloured-in pictures lining the windows for the public to see. A couple of kids are sat around a little yellow roundtable in pink and green and orange plastic chairs, scribbling over their colouring in sheets while the woman with them looks at her phone. Some lady is reading a story about friendly grumpkins to another group of kids closer to the stairs, narrating in this annoying over-the-top voice - Asha wonders if that’s good for child development and doesn’t think so.

She remembers, suddenly, a time when she was younger, sitting to the left of her mother on a still broken sofa as she read a story in her regular flat tone, stuttering through the longer words. Maron was to her right, now old enough to be too embarrassed to cling onto his mother the way he used to, but not too old to sit gazing up at her from under his blankie. Maegelle had once told Alannys that Maron’s behaviour wasn’t developmentally appropriate for a boy his age in front of Rod, who had immediately burst into mocking laughter, and Maron had tried to hit her with the fire poker.

Asha doesn’t remember what the story was about, but she does remember her mother letting out a loud sob mid-word and sending her and Maron off to bed. She wonders how long after losing Theon that was.

The first floor is more compact than the ground, swapping about colours and bright voices for tall, full bookshelves and very little seating. There are sections for authors from each part of Westeros, excluding the Iron Islands - maybe because the Westerosi hate them, or maybe because none of them have ever cared to write a book. Asha thinks back to TV dinners with her family, and her brothers giggling when Harwyn and Vickon would read in the living room after dinner during their occasional Pyke stays as boys. There are romance books set in Pentoshi coffee shops and horror stories set in Naath; histories of the Night’s Watch and Aegon’s Conquest; Ghiscari and Dothraki phrase books and high school level Valyrian textbooks. Asha goes upstairs.

The second floor has a few bookshelves full of what looks like more textbooks, but it’s mostly used for studying. She walks past a row of desks and students pouring over their textbooks and homeworks and finds her way to one of the few vacant computers. She punches in her uncle’s library card details slowly, unused to it and waits for it to load. It’s an old one, she knows, from the obnoxious noise levels and the boxy monitor, and it takes a frustratingly long while.

When, eventually, it’s ready for her to use, she finds she doesn’t know what she’s doing.

—

SEARCH greyjoy

RESULTS

Wikipedia Greyjoy Corporation

Wikipedia Balon Greyjoy

The King’s Landing Telegraph Greyjoy Corporation Head of Finance arrested on suspicions of embezzlement

The Castamere Courier “I’m an innocent man” says Greyjoy Corp Head of Finance suspected of embezzlement

SEARCH theong reyjot

SEARCH theon greyjoy

RESULTS

Wikipedia Theon Greyjoy (King)

Wikipedia Greyjoy Corporation

SEARCH theon greyjoy adopon

SEARCH theon greyjoy adoption

RESULTS

Wikipedia Theon Greyjoy (King)

Wikipedia Greyjoy Corporation

—

She restrains herself from punching the computer in its stupid face. These things are supposed to be smart. “What’s the matter with you?” says an unfamiliar woman at the computer next to her. Her hair’s too big and she smells of cigarette. Asha doesn’t respond, wanting to be left alone, but the woman leans across the desk to look at her screen. “Is that the embezzler?” “What?” “Thon Greyjoy, is he the embezzler on the news?” “The-on,” she corrects, irritated. “And no.” “Some other Greyjoy crook then.” “That is my family you’re talking about, watch your fucking mouth,” she hisses. The woman looks at her, taking in her features, and then rolls her eyes. Asha should hit her. “You do have the beak nose,” she says, mildly, enraging Asha further. “Do you not have his number?” “What?” “If you’re related, why are you looking his name up?” “How is that your business?” “Fine,” the woman says, narrowing her eyes and turning away.

Asha stares at the uselessness on her screen for a moment. “Are you from here?” The woman turns back to her, slowly. “Barrowton.” “I don’t know where that is,” Asha says. “You’re not an intelligent lot, are you, the Ironborn?” “Excuse m-” “Why do you ask?” “Do you remember anything in the news from… maybe fifteen-twenty years ago about Balon Greyjoy?” “There’s something in the news about Balon Greyjoy every other month,” says the Barrowtonian. “What about his son?” “There are a few, are there not?” “There are,” Asha says, considering her. “The youngest one, Theon, he would’ve been a baby back then - do you remember anything about that in the news?” “I don’t.” “Great.” “What’s there to know?” The woman asks nosily. Asha looks at her. “We haven’t seen him since then,” she says, turning back to her hapless search results.

