*/ 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲

⋅ ◆ ⋆ — 𝐐𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃, red priest and sworn sword of the dreadfort

wide brown eyes lit red with the reflection of the flames from which they draw life and loyalty ;  sparks flying from the clash of two blades clenched together in brutal warfare ; a sheet of inky dark hair being unwound from it’s tight braid over shoulders knotted with scars of flames long put out; a frozen river cracking as the sun moves higher into the sky as a sign from the lord of light ; hoof-beats muffled on fresh snowfall stealing away in the dead of the night ; prayers whispered in private with the lick of a dornish accent taught by a mother’s voice no longer heard.

                                       INTRO  •  VISAGE  •  MUSINGS  •  INTERACTIONS

⋅ ◆ ⋆ — 𝐆𝐖𝐘𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐉𝐎𝐘, driftwood queen of the iron islands

a pitcher too full with ale spilling as it’s lifted to laughing lips ; a prayer whispered to the drowned god under the cover of the surface asking for a sign that the driftwood crown rests on the right furrowed brow ; the triumphant crest of the waves against the prow of a longship bearing kraken sails ; a whip sharp smile and a curse falling from the same set of lips ; the hiss of the wind rushing along the walls of a stone keep and a persistent candle-flame burning long into the night ; a clear voice calling like a gull to the people of the isles ; her people, for whom she would do any and all things.

                                            INTRO  •  VISAGE  •  MUSINGS  •  INTERACTIONS

⋅ ◆ ⋆ — 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐘𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊, prince in the north

a dream interlaced with the inner workings of a birds’ mind as it wings over the forests of the northern kingdom ; a loud laugh bubbling over the noise of a great hall packed with fur-clad warriors ; the hoofbeats of a black horse stealing away from winterfell with all intention to return with the stories of an adventure well-had ; a fur cloak discarded messily on the stone floors of winterfell ; calloused hands from the sword hilt and calloused fingers from the strings of a lyre ; a hawk’s feather floating with the snowfall to the ground ; the sound of hoofbeats in the snow and the quiet panting of the sable direwolf which follows. 

herah had long fostered an affection for the red swords. unconventional, perhaps, but even their gruff company she preferred to the cruelty of her sisters, in those early temple days. by the time her and qoren’s red threads had crossed she’d become something sharper, a rough-cut ruby hewn in darkness. but the affection remained. other priestesses sought their morning meditations among gentle flames or soft breeze; herah’s was at the edge of a courtyard, the silence cleaved where steel met iron and wood. but there was a grace to the swordplay of red priests, a glory to it. always and only in the pursuit of his design, and all the more beautiful for it. the weapons hanging at hips around them now bore no true blessings. 

what did she make of the vale of arryn? herah had spent enough time staring at stone and sky that her gaze only drifted to the planes of qoren’s profile as she contemplated her true answer. the westerosi had earned nothing more than riddles and clever deceptions of the tongue, but qoren – for a brother, she would not allow a false word. 

“cold,” she decided. “empty. even without the stench of death, there is no true life here. the fires burn and the voices buzz, but there is no warmth of them to be felt.” her fingers tightened into the fabric of qoren’s robes. the lords and ladies gave her a wide berth, enough to cast her mind from the desolate shell of a home they wandered. but with nothing to distract her, the great open maw of this barren land pressed in. “the boltons can take us as far south as they like, that will not change.”

herah drew up straighter and released her grip on qoren’s sleeve with a slow exhale. “if i can make one request of you before we leave this forsaken mountain, please do not get yourself sent through the moon door. i need you by my side, for this long night and the next.” a beat. “he’s been further away from me since we left the north. his true intentions harder to grasp, harder still to hold. have you felt this?”

        QOREN’S SWORD WENT WHEREVER THE red king bid it, though his hands itched for a bidding to plunge it into the hearts of some nonbelievers. for now it was sheathed at his side, safe in the copper-red scabbard, only a swing of an arm away from the throats of the enemies that seemed to cloy these hallways like the rats which swam the canals of braavos. herah was correct in her estimation. it was a cold place, somehow, he thought, colder than the north, and the vitality of so many of the kingdom’s people gathered in one place did nothing to warm it. tensions seemed high, and the presence of two red-swathed foreigners patrolling the halls did nothing but raise it. qoren could see that plain enough in the eyes of those they passed. 

