asher forrester.

A small smile reclaimed his lips as the mood lightened, glad they were both alive to find humor in an otherwise heavy situation that had taken a toll on them both. If Theon could rid his memory of the long days trapped on his uncle’s ship, wounded, dehydrated, and overwhelmed with grief–he gladly would. If anything, Euron had certainly instilled a fear in him. Who knew his own family could be this cruel in the pursuit of power. Theon had been nothing more than a bartering tool, and if that failed, he would have likely been tossed to the depths.

“No.” Theon replied simply, but beyond that, he did not try to argue further with Asher’s stubborn stance. Instead he offered a supportive hand on the man’s shoulder, scoffing lightly at the question. “We take advantage of the fact we’re both alive and well, I suppose. The fighting is well on its way to returning, and who knows if we could share a drink after the next conflict.”

He tried not to think on the deaths that were still to come, for all wars demanded steep payment, and he was not so foolish to think that he and everyone he cared for would return to their homes safe and unharmed. “Besides, you owe me a drink for not paying me a visit while I was healing. I had to endure a number of annoyances with no relief from it.”

just like that, the fight was over, all the anger and pain washing away and leaving asher feeling hollow and tired. it felt a bit like he’d been in battle, but without all the adrenaline, the rush. guilt and stress and failure still lingered somewhere deep in his chest, but he didn’t quite have it in him to continue the same argument with neither of them gaining ground. so asher swallowed his pride - no easy feat - and offered theon a conciliatory smile.

the reminder of the one thing he had no right forgetting had the smile slipping from his face as quickly as it had come. “you’re right,” he agreed, mouth twisted in an unpleasant expression. with a shake of his head, he did his best to forget about the impending fight, the chaos and bloodshed the remainder of the war would surely bring. “best to live for today, i always say.”

asher cast a glance back the way they’d came, at the party still raging inside. “you ready to go back in, then? as much as i want to repay you - and drink myself, of course - i can’t say i’m too in the mood for revelry.” a wry smile, a shrug of his shoulders, and a few steps towards the festivities followed his words. “for the record, i was busy. saving your ass was no easy feat, you know.” although it’s forced and straining around the edges, asher’s tone was teasing, lighter. he still didn’t feel okay, but he supposed he felt a bit better.

donnel locke || open starter || the stark wedding celebration

The night was cool and blissful, the sound of celebrating filled his ears, bringing a smile to his tired, dried lips. The events of late had kept him up all sorts of hours, and he couldn’t remembered the last time he had much of a restful sleep. He assumed tonight might be one of those times, and that all but caused him to want to turn in immediately. He knew he couldn’t. Donnel always played the part of mediator. There was always some argument. Over ale, over crops, it didn’t matter, tonight was not the night for such things. The King in the North earned a night of celebration, to not have to deal with the bickering of his kinsmen.

As the thoughts passed his mind, he heard such an argument happening right before his eyes. Damn. He sighed and walked over, separating the toy men, looks of disappointment as if a father scolding sons is all it took for the men to grumble apologies and be on there ways. It was tiring, not being able to actually invest himself in the party, but at the same time, he didn’t mind being the peacekeeper if he had to, and at this point he knew he did have to. Finally gripping his mug of ale, he took a long sip. “I gather that will not be the first disagreement I will have to break up this evening.” He said allowed to no one in particular.

From his comfortable place on the wall right next to the ale, Asher had a great view of the party. People watching could be fun, he’d convinced himself, and as he slowly grew drunker he came to find he was actually enjoying himself. Troubling events of the evening as decisively out of his mind as he could manage, he watched the lords and ladies of the North as they celebrated a union that left a pit in his stomach. Somehow, though, focusing on his worry for Mira and his wariness of her King seemed preferable to dealing with the other thoughts waging war in his mind. A fight was just what this party needed, he decided, watching the first brawl of the night break out.

But it was quickly broken up, decisively ruining Asher’s fun, and he couldn’t helo the pout that played on his lips. The man looked familiar, like someone he’d known in his past life, but for the life of him Asher could not place him any more than that. Ah, well, he was too drunk for names anyways, he’d save that as a problem to deal with in the future. So tuned into the brawl and its aftermath, Asher caught the words and made something of an amused scoff. “I gather you’re right, but what’s a Northern party without a few fights? We must do something to keep our blood warm, even this far South.” Okay, maybe those were just Asher’s parties, and sure, maybe he hadn’t been to a Northern gathering in over a decade, but still, could times have changed that much?