“There was a dispute, around that time,” the woman says after a while, “over some Ironborn lad - maybe the one you’re looking for, maybe not - between the Tyrells - those cocks - and the Starks - don’t get me started - lasted a good few months. Not sure what happened with it, but…” Asha looks at her, and she doesn’t look back, instead slowly and unskillfully typing out a comment under her friend’s Facescroll post:

white wine weather indeed alys , can’ t wiat for the weekend - regards , barbrey dustin

“Thanks,” says Asha after a few moments. They don’t speak again.

—

SEARCH tyrels an dstarks

SEARCH tyrells and starks

—

She finds herself back at the inn that night, drinking a gingery beer and eating a not-entirely-hot pork pie. “What do you know about the Starks?” she asks Harla through a mouthful of chewy pork. “The Starks? Like, Ned Stark?” “Yeah. Any kids?” “Why? You looking for a rich family to marry into?” Harla asks with a grin. Asha gives her a laugh. They’ve become alright friends over the time Asha’s been in White Harbour. “Absolutely not, thanks.” “There’s a couple of Starklings, I know, twins and then the younger ones.” Harla answers, seriously. Asha considers. “About how old are these twins? Twenties?” “High school I think.” “Shit,” she pauses for a gulp of beer. “What about the Tyrells? They have any kids - other than Margaery?” “Loras Tyrell, the skater, I’m pretty sure he’s one of Margaery’s lot, maybe the uncle’s though. I can’t really say.” “Ah, right,” Asha says, finishing off her drink and pie in a disturbing display of poor table manners. “Them Tyrells have the older lads as well,” says a man a few stools away. “And you know what the cripple and the special needs are?” the man says with disgust before he downs his stout and slams his glass down on the bar. “Adopteds.” Adopted? Asha’s heart pounds. She hopes Theon isn’t the special needs. “Do you know anything else about them? How old are they? Are they Northern? Dornish? Braavosi?” “Must be twenty or so, the both of them-”

That’s enough for Asha. She jumps from her stool and almost falls to the floor, only just catching herself on the bar. She’s drunker than she thought, and it doesn’t matter at all. She stumbles out of the inn and across the street to her shitty room, earning a sharp “shh!” from her landlord as she clambers upstairs.

She has her bag half packed when she stops suddenly.

She thinks. She could go down to the Reach tomorrow, and she could knock on Mace Tyrell’s front door and Theon could answer. What would she say? “Hi, I’m your sister. We haven’t seen each other in almost twenty years and you probably have absolutely no memory of me because you were so young when we were stolen away and separated. You should come home with me, you’ll really like it, trust me. Our mother’s dying of cancer and our brothers don’t care, our father runs a shady business and used to beat us with a gold club, one of our uncles molested one of our other uncles and maybe our brother, and our family home is disgusting and barely liveable. Way better than living in this nice house with your nice rich family. Also I’m a way cooler sister than Margaery Tyrell.”

Jeyne moves through the water with a grace so mesmerising it makes Sansa’s heart pound in envy. They’re more or less alone - their parents are off making more plans for the ceremony, guests aren’t set to arrive until tomorrow morning, and Sansa’s brothers and sister… who knows where they are. Sansa probably should know, actually, considering Rickon’s only six, but she figures he’s safe enough as long as Robb and Jon are with him… which they probably are. She doesn’t dwell on it.

Sansa dips her toes in the cold river and lays back in the sun on the bank, listening to the soft sounds of Jeyne in the water. She’s always been told she’s more Tully than Stark, but she disagrees; she doesn’t think she could live here, at Riverrun. She doesn't like the water, and she thinks her uncle’s a bit of a twat. She'll take Winterfell any day of the week.

Rickon’s fine, as it turns out. He, Arya, and the other boys return as Jeyne’s wringing out her hair back into the river. Sansa doesn’t ask what they spent the day doing, seeing their wide grins and sweaty hair and flushed cheeks and deciding she’d really rather not know - can’t’ve been good. Jeyne gives the boys a smile and a wave as they go by, her eyes lingering on Jon for a few seconds too long. Sansa rolls her eyes at her, a little annoyed. Jeyne’s always had a thing for Jon, and Jon’s always been Sansa’s least favourite sibling.

