#owen 003

[pm] [d: How the fuck do you not have anything better to do? Don't fae have fucking jobs?] [user is afraid this might come across as actual interest in siobhan] Sounds like you can go die in a ditch. A nice and slow death. [the butler comment didn't make user irrationally angry]

​[pm] Oh, I love a slow death! Are you going to kill me, Owen? I didn't know you felt that way about me. I should tell you I'm not looking for a relationship; I hate to break your heart like this. Although, you're used to having it broken, aren't you?

Doting on her hair just a little more, Sage couldn't help the way she primped and prepped herself in front of the mirror. A new version of nerves settled through them as they realized this would be their first full hangout as a couple -- their first official date. They had spent their day deep cleaning, making sure their quaint little apartment was clean and in order enough for Owen to see -- not that she ever let her home get too dirty in the first place. Making their way from their room to their kitchen, she casually checked her fridge for what felt like the tenth time that morning, making sure she had everything they were going to need for making dinner. It took them hours yesterday to decide on a final meal, as it was left to their discretion to choose what they made. Feeling an affinity for showing off food from Appalachia, she decided on a comfort meal that took a little extra work.

Going through their mental grocery list, they rummaged through the fridge before finally deciding they were as ready as they would ever be. Now, though commenced the anguish of waiting. Patience wasn't exactly something that came instilled in Sage, but for Owen, they'd happily wait as long as they had to. This time, though, the waiting wasn't for anything emotional, they already had that, and the anticipation of feelings that culminated in an evening of spilling emotions with kisses and hand-holding. This time, they simply had to wait for his presence, everything between them on the table and shining. Her cheeks heated with the excitement of his presence, she shut the fridge finally, and moved her hands to her cheeks, "He's not even fucking here and I'm flustered. What the hell." Their nose scrunched up slightly at the feeling, butterflies already attacking them as they get closer and closer to time to see him. Pulling her phone from her pocket, she casually did her best to scroll for a moment, only ending up to find themselves on texts between them and Owen.

With a grin on her face, she kept rereading what had already been written between them, thankful for the shift from friends to partners that even took a clear change in their day-to-day conversing. Teeth catching her bottom lip, she kept it tucked away for a moment as she scrolled through some of their earlier texts, from months ago. It all seemed so far off, but she remembered it all vividly. Before having the chance to get stuck on reminiscing, the knock on her door pulled them back to the present moment in its entirety. Excited laughter pulled from the back of her throat as she physically made herself walk and not run to the door. Despite their original self-containment, that was all over as she swung the door open, her face absolutely beaming as she looked up to Owen -- to her boyfriend. While it was all still new to them, they were sure they'd settle into it with nothing but ease. Without an ounce of hesitation, she moved to hug him tightly, arms wrapping around his waist as she looked up at him. After lingering long enough, they pulled away and signed, "I've been looking forward to this. Come on in." Stepping out of the doorway they moved into their living room, nerves lacing over them as they still had to get used to having these feelings and them being requited.

[pm] Mmm. Let me think.

No.

That wasn't a part of the arrangement. Unless you'd like to make a new arrangement? I don't give you thoughtful and helpful gifts anymore and you become my eternal and devoted butler? Sound fair?

there was a notable member of the northern court missing from the attendance of these festivities within the dragon’s court; the last time the northmen had ventured this far south it had been what westeros had deemed the hour of the wolf, and now there was no denying the sense of dissatisfaction nasir manderly felt upon seeing the sight of jaehaerys targaryen upon the iron throne. to see those lords who fought green and tore the realm apart to feed hightower ambition become some of the most powerful men in the realm under the guidance and direction of the dragon king; he watched the interactions between the crownlanders and the stormlanders silently. noting how it was the dragon king planned on uniting these two groups of people, when one was believed to be socially and ethnically superior than the other.

his vivd dark orbs continued to glance over the crowds, the man’s absence being wholly obvious to those prominent members of the northern court and those who had supported queen daenaerys - for the missing figure had been trusted with venturing to kings landing to confirm positive relations between the two realms. he truly was nowhere to be seen, and the king of winter had still not yet spoken on what matters continued to exist between the pair; was there some tension between the sun of winter and the wolf of winter? the hand and the king?