At that moment, Gwyn’s nursemaid, and quite possibly her greatest friend and confidante in recent years, Ari, emerged from the party as well. Gwyn prayed the darkness of the night shielded Asher’s identity from her, at least in this moment. She would likely tell her later, the woman held many of her deepest secrets, but for now she needed the opportunity to process what was before her. “Ari, could you take Rosie to bed? I will be there very soon, I’d just like a moment to say goodbye to some friends.” She told the woman, handing over the nearly asleep babe and waiting for Ari to walk a good distance away before taking hold of Asher’s arm and leading him behind some nearby brush and trees. “Does this feel real enough?” She questioned, satisfied with the distance she had created between them and the party, hoping to avoid any chance of being seen together, surely unleashing all that had been slowly healing for the past decade.

She inhaled deeply, swallowing down the lump in her throat, mustering up all of the courage in her body to be able to form any sort of words to communicate with what seemed like a ghost. “Again?” Gwyn asked, almost too quietly to be heard, before moving along the discussion. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t thought a time or two she had seen him amongst a crowd, but she was admittedly preoccupied in recent years. “What are you doing here? After all this time?” Her voice quavered. She had to remind herself to breathe, to distance herself. What good would it do to allow herself to give into temptation? “I imagine all that has happened has given you every reason to make sure those you love are okay.” She began. “I have no idea what you have been doing or where you have been, but you can’t be here, Asher.” Gwyn had a million questions for him, but perhaps the best thing she could do in this moment while she had the ability, was to keep him at a great distance.

He could have left, when the nursemaid appeared. He should have left, should have gone back into the party and gotten so drunk he couldn’t see, should have called it a night and gone off to bed, dubbing the whole encounter the hallucinations of a desperate man. It was just that he could not convince his limbs to quite listen to him, frozen in place in the shadows, watching the interaction before him like a statue in the dark. It did not escape him that this woman had a child, but for once Asher’s mind was brutally and completely blank, thoughts lost in a shock that he was not sure he could recover from. Asher felt her grip, felt his body moving, but as if he were in a dream, watching his body from somewhere else. “No,” he responded, voice soft, emotionless. “It does not feel real because it cannot be real. I -” he stopped, swallowing hard, eyes closing as if to shut it all out.

“Again,” Asher repeated, taking a few steps back under the guise of leaning against a nearby tree trunk. The added distance helped little, though, his heart torn between wanting to step closer, closer, and wanting to run away and never look back. “If you are who you say you are, then you must know I never stopped thinking about you.” Emotion was slowly starting to trickle back into his body, his words laced with a pained ferocity that left no doubt that he meant what he said. A harsh laugh, full of something one could almost call cruelty, escaped from him before he could stop it. “No, you couldn’t know why I’m here. Why I’m - back.” Just as he couldn’t know why Gwyn was here, why she held an infant so clearly her own. Life - call it their own actions, call it beyond their control - had torn them apart with no hope of reconnecting. And yet, there they were. “I can’t be here?” he asked incredulously, mind still running slowly, trying to process the statement. “I am part of the Dragon King’s army. He pays my wages, and I go where he goes. I have far more of a right to be here than you do.” Count on him, to fall back on anger when the going got too tough.

He was acting strange, Theon thought, and he stared at Asher in clear confusion of the question before his invitation was accepted. Perhaps he wasn’t to be forgiven then…and such a thought made his heart feel it had fallen to the pit of his stomach. He did not want to be thought of as weak, and he certainly did not want to lose companionship in Asher for his own failure that night. He couldn’t help but worry on Asher’s tone as they departed, the heat of the packed room giving way to cool air and silence.

It was then Theon was met with a response that had clearly been held back until now, and his brow furrowed at first, for Asher had never spoken to him this way. But it all made sense. Theon had grieved, had felt the pressure of guilt for that night–but Asher had as well. He’d done so much in an effort to get to Theon and it had been for nothing, and now he wondered (with some amusement) if the two of them had been beating themselves over the other this entire time. It would certainly explain the lack of visitation as well.