Upon being called inside for dinner, Jeyne insists on swimming across the river and going through one of the side entrances instead of walking across the bridge and going in through the main entrance, and Sansa indulges her, even though she’d rather not. She drags herself to the riverbank, a while behind Jeyne, who peacefully wrings the water from her hair again as Sansa lies on her back trying to catch her breath.

Her parents are… giddy (or as close to giddy as they get) tonight, which Sansa supposes she understands. Her father has the barbecue going again, which she’s annoyed about - would it be so bad to just eat indoors? She resigns herself to side salad and chips, not noticing when Jeyne moves to sit with Jon and the rest until she’s already been left alone with the side dishes. Her grip on her paper plate tightens.

She approaches the patch of grass Jeyne and her family are sat on, her appetite lost, and sits down between Jeyne and Jon, completely coincidentally. She nibbles on a chip as Arya and Bran regale their parents and Jeyne and their uncle Edmure and she supposes her with what they got up to earlier today. Sansa doesn’t take much in, she’s too focused on the looks Jeyne’s giving Jon, and the smiles he’s giving her back. Despicable.

The evening goes by too slowly for Sansa’s liking. She’s happy for her parents, but she can’t say she’s interested in hearing the same few stories about what it was like when they first met over and over again, and she likes Roslin, as (not quite comfortably) another teenage girl with similar enough interests, but she can’t bare to watch as she concocts and guzzles down her pregnancy craving meals of corn and blackberries and whelks and gravy. The sooner Sansa’s back home, the better.

Sansa wakes up the next morning in a rather foul mood, she can admit. Jeyne, her bedmate for their Riverrun stay, picks up on it, and doesn’t risk a good morning as the two go about brushing their teeth and doing their hair. They hear a car in the drive through the open bathroom window, playing Seven-related pop-rock music a little too loudly. Sansa’s mood picks up a little as she and Jeyne hurriedly dress, remembering that the guests are arriving today. She thinks she probably shouldn’t be so excited considering these first arrivals are her mentally unstable aunt and her irritating son.

Lysa and Robert are in the dining room, along with Sansa’s great uncle Blackfish, helping themselves to tea and biscuits and toast, when the girls finally head downstairs. Lysa’s new fiance is with them, a small man with a silly beard: Petyr Baelish, ‘Littlefinger.’ One time, after a few too many glasses of Arbor red, Sansa’s mother let it slip that he was a childhood friend, along with a certain implication Sansa wishes she hadn’t. She can’t stop her face screwing up as she takes the man in.

The dining room is more cramped than she would like when her siblings eventually join, Arya and Rickon not even dressed, and she prays her father won’t suggest another meal outside. She counts herself lucky as she glances around the table, noticing that Robert’s trapped Jon in a boring, baby-ish conversation that Lysa and Cat will expect him to continue for as long as Robert pleases - usually it’s her in that situation.

Upon consulting her father after breakfast, Sansa finds out that the Baratheons and the Tyrells are on their way, arriving together this evening. Sansa’s met Robert Baratheon, a fat beast of a man and her father’s childhood best friend, and his younger brother, Renly, a very nice looking young man not much older than Robb and Jon, a few times over the years, but she’s yet to meet any of the others. Robert’s eldest, Joffrey, is gorgeous, she knows, and around her age, but she’s heard stories from Myranda that he’s a bit of a prick.

Sansa finds herself heading to town soon after, pouting as she follows behind Jeyne and her siblings, and to her horror, Robert, along the dirt path that’ll eventually lead them through a series of alleyways and out into the town square. She wonders why she agreed to this as she accidently steps in a puddle, muddying her nice white trainer. These trainers cost her a dragon. They were a nameday present.

She’s incredibly disappointed by the town square. A car park, a newsagents, a post office, a charity shop, a chemist’s, a pub. She could cry. “What exactly are we doing here?” she asks her elder brothers. “We’re friends with the manager,” Jon says, looking in the direction of the pub. “All these times when you lot say you’re going into town, have you just been drinking? Have you been giving the kids alcohol?” “Not Rickon.” “But you’ve been buying Bran and Arya drinks, you imbeciles?” “We’re not buying them drinks, we’re not made of money,” Jon mumbles. “They’ve only had a few sips of ours. We’re not completely stupid. We only go in to watch the football, alright?” Robb says, testing her patience with a smile. She looks at him for a few moments, before grabbing Bran and Rickon and turning back the way they came. “I am so telling mum and dad.” “Sansa!” Robb and Jon both shout. Jeyne, Arya, and Robert all stand next to them. Sansa hates how they’re all looking at her like she’s being dramatic.