his gaze then moved over to the sight of the winter king himself, dried sourleaf rolled in his hand as he smoked, momentarily alone from the rest of the northern court. as nasir approached him, he could tell everything about the winter king seemed skewered of sorts - wrong.

there was no use in looking upon the king of winter, and wishing anything but well upon him: especially for the likes of the sun of winter. there had been a moment in the early hours of that night where he wished to descend into the lowest of what men could be: animals, and not men at all. he wished to grab a hold of owen and send themselves flying onto the floor, in a fit of fury and anger and betrayal; a betrayal that had never truly occurred, but felt there in sentiment.

there was once a time where such things could be settled with their fists, and a conversation after: that time had come to an end. "i am taking men with me." brandon repeated, his grey orbs looking upon the king. the king. how could a king be a brother? how could he see him as a brother in such a time, when it felt as though his actions had lead to his wife's dead corpse laying in the bed above them.

"i do not seek to die. i do not wish to die." for perhaps his mission sounded like one that was destined to end in such a way.

for owen was no longer merely the warden of the north, but he was now his king. regardless of what owen would allow for between the two men, there were lines that brandon himself would not cross. for owen. because of owen. he spoke of taking the umber's head, of nobody surviving. it did nothing to quell the currents that stirred within the sun of winter. it did nothing to stop the growing eclipse.

"and who will that fix? how will that help?"

they were no longer able to sit and discuss such matters, as much as he knew the king of winter would insist they were still able to: only because it were brandon. because he knew brandon was not a man who was dramatic in his words, nor his actions: he did not need to know where the line was, for he lived by the line. there was a part of him that wished he had abdicated his title of ruling lord of karhold all those years ago, giving it over to his brother and donning black as he had always wanted.

the labyrinth walls of winterfell were a blur. it felt as though the bile that sat at the very back of his throat refused to go down, constantly risking coming up at the mere thought. the mere memory. he heard the sound of his boots against the stone below him, but that was all he could hear and all he could feel - as though his legs were guiding him to where he needed to go. controlling where he needed to go, and yet it felt as though his being was somewhere else. 

his being was in the room where his wife was laid out beneath a white sheet, in the bed that was their own within winterfell; the constant prayers being muttered around her in the sun tongue of karhold’s lands, her ladies crying quietly with their hands to their mouth.

it seemed as though his soul left his body the moment he saw the bruises around her neck; harsh purple against porcelain skin. and the sun of winter felt no shame in his household knowing their lord mourned for their lady; the beginning of something their union was supposed to be. the beginning to a new chapter in their lives. the strange reed woman people feared, forever lingering in the shadows of the great hall; in reality, too nervous to find a seat at table. he had made her their table. he would have done anything, and everything, for the woman he had taken as his wife beneath the godstree. and now, after everything, here they were.

and somewhere within him, that was a part of him, some twisted dark eclipse that felt his very chest caving in. how much had he lost? his sister dead at the hands of the wildlings. his wife dead at the hands of a false pretender king. his home and his land surrounded - where his mother and his brother remained. and there was a part of him that wanted to curse the king of winter, and his fucking fantasy he had built in his head - the amount of power the pretender had was startling. even the nights watch. even the fucking watch. 

some things can be left alone. some things needed to be left alone. 

there was one thing meera reed had left him; something that did not make him feel as though he would be able to sit and disassociate from his entire body. something that was more than the memories that only made him sob, memories he knows would make him smile one day - and those were men. men of greywater watch, and the lands of house reed. men he had picked up on the return north, summoning them to winterfell. and as he entered the chambers of owen stark, he saw his oldest friend.

he saw his king.

he saw a king he had lost nearly everything for. and again, he felt the urge to be sick at the urge that came over him. he wished to slam him into a wall, he wished to bludgeon him with his fists. his fucking fantasy swung the odds out of power. such was the thin line when childhood boys, distant kin, are separated by king and crown.