“Failed me?” Theon countered, though his voice remained calm in contrast to Asher’s own. “You nearly gave your life for mine. In the battles I’ve fought, no one has ever rushed to my side so recklessly that they void their own safety. No one has ever done for me, what you did, and I will not soon forget it.”

asher was prone to dramatics, to flair and show and performance; he knew this, everyone knew this. perhaps his reaction was too much, as he often was too much, but it did not change the guilt that racked his heart. that, in truth, had been racking his heart for weeks now. seeing that theon felt similarly, asher couldn’t help but let out a bitter laugh at the irony of it all. “look at us, two sorry idiots if i ever saw them.” it’s a deflection, of sorts, but asher quickly sobered up once more, shifting his focus fully back to theon.

the raw, bitter truth of it all was that asher had missed theon, that he would swallow his own guilt and failure to have his friend back. during his long years in exile, friends had been hard to come by; only a sellsword could know so intimately how untrustworthy, how disloyal, a sellsword was. since his return, he’d regained his siblings, but kept his distance from most else. theon, though - theon had become something of a friend without knowing asher was an exiled lordling, a disgrace, and had stuck by him even after finding out.

“we’re never going to agree on this, are we?” asher observed in a rare moment of rational thought. “i could have done more, i should have done more. i am not used to losing, theon, particularly not when fighting for a friend.” the fierce earnestness still shone distinctly in his voice, but the tone had lowered to match theon’s. sucking in a deep breath, he ran a hand down his face. “so. what now?”

For all the initial freedom of being away from Torrhen’s Square had been exhilarating, finally a time for her to explore the world and see what it had to offer, after all the stress and worry of the past few weeks she was beginning to long for it. Perhaps that was why she had surprised herself in how much she had enjoyed the wedding - with so many Northerners in the familiar comfort of the Godswood it felt almost like home. She had been somewhat hesitant to celebrate when she knew that some would still be grieving or recovering but her father had encouraged her to enjoy her evening and he was a man that she could never say no to. And so she had talked and danced and drank and laughed and danced some more. Time had seemed to be suspended and she had revelled in the weightlessness of it all but if her breathlessness was anything to go by, quite some time had passed since she had had a break.

As soon as she spotted a familiar face near the edge of the room, a plan was formed knowing that she could give herself a moment of respite as well as spend some time with someone whom she was fast considering a friend. Light laughter tumbled from her lips at his words. “Of course not.” Head shook gently, teasing smile flickering subtly over her lips. “I take pity on any man who ever tries too suggest that you are or could ever be pathetic.” If anyone ever did then surely they had no sense of character. Sympathy flickered in her gaze, knowing it could not be easy to see a sister married to a man he barely knew. “Only you can make that choice.” The words were soft, acknowledging his undertone but still allowing him  vagueness to it all. “I was hoping to take a moment or two of air if you would be so kind as to accompany me?” Head tilted to the side as she posed her question, hopeful smile on her features. “If nothing else my father will be grateful after all the lectures he has given me about ensuring I am not alone.”

many negative things could be said about asher, but no one would ever dare accuse him of being cold or unfeeling. it made him something of an oddity in the north, surrounded by the stoic and honorable men as frigid as their lands. sometimes he even felt like the odd one out within his own family; sure rodrik felt emotions, but none of his brothers nor his father wore their thoughts quite so plainly on their sleeves as asher did. even when it would’ve been easier to close everything out and adopt a comfortable numbness, asher had never quite been able to block it out; when he was exiled, he mourned, when he reunited with his family, he celebrated. there were, however, downsides to being such an open book, and asher was quickly realizing all of them as he watched his kinsman with such clearly etched anxiety and wariness. as much as he wanted to trust mira, trust their king, the truth of the matter was both of them were virtual strangers after so long spent across the narrow sea. 