An hour later, she’s red and sweaty and pissed off, sitting on the curb outside the pub listening to Robert moan on and on about whatever it is he likes to talk about. She curses herself for not wanting him to take a fit in there without her to help. She stands with a deep sigh, beckoning for Robert to follow as she glances back at the pub.

They stand in the cool newsagents for a while, Sansa perusing gossip magazines and then the local newspaper, Robert trying to steal the cheap plastic toys from all the kids magazines. Sansa ends up having to fork over a moon and a few stags to a not-very-pleased old woman behind the counter when Robert slips away and starts into the sweets. Doesn’t matter too much to Sansa, though - Robb and Jon owe her a dragon each.

Sansa longs for a nice department store or a supermarket with a good candle range as she leads Robert through the charity shop, the two sifting through thin fast fashion and scratched DVDs and odd-smelling toys. She has to spend even more of her money on Robert, the little shit, when he nearly takes a fit over being told he can’t have some horrible, ill-fitting hat.

It’s another while before the others reappear. Sansa seethes as she watches Jon give a drunken flirtatious smile to a woman at least fifteen years older than him, and she smirks when the woman looks back at him in utter disgust. “People ‘round ‘ere don’ like Nor’ners…” he says. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s it, mate,” Robb replies, clapping him on the shoulder and leading the group back in the direction of Riverrun.

The walk back is worse than the walk there. The afternoon heat is much worse than the morning heat, and Sansa is left dragging a sleepy Robert in his stupid hat and a too-tipsy Jeyne along with her, as Robb and Jon march on merrily ahead of them, and the three other kids race on down the path. Sansa considers asking for another dragon for her troubles. It takes twice as long to get back to Riverrun as it did to leave from it.

When they do finally arrive back, Sansa’s horrible siblings are still lively, heading straight to Edmure’s games room to play darts and pool and watch soaps or whatever’s on with the Blackfish. Jeyne and Robert, and Sansa herself - most of all, she might say - are worse for wear, and make straight for the comfy couches in the nice air-conditioned front parlour.

Who knows how long it’s been (likely not very long if the exhaustion yet to leave Sansa is anything to go by) when Cat wakes the three of them up, talking about wanting things to be nice so Olenna Tyrell doesn’t tell everybody in Westeros that she’s an unfit parent. Sansa goes to make herself decent without complaint, pulling Jeyne along with her. She leaves the highly problematic young Robert to his similarly afflicted mother.

She sees the car pull into the drive as she’s coming back downstairs. She doesn’t know much about cars (although she did go out with a boy doing a level two vehicle repair for a week last year) but she can tell that this one is pretty, uh, nice. Nicer than her dad’s, nicer than the Blackfish’s, certainly nicer than the one Robb has picked out for his next birthday. It’s vintage, she knows, and a lovely shade of grey-blue, and the boy in the passenger seat makes her breath hitch. Jeyne gives her a grin from next to her, and the two watch as he and the man Sansa recognises as Renly Baratheon steps out onto the gravel drive, followed by the two backseat passengers - a girl around Sansa’s age, and one a little older, remarkably similar in appearance to the mysterious boy who’s caught Sansa’s eye.

Sansa and Jeyne continue on downstairs when they see Ned go out to greet the visitors. Jeyne asks on the way down if maybe the handsome passenger is Renly’s brother Stannis, and Sansa fights off laughter as they come into view. The girls introduce themselves to the visitors, and Sansa engages in ‘oh, we’ve met before, haven’t we?’-style small talk with Renly. She finds out the boy is Loras Tyrell, and that he looks even better up close, and then that he and Renly are together - yeah, like that. Jeyne gasps at that revelation, and Sansa elbows her in the ribs, maintaining her pleasant composure. The older of the girls is Loras’ sister, Margaery, with the younger being their cousin Elinor. Sansa’s heard certain things about the Tyrell girls (as has everyone from the Wall to Dorne and beyond…) but she, of course, doesn’t tell them that.

The rest of the Tyrells and Baratheons and Lannisters and some other assorted rich people Sansa can’t quite name show up not soon after. She’s unsure if Riverrun has ever been so crowded, and she thinks about how her aunt hasn’t even arrived yet.