        “aye. this is a place for rock snakes and birds. hardy goats, perhaps. not men.” god-fearing ones, certainly not. the stink of death permeated the eyrie, and in the flames qoren saw very little. it was unnerving — the lord was usually forthcoming with images in the fire to guide him on his journeys in this strange land. “i have no intention of being thrown down the door with nobody on the ground to sent me off with prayers and the kiss of life.” he said resolutely, even if his actions did not affirm such safe sentiments. 

        if he had had his choice of ally, it perhaps would not be the priestess of myr. he did not trust easily, and though they wore the same godly uniform of scarlet, and his the same red flames dancing behind their eyes, she was a stranger still. it was not his choice though, and he knew that as well as the prayers that fell off his tongue from the roll of memory. the lord of light had chosen for him; his lieutenant in the war of this far off battlefront, against gnarled tree spirits and the septenary of false deities who dwelled in glass-windowed temples. “i have felt just that.” he sighed, itching for the clarity that he found in essos, or even in the north. “his voice feels swept away by the mountain winds.” the things he saw in the fire were snatched - far-away screams, men falling like flies in a spider’s web, rogar’s eyes turned back in his head and shadows at his fingers. he could not make sense of them here, in such sporadic lack of clearness. “all i know for certain is that something bad is coming. if he is trying to warn us, we are too far to hear.”  

when bored of their surroundings, every bit of them feels the same to myriah which might be why the dornish princess has found themself walking around aimlessly, pretending not to be completely lost. never would anyone find myriah walk around with anything less that a confident stride, holding their head up and exuding conviction with every step they take and every smile they send to whoever they come across. 

it is a particular sight that causes myriah to stop in her tracks, eyes focused and curious. without hesitation ( without much thought either, to be fair ) the princess walks towards the person whose presence seems to feel the alcove with… something that myriah can’t quite put her finger on it but is, all at the same time, familiar. not something she’s felt but something she’s seen on others’ faces.

myriah shakes her head upon hearing the apology, the beautiful face of the woman showcasing a false familiarity that myriah thinks is because the woman is someone worth knowing, a name and title that puts her above so many others. “no need for apologies. if anything, i should apologise to you for intruding.” the dornish stands tall but not imposingly so, hands clasped in front of her, fumbling under the many layers she’s not used to. 

there’s an amused half-chuckle that escapes them, head shaking ever so slightly before they speak. “i’m sure they all think themselves the most fashionable around, women or not. i must admit, you do not strike me as a woman that would let herself be so taken back by such things. i could be very wrong but that rarely happens.”

              RELIEF FLOODS GWYNESSE LIKE A king tide that the silk-swathed stranger has had the mercy to play along with her joke as if it is something less than a desperate barnacle-clutch to dignity. gwynesse’s rough islander accent clings to the edges of her words as she responds to the words of the most beautiful woman the queen has ever set eyes on. they certainly did not make souls like this on the rugged rocks she ruled. “aye, there are bigger things in the world to worry about.” a sly grin overtook her look of gravelly despair. “although i’m not sure the westermen in question know much of that.” 

        in most other circumstances, being interrupted in a moment of privacy would be met with a curse or ten, the waving of the axe hanging at her gown’s waist, or a threat. however, the demeanour of the offender had gwyn pause — was it perhaps understanding on her lilting voice? the islander did not know, it had been so long since she had been understood by anyone that she thought she might have forgotten how to recognise it. 

        “i’m afraid we’ve never met, intruder.” she tilted her head to one side — keeping track of the greenlander nobility was proving a whale of a task, although she suspected the sands of dorne had shaped this soul at the very least, and that this was a member of house martell at most. “gwynesse greyjoy.” the titles and the rest of the nonsense spoke for itself, she had found. “’s a pleasure.” for it is, to meet an inhabitant of this godforsaken continent who does not hold scorn, disgust or patronising dislike in their eyes when speaking to the high queen. 

“Hello, Qoren,”  there  is  affection  in  the  purr  of  her  greeting,  in  the  same  way  that  poisoned  wine  lingers  sweet  against  the  tongue.  ( If  only  it  would  be  that  easy  to  be  rid  of  R’hllor’s  zealot. )  “I  am,  that  was  only  an  observation.  You  know  well  I  still  prefer  the  cold  to  sitting  by  your  flames.  Besides, our  king  provides  plenty  of  warmth,  should  I  need it.”  The  response  is  a  playful  hum,  recalling  the  journey  from  Dreadfort  to  Eyrie,  stealing  away  with  her  betrothed  from  the  night’s  fire  for  the  seclusion  of  tent  and  furs  instead. 

