#ironmen

Interesting.

Loron’s Greyjoy friendship with Desmond was described as “great and tragic.” Desmond came from a House that has been historically tasked with defending the riverlands against the Ironborn, and as such, has a long history of animosity towards the Iron Isles to the point that Jason Mallister advised his son Patrek not to associate with Theon Greyjoy, and Ser Denys Mallister had such sour relations with the Ironborn Cotter Pyke that Mormont placed them on opposite sides of the Wall. However, there managed to be friendship between people from the houses of two traditional enemies, though not the only one given Theon Greyjoy briefly got along with Patrek Mallister, bonding through "wenches, wine and hawking.” However, Loron and Desmond likely had a different sort of bond. 

Note that Loron’s sobriquet is “the Bard.” He undoubtedly like to sing and play string instruments like either the fiddle or the lute, which would make him unusual among Greyjoys. They liked to hear songs, including about deeds past, but few would ever try to sing them themselves. It also brings to mind Daemon II Blackfyre’s alias of “Ser John the Fiddler” in The Mystery Knight. Loron, like Daemon II, was a man with a love of music from a martial family that placed special emphasis on warriors. 

So, this fanart I did ten months ago, but it's still good. I guess.

Thank you!  Awesome prompt!

_________

Peter wipes the sweat off his upper lip with the sleeve of his jacket.  More like the cuff of his shirt.  The watch on his wrist is a loaner from Tony.  Which is awesome.  But it’s too big.  

The whole thing is that way.  Awesome but too big.  “Hey,” Peter points finger guns at the teenage girls who lean over the rail, phone cameras flashing, trying to catch his hands.  “Great to see ya.”

He wonders how long this red carpet is before he can disappear into the building like a normal human.  Why there is a red carpet is a mystery to him.  It’s a press event to thank Spider-Man and Iron Man for keeping the Brooklyn Bridge from collapsing.  Peter would have settled for his picture in the paper.  Well, his mask’s, anyway.  

The sludge in Peter’s head and throat is definitely on it’s way to his stomach, doing its best gagging routine all the way down.  He swallows heavily, thanking the greasy mozzarella sticks he’d pinched from the trays earlier for lubricating the way down.  

On any other night, Peter would have been thrilled to have this opportunity to spend with Tony and his rich elbow-rubbers and his innumerable fans.  But today, he’d rather be in bed.  

He automatically reaches toward his pocket for his phone, but comes up empty.  “Right,”  Peter grits his teeth.  Happy had, rather firmly, told him it was bad form to cary a personal cellular device at a public press event.  Especially one with a cracked screen and a turquoise case and worn-out Star Wars stickers on it...  he got the idea.

“Ugh.”  Peter wraps his arms around his abdomen, looking left to right and seeing Tony approximately a half-mile ahead of him, signing somebody’s football with a sharpie.  Why, Peter can only wonder.  But suddenly the urge to heave is a lot closer to the top than it was before, and that requires a substantial recalculation.  

“Happy?”  Peter asks hopefully, looking around,  But the head of security is currently engaged in colorful discussion of what is and is not appropriate use of the cell phone camera when pointed at people’s backsides.

Another group of middle-school aged kids scream as he walks by, and Peter forces a smile.  He waves, but wen he blinks, his eyes water, and two identical tear tracks roll down his cheeks.  

“Sentimental much?” a voice asks from behind Peter’s shoulder.

He hurriedly wipes his eyes with the scratchy material of the suit’s lapel, then looks up.  It’s Natasha, grinning down at him from her stilettos.  

“Naw.  Don’t feel good.”  Peter answers.  “I wasn’t crying.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Oh.”

“But you say you don’t feel good?” Natasha jerks her head a little away from the crowd and pulls Peter toward the wall instead of the fans.

“Um.  Yeah.”  He snuffles.  Peter’s stomach does an uncomfortable hitch, and he knows he’s going down.  Soon.  

Nat gives him a once over.  “Oh, yeah, you’re not gonna last.  Ok.  Change of plans.”  She smiles.  “You ever heard of ‘get help?’”

Peter shakes his head, then regrets it.

“Ooh, ah, my shoe, no,” Nat says dramatically purposefully stepping out of the red-soled black velvet creation.  

“Your foot ok?” Peter asks automatically?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

Peter’s gall starts to fail.  His chin begins to wobble as sourness burns at the back of his throat.  “I don’t know either.”