It’s been another day of chaos, with people Sansa doesn’t know coming and going from her mother’s ancestral home like it’s theirs, but there’s no real problem until there… is. As is typical of Sansa’s wild little sister, Arya had 'attacked' (so to speak) Joffrey Baratheon with a stick, chasing him with it and then giving him a whack on the arm, and the boy’s mother had tried to actually attack Arya in return. They’d all received countless lectures from their mother about Cersei Lannister and staying away from her, and now Sansa knows why.

There are over a hundred and fifty people in the Riverrun audience hall, almost everyone at Riverrun. Sansa looks to Rickon at her feet and Jeyne at her side, and Arya sulking behind Cat and Ned at the front. Her other three brothers haven’t made any appearances yet, but no one other than herself (and Jeyne, but really only for one of them) seems to care too much. At the front of the hall, opposing Sansa’s parents and sister, Cersei Lannister yells about an apology, while her son, a boy of age with Sansa at fourteen, grasps at his bicep like he’s been shot, wiping away a fake tear when he feels too many eyes on him.

After a tense fifteen minutes or so, Jeyne steps outside, whispering to Sansa that she’s going to call the boys. Sansa nods, watching as Cersei interrupts her mother to make exaggerated claims about Arya being out of control and a vile little bully. Her father’s icily bringing Cersei’s husband - Robert Baratheon, brother of Renly - into the ordeal when Jeyne rushes back into the audience hall with a yell of “Bran’s fallen!”

It’s a blur as everyone in the room makes for the door at once, none of the guests thinking to let the boy’s family out first, and Sansa’s knocked to the ground on top of Rickon by someone she recognises from behind as a Clegane. She gets up, grasping her brother’s hand, and attempts to find her brother over the sea of heads.

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Asha Greyjoy | Yara Greyjoy & Theon Greyjoy, Asha Greyjoy | Yara Greyjoy & Tristifer Botley, Jeyne Poole & Sansa Stark Characters: Asha Greyjoy | Yara Greyjoy, A Song of Ice and Fire Ensemble, Tristifer Botley, Rodrik Harlaw, Gwynesse Harlaw, Alannys Greyjoy, Sansa Stark, Jeyne Poole Additional Tags: inspired by arrested development but just a little, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Tags May Change, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating Summary:

The dream goes nowhere. The point of the dream is to know who he is, and she doesn’t know who he is, apparently not even subconsciously. She can’t conjure him a face or a voice or a name or any sign of life or identity. He appears and it paralyses her.

posted to ao3 already, but I thought I'd post it on here too.

_____

Her father stands on the balcony above - in this shitty dream he’s this looming presence, huge and powerful, someone you don’t want to get on the wrong side of. Asha knows that her father is actually a grey-haired, grey-skinned skeleton of a man who has to look up at her like a little boy when he wants to laughably berate her in that gaspy, mumbly old man voice of his. Asha often wonders if he was so horribly pitiful when she was younger too and she just didn’t realise.

Dream-Balon doesn’t look at her now, he looks further on at her brothers as they box on the overgrown autumn lawn. Asha thinks, as she always does when she has this dream, and as she always did when she witnessed them go at it when they were younger, that it isn’t a fair fight. Rod’s older and bigger and meaner, and here Maron’s still a scrawny little boy of seven or so who looks ridiculous in his adult size boxing gloves, fluorescent yellow mouthguard and matching shorts. Asha rolls her eyes when Rod inevitably wins, sending Maron to the ground next to her on his back. She looks back up at the balcony to watch her father be led inside by her uncle Euron. She shivers at the sight of him. He feels different.

The scene around her changes slightly. Maron is sitting up now, bawling into their mother’s shoulder as she consoles him and Rod parades around, yelling out high-pitched cruel-little-boy taunts, gleeful from his victory. Asha doesn’t care about them. Like usual, she looks at the littler boy, faceless and younger than her, a baby to her, gripping her mother’s free hand, wrapped around her leg like he's trying to trip her up. Like usual, she tries to speak - to ask him who he is; to ask her mother who he is; to say anything at all - and she can’t.

The dream goes nowhere. The point of the dream is to know who he is, and she doesn’t know who he is, apparently not even subconsciously. She can’t conjure him a face or a voice or a name or any sign of life or identity. He appears and it paralyses her, practically every fucking week. She wakes, frustrated.