“they’d be right, though,” asher admitted softly. eddara’s implication was true enough; if anyone insinuate that he was pathetic to his face, they’d be quick to learn just how truly unpathetic asher’s right hook was. prone to violence - there was another downside to his temperamental disposition. “upset at my own sister’s wedding, gods, my mother would throttle me.” he spoke as much to himself as to her, rubbing a hand across his face as if to scrub away his bad mood. the offer of an escape was too tempting to refuse, even had he not felt the obligation of northern honor to accompany her. casting her a smile and wondering if she knew how much the suggestion meant to him, asher accepted with a nod. “who am i to let your father down? i’d rather not face his wrath if i can avoid it,” he teased with a faked shutter of horror. “of course, let’s take a walk.” offering his arm with the instincts of one who’d been born into northern manners, he gestured to the door so conveniently nearby.

closed starter for @ofsecondsons​ || the stark wedding celebration

Men, women, and children alike all danced and ate in celebration for the King in the North’s wedding to Mira Forrester, a name that slightly stung in Gwyn’s complicated history with the family. While none of House Whitehill was in attendance, as now the Lady of House Lake, she was all but required to be there. The only comfort she found is that she would have to retire early with her younger daughters, the older two who were running about with other children, and her infant wriggling in her arms. She made small talk with some other ladies and drank wine and plastered a smile on her face, but this night, and for so long before, it was all simply for show.

At the loud drop of a mug just behind her, little Rosie began to wail, and Gwyn quickly excused herself, slightly thankful for the escape, but not all too happy that her baby was frightened, even if by accident. Gwyn managed to find a quieter place outside one of the entrances, dark as well which made it easy for her to soothe and rock her young daughter. “Shhh, shh, little Rosie.” She murmured, humming as she swayed the baby, who quickly calmed. Gwyn gave a sigh of relief, enjoying the moment of peace, before she looked up and saw the shadow of a man that made her jump ever so slightly, luckily not enough to startle the little one she held. She squinted her eyes, still adjusting to the change in light, and her heart quickly sank into her stomach. Her face grew hot, tears pricked at her eyes. She almost didn’t want to say it out loud for fear it was a mistake, but she knew in her soul it wasn’t. “Asher? Is that you?”

It was becoming something of an unnerving trend, Asher thought, that he kept seeing women who eerily resembled those he’d lost. While Mira may have ended up truly being Mira, though, there was little possibility of fate repeating itself. There was no chance that the woman who looked just like an older Gwyn, who, gods, who carried herself so similarly to the girl he’d lost, it just couldn’t actually be her. What a cruel jape that would be, if she somehow was in the same city and he hadn’t known. No, the gods surely were not that cruel. Besides - Asher saw Gwyn everywhere, in everything, the shade of his lost love a constant companion. That’s all this was; he was once again seeing similarities where there were none because he so desperately wished there were.

It was yet another cruel twist of fate that the mysterious woman was from the North. Already uncomfortable enough at the celebration following the royal wedding, seeing the ghost from his past was the absolute last thing Asher needed. Though he’d only just returned inside from his brief reprieve - and thank the gods for Eddara, the woman was too good for the lot of them - he found himself already needing air. Downing his latest drink in one gulp and bidding a quick goodbye to the few once-friends who’d taken up position along the outskirts of the room with him, he took his escape once more. Barely had he regained a normal heart rate before the very same woman had joined him outside. Standing still, so still, hoping she would not notice him, Asher felt his breath catch in his throat at his name upon her lips. “You’re not here. You’re not real. I’m just drunk and imagining you again.”

The sight of the healing wound resurfaced that aching guilt, and for a moment, Theon was tempted to reach out and gently touch it as if that might ease his own aching sentiment. There was plenty on the matter that he wished to say, both apology and gratitude needing to be expressed, and he had hoped Asher might appear at his bedside while he had been trapped there on the mend so that he could speak it. Visitor after visitor had been met with the hope it was him, and yet Theon had been met with silent disappoint when he never came.

“Better than I was.” He replied, managing, just for the moment, to offer a small smile. “Forgive me though…” He continued before he could stop himself. “Had I not called to you that night, you would not have been injured at my expense. If I harbored half your strength, I would have been better use to us both.” It kept replaying in his head, the sight of Asher barreling through men, swinging left and right while Theon struggled with the few pinning him to the ground, beating him in the back of the head. 