Glacial  eyes  follow  the  red  priest  as  his  own  study  the  crypt,  wondering  what  he  thought  of  the  rotting  collection  of  bodies  that  surrounded  them.  Did  it  make  his  hands  itch  to  kindle  a  fire  and  burn  it  all  down  in  the  name  of  his  flickering  god?  “I  wouldn’t  have  expected  to…  enjoy  your  company  down  here,  priest,”  she  goes  on  to  say,  a  hand  lifting  from  where  she  lay,  gaze  peering  now  through  splayed  fingers  to  the  stone  above.  “I’d  worry  the  stifled  air  might  put  out  that  incessantly  burning  flame  of  yours.”  Her  other  had  moves  to  her  own  throat,  clasping  around  it’s  slender  line  for  emphasis.  “Choke  it.  Right.  Out.”  

Feigning  sounds  of  a  strangled  breath,  her  raised  hand  falls  as  if  in  death,  and  her  face  tilts  back  to  his  direction.  The  humor  was  entirely  removed  from  sharp  features,  as  quickly  as  snuffing  the  burning  wick  of  a  candle. 

“What  a  tragedy  that  would  be,  don’t  you  think?”

      "MY LADY,” HE SAID CURTLY, his voice grating on the pleasantries he felt that the wilding barbarian did not deserve in the slightest. she was as much a lady as a snake was a bird, or a man a god. qoren did not need reminding of the warmth that sigyn shared with rogar; the carnal trap she had laid for him had proved more tempting than rogar seemed to be able to resist. he had watched them depart from the warmth of the fire with rage seething in dark brown eyes, whispering a prayer that he would not catch whatever wildling rot her tongue sought to seep into him with her words and her acts of rough, cold, crude manipulation. 

      for a moment he imagined the splay of her fingers to be the bars of a prison - the dungeons in the dreadfort, perhaps. it would bring him red, hot joy to have her locked away somewhere where she could not interfere with r’hllor’s plan for rogar, nor the life of her brother whom she had carted off behind enemy lines. squeeze harder, the voice in qoren’s head whispers to her. nobody this side of the wall would miss you. least of all me. “i must not have pleased him today.” qoren says, his voice cold as their stone surroundings. “for he keeps the sconces lit where i must see you.” both red priest and wildling woman know it is not the joke it may be posed as. if it were permitted, he was sure they would both take the life of the other in less time than it took to strike a match. only the red king kept them hung in a seemingly endless standoff, neither willing to estrange the man who had drawn them both into bolton territory. 

      he sucked the stale air in through his teeth. “we both know it would take more than some dank vale crypt to quell the flame that burns in me.” it burned like a wildifre. out of control. he looked around the crypt with mild disinterest, wandering to one of the torches and letting it warm his face. “speaking of tragedy; i saw the starks drag your brother up here like one of their tethered horses. i’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see his sweet sister.” 

𝐇𝐄  𝐈𝐒  𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓  𝐀  𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆  —     almost     (     like  his  life  before     ).     but  his  eyes  are  too  wild,     his  teeth  too  sharp.     even  attractive  regalia  cannot  change  the  way  he  moves:      predatory,     patient  but  prowling,     prepared  to  leap  and  ensnare  the  throat.     so  accustom  to  those  who  act  like  prey,     that  he  is  unaware  that  he’s  the  one  now  caught  betwixt  the  jowls.     a  shift  in  role  denoted  by  his  dearest  sister,     mismatched  irises  stalk  the  men  which  hunt  him.     because  of  his  prompt  action,     the  stark  progeny  live  to  clamber  about  the  vale,     but  no  amount  of  liberation  spares  him  from  the  bile.     what  is  worse  than  an  enemy  of  winterfell  and  their  wolves  ?     one  who  came  from  beyond  the  wall.