Pyke House had fallen from what it once was, or what it was said to once be, Asha supposes. She has no memories of anything other than what it is now: a shithole not safe to live in. She avoids the nails sticking out from the exposed floorboards in her bedroom as she gets ready for the day, picking out an outfit that’s nicer and prettier and girlier than what she normally wears, not admitting to herself why. The bathroom on the second floor hasn’t been used in a good fifteen years other than for storage, which it is very much used for, and so she goes downstairs to use that one, toothbrush in hand. Her grimy uncle Victarion uses the first floor bathroom, who knows what would happen to her stuff if she left it in there.

The stairs haven’t been vacuumed in a good fifteen years either.

The bathroom floor is still wet from Maron’s careless morning shower, and a week or two worth of dirty clothes are piled up on the broken armchair they use as a laundry basket. Someone’s not bothered to flush or put the seat down, Asha observes irritatedly, knowing exactly which of the disgusting imbeciles she lives with to blame. She washes her face and brushes her teeth with cold water. She doesn’t think the hot tap has worked since before her mum moved back to Harlaw.

Her mum…

Asha watches a spider scurry down the shower wall as she cracks open the bathroom window, trying to drive out the stench of brother and uncle and damp and mould and piss and rubbish. She expects that by the time she’s home it’ll be closed again, and she’ll have Rod and Maron and Victarion up her ass about the cold.

The weather’s not even that bad today. It’s windy, but it always is when you’re surrounded by an ocean as tumultuous, and it isn’t especially warm, but the sun’s out, which is a rare occurrence on Pyke these days. It feels as though Asha’s entire life has been clouded over. She leans back against a wall, closing her eyes in the sun, waiting.

The ferry ride to Harlaw is a long and a boring one, but it’s not so bad with Tris there, even if he does keep making fun of the floral print trousers and pastel cardigan she’d opted for this morning. It’s been a minute since they’ve seen each other - Tris and two of his brothers had spent the past two months ‘backpacking’ through Dorne and the Reach - of course by ‘backpacking’ they meant staying in luxurious hotels and travelling in first class train carriages paid for by their inheritance money. Asha doubted there was much of that left. Still, she listens with a moderate amount of interest as Tris recounts probably exaggerated tales about doing shots (‘and more’) with Margaery Tyrell and passing out drunk on Oberyn Martell’s velvet couch. She gives him a smile when he finally runs out of things to say, looking at her expectantly. She wonders if he’ll ever stop trying to impress her. “What?” He asks, smiling back, although looking a little confused.

“Nothing,” Asha replies, chuckling. “Nothing at all.”

It’s almost dark by the time they’re disembarking the ferry. They sit atop an old stone wall they probably shouldn’t, waiting for Asha’s uncle, not brother, Rodrik to pick them up and take them to the Ten Towers. They’re all talked out, and so in the ten minutes it takes for Rodrik to arrive they’d both had three cigarettes each. They both take deep drags as Rodrik pulls up, putting the still smokable cigarettes out against the wall as he gets out of the car so they don't get scolded.

“Who are you trying to impress?” Rodrik teases as he opens the boot for their bags. “No one,” replies Asha, knowing what Rodrik’s getting at. “This is how I dress.” “You look like you raided my aunt’s wardrobe,” Tris told her, laughing. “Shut the fuck up, Tris,” she mutters back, climbing into the low-down passenger seat.

The drive to the Ten Towers is a long one, even with Rodrik going fifteen over the speed limit and Asha dozing off with her head knocking softly against the window. Tris has his phone on the auxiliary cord and is playing some obnoxious Braavosi band way too loud, motivating Rodrik to continually pick up the pace.

They get there in just under three hours, and it’s now well after dark. There’s a chill in the air typical of mid-spring as Asha and Tris collect their things from Rodrik’s dusty car boot.

The Ten Towers is much better kept than Pyke House, although that isn’t saying much. Asha thinks the disused King’s Landing sewer system is probably in better shape than her historic family home.

Rodrik (more like the people his sister hires… and underpays) keeps the wooden floors polished, and the accent tables lining the wide corridor covered in gorgeous fresh flower arrangements and lit candles and family photos of him and his parents and sisters, and of him and his wife and kids, and of Gwynesse and her late husband; there’s no dust or forgotten electricity bills or footprints or dead bugs or wrapping paper from birthdays long ago. Everything is clean and shiny and smells of fresh laundry or lavender or lemon and the heating’s on. Asha looks at Rodrik and feels bitter.