Loud laughter reminded Theon they were in a boisterous setting, and he’d long grown tired of it. “I’m eager for a moment of fucking peace if you would join me. I’ll admit I’ve missed your company.” He was fond of Asher, and his pride usually kept him from admitting anything of the sort–but given this was a man that had recently near died for him, he was entitled a bit more honesty than most. 

asher was certain the shock at theon’s words must be clear as day on his face. always an open book, even he was shocked by the intensity of emotion the other man’s apology awakened. a part of him wanted to scream, another part of him wanted to cry; caught in the middle of it all, asher could only stare at theon for a long moment. “forgive you?” he asked, as if the words were a foreign language unfamiliar on his tongue. “did you just ask me to forgive you?”

it hadn’t stopped replaying in his mind, the attack on that awful night. the raw fear when he learned his sister had been taken, the hopelessness when he thought on how he’d failed theon, they’d all made regular appearances alongside memories of gwyn in his nightmares. for once in his damned life, asher was completely, brutally silent, processing his emotions internally, thinking before he spoke. “yes - let's take a walk,” he responded hollowly, casting a faint smile at theon as an afterthought. “i’ve missed yours too.”

the admission was soft, gentle, but asher waited until they were away from the constantly listening ears and the thrum of loud voices before he responded to theon’s earlier words. “do not ever apologize to me, not for a single second of that night.” his voice sounded harsh even to asher’s own ears, thick and loud with earnestness. “don’t you dare apologize when i couldn’t fucking save you.” during the rescue mission, asher had cut down a dozen men and would’ve gladly gone through dozens more to get theon and mira back. did he know that? “you could have died, theon, and it would have been because i’d failed you.”

@ofsecondsons​

King’s Landing was a rightful shit city. Of all the places Theon had been forced to drag himself to on foot and horseback, this was by far the worst. What temporary alliance in place hardly mattered–to him the Lannisters were snakes, and he had no trust nor comfort in being within their walls awaiting the ships that would take them on. To make matters worse, he still wasn’t feeling well enough to fight. Euron had made his life hell as his captive, and while the bruises and cuts were fading, the damage further done to his hand and arm had yet to be mended to the point he could properly swing his sword or draw back an arrow. The best he could make do with, was a dagger. 

Already on his second glass of ale and making a point to ignore the number of people around him absentmindedly feasting and celebrating, Theon was considering heading back to the room he’d been given when he caught sight of Asher’s familiar form moving about the tables nearby. Last he’d seen him, he was struggling to come to Theon’s aid, very nearly losing his life in the process–though Theon had been convinced he had in the madness of the fray.

He rose from his place at the table, grabbed another full glass of ale near the massive keg, and approached the man to offer it. “I’d begun to worry. They told me you lived but not to what extent you were injured.” He said softly, offering a smile. “How are you?”

asher wasn’t avoiding theon, per se - asher didn’t avoid people at all, not really. the issue was not with the man himself, surely, for asher had been so relieved when he learned of his safe return, had cut down a dozen men in the fight for the hostages simply because they’d dared take someone from him. no, the greyjoy bastard had done nothing wrong, it was himself asher felt anger towards, and that just wouldn’t do. though never shy of his own emotions, asher’s self-confidence had withstood everything that had been thrown his way, from his father’s disapproving looks to the sharp sting of losing his love. to feel it falter, to feel the sting of his own failures so acutely - that was one thing asher had little experience dealing with.

and so he’d celebrated theon’s return from a distance, making sure through third parties perhaps a bit too anxiously that the other man was healing, was at the very least alive and back on his feet. it was better this way, for asher was certain theon could not wish to see him either. no, not when their last meeting had shown asher so wholly unable to save him. it was best that he stayed away.

he’d been drunk since he arrived in king’s landing, he was sure of it. with no real responsibilities as the entire damned realm dawdled and tread on the tumultuous pause they called peace, it had taken little time for asher to grow bored of it all. the endless feasts and parties, at least, offered asher the chance to cause a little ruckus without any real consequence. catching himself quite tired of an argument he’d started with some uptight reach lordling, the appearance of theon caught him quite off guard, and for just a second his smile faltered and something quite like panic blinked in his eyes. covering himself quickly, asher offered his arm to show the healing scar. “don’t worry, my opponents looked far worse,” he grinned, all confidence he was shocked to not feel. but, gods be damned, he had missed theon, he truly was happy to see him again. “and how are you? are you - okay?” asher faltered, knowing as he spoke that he was avoiding the question.