he  has  grown  weary  of  kings,     their  queens,     and  their  prophecies  ;     of  the  ones  who  safeguard  their  futures  while  his  is  used  to  pawn  a  path  across  the  chessboard.     ears  prick  at  the  priest  and  his  tongue,     but  his  vitality  is  numbed  by  the  laborious  month.     once,     where  he  may  have  vaulted,     he  now  laps  at  languorous  mending  wounds.     his  guards  gorge  upon  seemly  roasts  and  saccharine  wines,     having  left  einar  to  steal  away  during  dusk.     ❛     aye,     and  you  still  have  a  stick  up  your  arse.     ❜     gone  are  the  eves  of  braiding  dark  manes  and  taunting  penitent  priests.     ❛     you  should  pray  to  your  god  to  see  it  removed.     ❜

      QORENS EYES FLICKER WITH THE flame of good humour. most days it is a mere shadow, left behind in the red temple along with everything else he had possessed in his dornish childhood. in the company of the wildling wolf, he even manages a grating laugh, and a smile that lives uncomfortably on his face. “some things are below the lord of light’s authority, wilding.” the care of a soul, however, though it might not belong to a believer, had been at the top of qoren’s prayers in the weeks that followed einar’s departure from the dreadfort. 

    gwynesse had all the makings of an islander queen. strong of will, strong of mind, quick tongued and quick thinking. she could sail, and address a crowd, and wield an axe. she could drink and brawl and had been resurrected from a watery death in a ceremony before all of the islands’ most loyal lords. and yet none of that seemed to matter to a cohort of ironborn men who could not abide rule by a woman, no matter how adept. 

    most days, she could manage it, but like the relentless waves smashing against the cliffs, eventually it could wear her down. today it had crumbled her, like a landslide into the ocean. it seemed her men could not behave themselves here, even by her ironborn standards, and though they had submitted readily enough when victarion had stepped in, it was becoming humiliating to continue to need him to do that for her. the crown did not sit on his brow. 

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.

‘  i  am  not  your  brother,  ’  he  corrects,  finally  breaking  the  moment.  ‘  my  brothers  are  those  who  have  been  drowned  in  the  waves  and  brought  back  stronger  than  iron.  ’  it’s  not  a  casual  endearment  to  be  shared  between  strangers,  especially  not  with  greenlanders.  the  other’s  accent  was  unfamiliar,  likely  not  of  westeros,  but  in  some  way  all  who  weren’t  born  of  the  islands  were  green.  ‘  hardly  rats,  but  if  it  is  a  comfort  to  discredit  us  as  such  i  will  let  you  have  it.  ’

      QOREN IS MOTIONLESS, STILL AS stone, but only his eyes move to watch the pinching out of the flame between them. destructive, this drowned god must be, to instil such wishes in the hearts of his blind followers. to worship the water, something which could not follow a man past the banks of a river or the shores of the sea, seemed a fools errand. these drowned men forgot who lit the torches that warmed their hostile home, and who had hung the stars with which they could not navigate without. he snapped his eyes back up to the man opposite, handsome, he thought off-handedly, if it weren’t for the deranged, inhuman look in his eyes. what a shame. “the beautiful thing about fire, is that it can be reborn as many times as one pleases. it rises from ash.” he reaches over to the next candle along the bench, delicately lifting it to relight the wick and smiling at the sound of the pooled ale in the top fizzing into steam at the introduction of heat. “all one needs is a spark.” his eyes flashed with smugness. 

     “your heart pumps warm blood the same as mine.” he debated a repeat of the term brother and thought it might end with an axe buried in his skull, so he bit his tongue, thinking of the words of the myrish priestess only a night earlier. caution - the will of god over his own. rats were dirty little swimmers, carrying with them disease and death. how was that any different from these ship-bourne islanders? qoren could not say. “admittedly, i know very little of your people, so perhaps the metaphor lacks some.” he knew they were barbarians, savages. that was enough. 

the requiem.  within the eyrie’s crypt.  late afternoon.  open ( 2/5 )

They  had  displayed  their  king’s  body  like  one  of  their  fancy  cakes.  He  had  been  decorated,  every  last  detail  finely  tended  to,  and  placed  in  the  center  of  the  room  for  all  those  gathered  in  the  Vale  to  politely  gawk  at.  There  was  no  pyre.  No  respect.  Only  this…  spectacle  of  his  death.  

Yet, they  still  found  the  nerve  to  call  her  people  the  savage ones. 