Asha and Tris are led through the kitchen, where the kettle’s already on, and into the spacious dining room that Asha’s aunt Gwynesse and Rodrik’s two boys are already occupying, chit-chatting over plates of mashed potatoes and lamb and carrots and gravy. Upon seeing her, Gwynesse quickly hops out of her seat to greet Asha, pulling her first into an uncomfortable hug, and then down into a chair across from Harwyn, Rodrik’s elder son. Tris sits down next to her, across from Rodrik’s younger son Vickon, seeming sheepish as Gwynesse fixes them both plates. Rodrik asks from the kitchen if anyone else wants a cup of tea, which Gwynesse shakes her head disappointedly at. She’s never understood having a hot drink with dinner - thinks it’s stupid. Asha is inclined to agree with her.

Tris calls back to Rodrik that he fancies one - splash of milk and one sugar, please and thank you.

Rodrik sits across from Gwynesse when he returns, helping himself to a plate in an indecisive, goofy-looking way (not to be judgmental) - Asha remembers sitting at the same table making the same observation years ago, just after her mother had come back here. Harwyn and Vickon had seemed tiny to her then, though they’d grown considerably tall since, and Rod and Maron had spent the evening flinging peas and carrots at them until they’d cried and Gwynesse had sent all five of them to bed for being annoying, even though it should’ve only been Rod and Maron, and Asha had done literally nothing at all.

Asha picks at her carrots, half-listening as Tris tells her aunt and cousins about the ferry ride from Pyke, and then about (some of) his exploits in Dorne; she nods along politely as Harwyn describes his first year university experience, and as Vickon talks about his university applications; she makes all the right affirming noises as Gwynesse thrills the table with a tale of returning a cardigan that didn’t fit her right and how the horrible little bitch at the register wouldn’t give her a refund and made up a policy about only offering exchange or credit note.

And then dinner’s over and Asha has to do what she came here to do. Gwynesse gives her the key and she excuses herself from the comfortable living room Tris continues to entertain in, and she can almost feel her aunt and uncle’s pitying looks on her back. She didn’t ask, she’s aware, and she’s aware that everyone in that room is aware, but she couldn’t bring herself to. She knows it’s coming, she doesn’t need to be reminded constantly.

At least she came.

She has to leave the main house, missing the polished floors and the warmth and the mix of candle scents and the warmth and the content laughter of her friend and her family, and also the warmth, as she steps outside and closes the front door behind her, being hit immediately by a strong, cold, gust of wind. She brings her arms up to embrace herself, rubbing up and down her arms in the hopes that the friction will warm her up, which it kind of does.

The guest house isn’t a long walk, literally just across the way, but despite the uncomfortable weather she prolongs it, and she hates herself for doing so, walking in small, slow steps. Eventually she comes to face the guest house’s front door, dark wood with a brass door knocker in the shape of an anchor and a little window. She can see light inside, warm light from a tall lamp in the corner of the corridor that the nurse didn’t turn off before leaving earlier that night. She takes a deep breath and unlocks the door.

Asha notices the almost eerie silence as she shuts the door behind her, repocketing the key. The guest house is a lot smaller than the main house, as is to be expected. It’s a bungalow bedecked in familiar styles, likely all picked out by Gwynesse, though the floors aren’t polished, just mopped, and not necessarily today, and the dominant scents are old potpourri and lemon disinfectant. She does not fail to notice the lack of… personalisation present.

It’s the room at the end of the corridor, she knows, turning left after a peek in at the almost entirely disused living room. The door’s propped open with a book like it usually is, she can see, taking her time as moves towards it, fixing her silly cardigan and brushing imaginary crumbs from her stupid trousers and trying to make sure her hair’s parted correctly. And then there are no more steps to take, and she sits down on an old cushioned dining chair brought down here from the barely used kitchen.

Alannys is asleep, and Asha hates herself for relaxing at the revelation. She leans back in the chair and tries not to think of before, when her mother lived at Pyke and everything was better. She tries not to think of walking down to the beach, holding her mother’s hand and not being allowed to run ahead like Rod and Maron. She tries not to think of home-cooked meals and sitting around a dining table and taking it in turns with her brothers to tell their mum about what they were doing in school. She tries not to think-

