the hand of the late king welcomes aiysha greyjoy, the lady of pyke, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be high - spirited and astute, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their materialistic and unscrupulous tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of the crunch of wet sand beneath one's boots / lemon licked and sun kissed curls / a chain of iron and gold dangling from your neck. they themselves dream of house greyjoy on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
i. statistics
name, aiysha greyjoy nickkname(s), n/a. age, 38. date of birth, june 11th, 65 ac. place of birth, lannisport, the westerlands. gender, cis woman. pronouns, she / her. sexual orientation, bisexual. religion, agnostic. title (or occupation if applicable), merchant, healer, witch lady of pyke. languages, the common tongue, trade talk, some summer tongue and bastardized valyrian. afilliation, herself, torwyn greyjoy.
faceclaim, antonia thomas. hair color, light brown, dyed blonde with lemon juice years ago. hair style, long, tightly curly, voluminous; she wears it on braids when at sea, and loose when she's at land for a extended period. eye color, sea green. height, 155cm. body modifications, ears are pierced twice; she has a tattoo or another. clothing style, mixes silk and leather to her own enjoyment, generally wears light fabrics; always sports several pieces of jewerly. distinguishing characteristics, hair, eyes. signature scent, perfumes mixed with sea breeze.
mbti, tba. moral alignment, tba. positive traits, tba. negative traits, tba. primary vice, greed. primary virtue, patience. character parallels, geillis duncan, maggy the frog, nell gwyn, lucy gray baird, max black sails.
disorders, n/a. allergies, n/a. sleeping habits, tba. eating habits, tba. sociability, tba. addictions, tba. alcohol use, tba. drug use, tba.
likes, tba. dislikes, tba. fears, tba. habits, tba. weapon of choice, poison. weather, tba. color, tba. beverage, tba. food, tba. animal, tba. season, tba.
mother, cerelle. father, harrion. sibling(s), n/a. significant other(s), torwyn greyjoy. children, harlan (14). other, tba. pets, tba.
ii. intro
your grandmother is an infamous tale more than she is the teller – word is it that she has arrived at the shores of westeros years prior to the conqueror, that she, too, laid claim to her patch of land and never left. children come and children go, be them of blood or otherwise, and so, you are raised amongst her feet, her influence so great that, sometimes, you can't tell if you haven't taken all of her and become her. in the end, that's what happens. when she dies, it is you that remains by her sea - cottage, you that brew her potions and takes hands, be them in need of assurance or remedy. you do not have her ancient power, but you have your words and a tendency to bend them to whom hears them, and that keeps you well.
you are the first to come across the shipwreck. there is no nobility in the action – ships that crash onto the shores often bring cargo, and you've always been like a bird to a shiny object, but instead of trinket, you find a dying man. forgotten decency urges you to bring him to your home, to warm and to heal him, and to care for him. despite the clients and the traders at the market, you are lonely, and the presence of the sailor brings some sort of comfort you didn't think possible of one so quiet – even when he leaves, with the promise of return, he leaves a piece of him within you. words are like the wind, but torwyn's are as true as the son you bear him so you are rather foolish – you give him comfort and you give him coin and you give him knowledge.
there is a certain thrill to it, and you've always sought it out – to let your paramour know of certain deals across the shore, every word you hear from common and high folk, delivered by your expert raven. harlan grows under your watch and so does the fondness between you and torwyn, even through distance – you discover you like to play wife, as long as it does not steal your own liberty to sell and buy and hear. it doesn't hurt that torwyn comes to your cottage with gifts and tales and passion.
it wounds you to part with the known when time comes. you have never been beyond the crag, never known another region but the westerlands of your birth, and you do not have sea legs, not at first. you get used to it, however, as you learn how to sail and how to navigate. how to barter and how to sell are trades you know well – you have always had a charm and a quick tongue, and they become useful whenever you land in a harbor. knowledge from merchants and noble folk who wish to have their fortunes told or their ailments healed becomes dormant weapons – something you know well of.
it's not the same in the islands. barren and bland, you find them at once, well accostumed to the liveliness of ports around the known world now. you do not tell your husband that, not until his wishes are stolen from under him. a part of you wonders where to place the blame – torwyn is the epitome of what the drowned god preaches, in your own sea green eyes. bitterness aches in your belly at the thought that, somehow, it could be your own doing – never had you found such difficult people to aggreciate yourself to; it is obvious that you are not one of them.
and you do not wish to be. why would you, when you could be better? the possibility of a greyjoy upon the iron throne would be laughable to you – what are they but raiders and thieves? yet torwyn has grown from that. and you, who is to say you can not claim your own kingdom, as your grandmother had?