Sigyn  had  had  quite  enough  of  the  shallow  pleasantries  and  clandestine  sneering  in  the  days  following  the  funeral.  Her  patience  for  them  expired,  a  porcelain  snarl  and  the  giant  man  appointed  to  guard  her clear  her  course  from the  clutch  of  women  and  their  whispers  of  ‘wildlings  roaming  free’  and  of  The  Vale’s  succession.  She  finds  herself  wandered  to  where  once  a  king’s  corpse  lay,  and  her  fingers  dote  across  the  intricate  carved  stone,  newly  without  purpose.  A slight  form  such  as  her  own  is easily  lifted  to  sit  atop  it,  to  lay  back,  arms  outstretched  beyond  the  slab  —  to  get  a  feel  for  it.

If  the  red  god’s  followers  had  anything  right  at  all,  it  was  that  even  she  would  prefer  flames  to  this  brand  of  exhibition.  

Footsteps  interrupt  solitude,  then.  Her  man  standing  a  ways  off  is  stilled  by  a  gesture  of  her  hand  as  her  face  tilts  to  find  their  approach,  lips  curling  into  an  amused,  sideways  grin.   

“Were  you  hoping  to  have  a  turn  up  here?  It’s  not  nearly  as  fun  as  I thought  it’d  be.  It’s  just  cold.”

      DEEPLY UNSETTLED WAS THE ONLY set of words qoren could find to express his feelings on seeing a dead man buried and not burned. he had, of course, avoided the sept - that unholy relic built by godless people to mock the true lord who yearned for their souls and prayer. but curiosity had the better of him, once the ceremonies had taken place and the former king of the vale had interred in the crypt.

      vision from mortal eyes meant little to him, he would much rather have seen the wildling woman interred on a burial mound in the flames — then he would know that, r’hllor be praised, it would come to pass. still, the sight of sigyn lying atop the interment did stir a little amusement in his husk of a heart. there was certainly no love for her within it, and many a time had it yearned to see her lips, so found of spouting false prophecy and making his life hard, close permanently in that eternal sleep. 

     “i do not envy your position in the slightest.” his eyes shifted around the space, this home for the dead cursed with the eternity of a mortal body rotting in a box. he did not trust it. and he did not trust the seer who’s raven-talons ensnared the red king whom he served, and loved as a brother - ( well, not as she loved her brother, sent to the wolves den as hostage. proper love, the kind that kept swords sharp and flames burning - the kind he was sure was beyond a woman of sigyn’s nature ). “i had presumed you were used to the cold.” 

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.  ’

‘  greenlanders  change  their  gods  as  the  wind  changes  course,  so  i’m  sure  you’ll  find  a  few  to  …  ‘  he  trails  off  for  a  moment,  finishing  the  sentence  with  a  dismissive  wave  of  a  ring - clad  hand.  ‘  whatever  it  is  you  seek  to  convince  them  for.  ’  the  hand  returns  to  the  able.  ‘  my  god  will  not  come  to  this  keep  though,  for  this  is  not  a  holy  place.  ’

      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.”

⋅ ◆ ⋆ — einar ( @eskirmir​​​​ )

      HE ALMOST DID NOT RECOGNISE the face of the wildling, though of course he had been looking since they had left the dreadfort for the stark retinue. surely they would bring their captive, as a show of this good faith that the queen-in-waiting was so hell bent on. good faith was a bonfire eating all it touched, prayers whispered for hours, red blood on a sword dedicated to r’hllor. what would a wildling heathen know of good faith. qoren could spit at the mere thought of it. 

      the man who he saw seemed a husk of the man that had inhabited the dreadfort, arriving on the wings of his sister’s visions. now, he merely seemed to haunt the shadows below the stark banners. their captive, dragged along for the ride. smattered with bruises and looking unnervingly tidier than qoren was used to, he was still here — those dirty fanged apostates had not done him any mortal harm. qoren had seen the wildlings scars, he would survive this. “praise be to r’hllor.” the priest’s voice was, for once, private and not for an audience. thanks was between him and his god, for answering one of his prayers. 

     and then, the priest was replaced by the man. “you look like shit, wildling.” 