“Balon?” “Asha.” “Balon,” Alannys croaks, eyes opening slowly as she feels around weakly for a hand to hold. “My boy, Balon.” “Dad and the boys couldn’t make it, mum, just me.” “My boy, Balon, my boy,” her voice trails off. Asha sighs, bringing her forehead down to rest on her and Alannys’ loosely linked hands. She always wants Balon and the boys, and not Asha. “I came over on the ferry today, mum, with Tris. Uncle Rodrik picked us up,” she recounts. “He drove like a madman, I’m sure you can guess… Rod and Maron are doing good, Rod’s still working down at the gym, broke up with that Alys girl though - or more like she broke up with him. Maron’s ‘working for dad,’ so not up to much. Still can’t pick up after himself. Dad… well-” “Took my boy, Balon,” her mother whispers hoarsely, and Asha tries to drown out the stabbing feeling of rejection by speaking louder and faster. “Dad’s been a bit of a dick, no need to tell you that. Business hasn’t been doing great, he’s got Euron treating with a few twats over in Essos, and there’s so little to do between him, Maron, and Victarion that for the most part they’re just standing around scratching their arses. Not one of them can be bothered to clean or do the dishes, of course-” “My boy.” “Yes, mum, I know, you’d rather have anyone here but me.” “My boy.” “For the love of God-” “Back my boy, Balon.” “Which one of them, mum? I'll tell him to come next time, spare myself the trouble.” “My boy.” “I’m gonna go.”

Asha stands from her mother’s sickbed, looking down at her frail form, and untangles her hand from hers. Put this stupid outfit on for nothing… She looks around the room, searching for something to do before she actually does leave, at a vase of tulips by the window, at an old rug that was brought here from Pyke’s living room, at a face down photograph on the bedside table. She walks around the bed to set it back upright, maybe the nurse knocked it over accidentally. It’s a photo of Rodrik graduating high school, over ten years ago now, with awkward teenage Maron on his left, acne bright red and braces bright blue, and preteen Asha debuting her new bowl-cut to his right. Their father stood next to Maron, wearing a thin, not-exactly-interested smile. In the picture he still looked healthy and strong, intimidating despite the fact that his fifteen year old son was close to a head taller than him. On Asha’s other side was her mother, looking pale and tired - but nothing even close to what she is now. She had an arm around Asha, directing a warm, proud smile at Rodrik.

Asha sets the photo upright, averting her eyes.

“No.” “What?” Asha turns to her mother, whose eyes have landed on the photo. “No,” she croaks. “My boy.” “Don’t start this shit again, mum, come on, I came all this way…” “My boy,” it sounds almost like a sob, and Asha can’t take it. She walks back around the bed, making for the front door, pausing in the bedroom doorway with the intention of saying a curt goodbye. She doesn’t, though. She takes one last glance at her mother as she mumbles out a new name, not hers or Balon's or one of the boys', one that makes her heart race, and she gets the hell out of that house.

She doesn’t know how long it’s been since the visit with her mother when there’s a knock on the library door. It’s Rodrik. Distantly, Asha thinks it’s stupid that he’d knock on the door to his own library, but she says nothing, looking up at him wide-eyed from the floor. She thinks that maybe he’ll ask her to leave - maybe the library or maybe the Ten Towers or maybe Harlaw. “Asha,” he says simply. “Uncle Rodrik.” “What are you doing in here?” “Pursuing an… intellectual… curiosity.” “In a family photo album?” He asks, pointing at one of many books sprawled open on the floor with her. “Yes.”

Rodrik sits down next to her, old-man-groaning as he gets comfortable. She watches him, growing nervous, as he browses through her mess of books and newspapers and photo albums. It’s been a long few minutes when Rodrik speaks again.

“You won’t find any pictures of him in here,” he tells her quietly, avoiding her eyes. “What do you mean?” She speaks quickly, bringing a hand to her chest in an attempt to slow her racing heart. “There weren’t many to begin with, he was so young, and after everything went down…” “After what went down? What happened?” She doesn’t try to disguise the urgency in her voice. “After child protection got involved, I’m sure you remember some of that?” He glances at her long enough to see her thoughtful nod. “You three were a difficult enough fight to get back… but we never managed to get him. Not that I blame anyone but your father for that one, of course…” Rodrik goes quiet again momentarily. “There’s an envelope somewhere in the guest house, that’s all we still have.”

And then Rodrik leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him. Asha’s surprised that she didn’t even have to try to get that out of him.

She leaves the library that night (early morning) for the first time in apparently over thirty-six hours. She doesn’t spot what’s on her bed until after she’s finally changed out of those horrible trousers and that ugly cardigan and into a baggy t-shirt she stole from Qarl.

She stops in her tracks upon seeing the envelope, knowing exactly what is, heart picking up again.