@ofsecondsons | beren + asher | in a dingy tavern

          in some ways, it was a godsend that smalljon was the golden son: their father hadn’t even noticed that beren had left the makeshift supper tables set in the northern camps. he had rolled his eyes a little too hard during the greatjon’s speech, excusing himself to go search for a decent tipple and conversation that didn’t make him set things on fire. so the busy tavern on the outskirts of king’s landing seemed like the ultimate gift - a welcome escape from his overachieving family and a future wife who seemed to have as much interest in him as he did her. and to its credit, the place was full of sellswords and cutthroats and probably the odd nobleman’s son too. this was definitely his lot. 

         dropping into a seat, he took a long swig from his horn of ale - then another, then another until the cup was empty and he was already reaching to pour himself a second. the barkeep had left him a jug all to himself ( beren thanked at least two of the old gods for that ), so he nursed his drink and made idle chat with any stranger he could find - laughing at their stories, and offering nothing in the way of his own. but he was reaching for the devastatingly empty jug, halfway between a crude joke and a roguish smile, when he noticed a man he swore he knew all too well. 

         “ asher forrester? ” beren started, walking over with all the surety of an unruly second son. they had been partners in crime until - well, until asher was punished for falling in love with the wrong person. that was the thing about the north, wasn’t it? it cared more for honour than love or life or anything else. “ i thought that was you - what in seven hells are you doin’ here? ”

house forrester’s status had always seemed the perfect fit for asher’s wild nature, growing up in ironrath. not that he wouldn’t have found ways to rebel anywhere - prince or peasant, asher would always be asher. still, the circumstances of his birth felt a bit like a twisted gift from the gods. wealthy enough to fund his drunken exploits, but not a big enough name to cause a scandal - well, apart from that scandal - and the second son to top it off; what could be better? it had never been difficult to find likeminded soldiers or wayward second-or-third-or-whatever sons in that frozen wasteland he missed so acutely.

it would surprise no one that asher would end up in a truly disgusting tavern in the bowels of king’s landing. it would surprise no one that he felt more at home in that tavern than he had since his grand return to westeros in the company of dragons. the tavern was like a hundred others he’d been in before, like a hundred others he would surely visit in the future. sharing an ale with a nameless stranger was the same everywhere in the world, it seemed - and it was one of the pastimes asher most excelled at.

there’s something about hearing his name - his real name, his full name - that still took him aback. he’d gotten used to hearing it on the lips of his siblings, but outside of that - it’s just asher, just ser, just whatever nickname his comrades-in-arms were in the mood for that day. it’s fitting, somehow, to hear the unfamiliar sound of asher forrester in this terrible bar in a terrible part of a terrible city. be it the shock or the name or the uncomfortably familiar voice, asher’s attention was certainly caught. “well, if it isn’t beren fucking umber,” he crowed, lips splitting in a grin. “where else would i be? i should’ve known you’d be with the northern troops. gods, it’s been a while!”

though he’d skipped the ceremony itself - for what place did an exile have at the king’s wedding? - asher found himself making an appearance at the celebrations afterward. perhaps it was some deep-rooted sense of masochism, perhaps he merely wanted to ensure his sister at least looked happy, asher scarcely knew why he’d dared to show his face. always one quick with a smile, quick with a joke and a goblet of ale, asher had never before felt so out of place, so the odd one out. few of the gathered northerners spared much more than a confused glance for the targaryen soldier who lingered along the wall, as near to an exit as he could manage. the truth of his identity was, by that point, as much of an open secret as any, but it appeared for the time being he could sufficiently blend in, go unnoticed in the crowd. it was new, for him, this task of sitting back and watching and asher found his skin crawling even as the new queen mira spun to the beat of an angry northern dance.

eddara was a welcome sight. the northern woman was kind, too good for the lot of them, and watching her make her way over to his post unknotted something in his chest. she put up with him - or, perhaps more impressively, she seemed to put up with rodrik. “taking pity on me, hmm? do i truly look that pathetic?” he teased as she approached, but the jape failed to meet his eyes. he was sure he did look truly put out, truly uncomfortable, but still, he was thankful to no longer be standing alone. “should i leave, do you think? they look happy enough.” asher had never been one to hide his thoughts or feelings, all raw emotion and impulse, and so the words rolled easily off his tongue. perhaps he should be thankful his own sense of unease outweighed his opinions about the match, for whining about himself was far safer in the present company. as he spoke, his gaze had shifted back to the newlyweds, but he brought it back to her, something sad in his gaze. how was the ceremony? he wanted to ask. will she be okay? but no - even he knew it wasn’t fair to dump that all on her.