       THE VALE OF ARRYN. ONCE merely a blip on the edge of a map in a dimly lit red temple, and now a godless land stretching out as far as qoren’s eye could see. his travels had born him across the narrow sea spurned by the flames that flickered behind his eyelids, and the visions of his calling in the great white north. it had never occurred to him, with the blinders of the lord of light over his vision, that he might ever end up here. where falcons wheeled in the skies above, reminding him of the gulls of sunspear in the deepest recesses of his memory. 

      as he sits alone, honing the edge of his sword, and his mind along with it, a shadow falls over him and he looks up in mild annoyance of his peace being disturbed. his red robes shift as he sets the blade down, and peers up at the young woman standing before him. she was not dressed in the manner of the valemen, and he recognised the cut of her gown in the memories of dorne - the rust orange skirts of a faceless mother, the purple jewels in the ears of a forgotten sister. “you are far from home, dornishwoman.” we are far from home.

      he ignored the deep, unsettling clench in his stomach, to have recognised someone from the homeland he had been ripped from like a child from its toy. the priests had urged him to reject his godless homeland, and those in it who could love him as r’hllor did. and yet perhaps it was a sign of his own weakness that he could not, completely. 

timestamp:  the  requiem  /  spring ,  486  ac .  ·  location:  eyrie  ,  the  vale  of  arryn.  ·  tagging:  @nightcomes​

the vale is not the first place that she would have chosen to travel. though in truth, the notion could have stopped at anything that she thought she could do. currently, she stands — she cannot bring herself to sit and crease the couch or touch the perfect way that the room is aligned. you will make yourself invisible, girl. she would not leave any part of herself behind here. she knew better.

the jagged edges of the cliff face captures her attention for the moment, so harsh in comparison to the endless plains of her home. though she does not wish poor weather on those traveling the rest of this journey, watching a storm crest those cliffs would be a sight in itself. storms had no care for what was torn down in their path, selfish and unforgiving, they would destroy anything. not her though. never her.

vision drifts, focus beyond the view outside of the window and arms wrapped around her. is this what life would be like? to be passed off to a husband in a new place and expected to survive? really how different would it be to living now? the sound of the door opening pulls her gaze behind her, seemingly remembering where she was. head drops gracefully, respect in the motion for those above her even if the label she is about to use is utterly incorrect,   “ apologies, my lady. did you need the room? ”   

       GWYNESSE WAS UNEASY, SO FAR from the ocean. it was not natural, for driftwood to come further ashore than the tideline, and that tended to be the rule she had stuck to even during her travels. she consoled herself as her shoulders bunched ever tighter with tension, that this was not the age of her father, and the soft-handed greenlanders should see her face. they should know that the isles rest in the grip of strong hands, and that the dawning of a golden age creeped over the western horizon where her islands rose triumphant from the sunset sea. 

      she walks through the keep as if it is her own. the ironborn were raiders, they made their homes wherever their longships docked, and this saltless keep was no different, even if the ships were dormant carcasses left at the nearest shore. the high queen is, as is the way in the company of men she does not like but tolerate, frustrated. the valeman sent to question her on the behaviour of some of her ironborn around the taverns below the eyrie. 

     “—if you are expecting my men not to drink, i shall expect yours not to speak or piss or maintain those godforsaken frowns you vale dwellers seem to adore so.” she could sooner stop her men from partaking in ale as she could make horses fly, and stormed through the halls looking for a room in which to ruminate a solution that would alleviate tension and remove this bothersome weasel from her company. “i will f—”

      the room is occupied, it seems, by one of these doe-eyed greenlander maidens that seem a copper coin a dozen here but are so rare on the isles. likely more volume to her skirts than to her intelligence. “if you wouldn’t mind, little lamb; the adults are speaking.” she let out a dry chuckle and glanced to her companion. “well, one is.” 

        timestamp :    the  requiem  /  spring ,  486  ac.    location :    eyrie ,  the  vale    tagging :    @nightcomes   ( qoren  sand )

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.  

        ‘  no  god  here,  ’  he  murmurs  to  himself,  before  taking  another  swig.  they  had  removed  themselves  from  his  home.

       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.”

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐆𝐎𝐃'𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃

𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐍 𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐌, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤, or the knave, represents the card between queen and ten. he is known as a trickster, and is associated with historical courtly warrior figures like hector of troy, lancelot, and the warrior priest judas maccabeus.

𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐉𝐎𝐘, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 is the highest ranked of the faces, just above the queen. the rest of the deck falls under him, and takes its face from the great ruler generals of history - the biblical david, charles the great, julius caesar and alexander the great.

𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐖𝐘𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐉𝐎𝐘, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧 or the dame is the card ranked between the king and the jack - in some italian decks she holds the same role and value as the king himself. her face is borrowed from warrior queens throughout history, such as pallas athene, goddess of war, and the jewish queen judith, of holoferenes’-severed-head fame.