the capital air seemed to be perpetually thickened with the combined stench of the inhabitants of the city and all other manner of human excretion ─ it was something that drifted out into the inlet of the blackwater bay, a sticky humidity that clung to the skin in a thin layer of sweat that not even a crisp sea breeze could soothe away. it was, in part, one of the reasons why she avoided the docks of king’s landing, preferring to anchor and unload the belly of the leviathan in dragonstone whenever trade travels brought them to the crownlands but with most of the sea routes congested by awaiting merchant barges owing to the royal nuptials, gysella had been forced to squeeze the ship into the allotted harbor space, overseeing the hauling as the men tugged and tied the leviathan to the docks. satisfied that the seamen of the crownlands were capable of doing that, at least, without needing her continuous supervision, she grabbed a satchel filled with enough gold dragons to purchase a tavern, intending on scouting eel alley for a space big enough for her crew to rest.
it hardly seemed fair that only nobility were invited to stay within the manses that dotted the outside of the red keep like miniature beige palaces and she was more than determined to show her dissatisfaction by spurning the invitation, though she knew the concerns were valid. her lot were more likely to clean the manse clear of valuables than sleep beneath lannister guard ─ she was almost tempted to let them, perhaps just before they were due to return to the islands.
huffing in mild amusement at her own thoughts, gysella scanned the crowded docks for a quick route through the bodies, smile widening at the corners when she caught sight of a familiar head of hair and then, as he turned, a matching grin, as sharp as a blade. unlike derran, whose steps force the crowds to move out of his way, she skirts under raised arms and squeezes through wood and flesh until they are close enough to speak without needing to shout over the heads of others. it is a reflection of their sailing styles, mirrored in the way that they carry themselves ─ sure and foreboding, quick and slippery. ❝ derran. ❞ she holds no qualms about reaching out and touching him ( or anyone, truly ), hand resting on his upper arm, squeezing lightly as her gaze darts over his features, a mother searching for injuries. he is older but gysella has too many little sisters to squash down the instinct to fuss, even if her concern is oft times accompanied by threats. ❝ with any luck, the entire thing will be uneventful and we’ll be sailing home in three weeks. ❞ it was not like her to wish for a boring wedding ─ she had started an axe - throwing competition after her eldest sister’s ceremony for the laughs, after all ─ so it spoke volumes of her reluctance to be here.
❝ didn’t think you would come though … i was sure you would have made an excuse to avoid it. are you staying up in the manse or with your ship ? ❞
there were few he would allow this level of familiarity from — — numbered, exactly, in fact, a total of two. this was not a body accustomed to affection or concern, and thus derran always felt a bit uneasy when its subject. he stands stiff as a board on his ship as she inspects him, chin tilting upward slightly as if to allow her full access to his person should she need it. it was best not to touch the possible reasons why he allowed her these moments, else face the ghost of a mother long gone and the child she never came back to. perhaps derran simply, in a few quiet moments, needed someone who would look out for him. any suggestion of the sort would, however, meet the one who spoke it with twin sharp blades and a deep, sunken resting place.
' are you quite finished ? ’ he asks, deciding he had enough. eyebrows raise pointedly, but then he lets out a breath of amusement and shakes his head. ‘ and when has a greenlander wedding ever been a lucky occurrence ? ’ he does not hide his distaste for those people or their land, sounding almost like he needed to spit the word out or he might choke on it. ‘ save for the implication that it brings more of them into this world to make pretty things for you to take. we have more reason to celebrate some drunkard’s wedding on the coast than this self - indulgent display of a boy who thinks he is something impressive. ’ he saw a weak child, not a king, but who the greenlanders chose to follow was their own business.
' they have taken us far enough from our god. i plan to stay with the salt. ’ he tilts his head slightly, looking her over. derran knew she was not as steadfast in the faith as he, but few were. he was curious to know her plans. ‘ and you ? ’
𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚈𝚂 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚃𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝚂 𝙾𝙵 𝙻𝙸𝙵𝙴 𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝙶𝙾𝚂𝚂𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽. nights where he feels so lightly connected, it feels as if he is not there. a figment of his own imagination, only the pain threading him back through the end of the needle, the household tapestry free of his image. he knows what it means to build a body with no god attached, discovered it in the summer sea, drug down by the ropes and the rigging of a drowned ship. a gasp where water floods the lungs, where salt stings the eyes, where he’s reborn upon the a black kyanite deck. where he learns to never try and race the tide on the sands of the gulf of grief, for the tide is the devil. it will run a man out of breath, cull him in the inlet of slaver’s bay, chase him to his death. the tide is the very devil, and the devil has its day.
at the ends of the sea, aurion blacktyde learns to GIVE NO QUARTER. both sea - born and sea - doomed, he has returned home in ill - fashion, a dead man with dead eyes, trapped, treading water and waiting to drown. the iron islands have forgotten him, a new rebellion come to shift the tides. standing upon the docks, he is ancient and dreamless, caught in the crosshairs of once intimate sight. derran has remained handsome, where he has greyed beyond repair. a limp in his step where the bone never healed, back marred by the rough work of a whip, lattice lines which dug deep into the skin, but left consequences that wove lithe muscle through his limbs. he has plunged into a pact with the deep, an entity of the ocean. how much heartbreak he would have saved, if he had left without saying goodbye. his lips split into an ailing grin, silhouette weary as if wading a pool, a ghost before the bone hand’s heir that looms. ❛ you have not changed […] i’m afraid you cannot say the same. ❜
to know aurion thought of himself as godless might cause an ache in the heart of a man who was meant to be nothing more than iron bones. how could such a thing be when the very god who had chosen him had proven so by bringing him back to life ? then again, perhaps it could be explained with the face that he had been pushed so far past the tides of the holy water. there was no god in the seas he had reached, and thus it was no wonder that he might doubt himself.
still, knowing none of that, derran takes in the sight of the man he cared for above others and still found reminder of flesh and blood. he had been young and restless when derran knew him ; he still seems restless, but now as if he cannot sleep. even the smile seems to speak of man in need of a good slumber.
still, he could not say that he did not find aurion handsome. something worse than the pot calling the kettle black, when both had drifted to the bottom of the sea floor and had begun to be consumed — consider himself and the gaunt and shark-like appearance he had always born, at least if you were to believe the rumors. cruel tongues, though they served him nonetheless, might argue that derran first walked out of the salt like some pelagic ghoul, sporting two rows of teeth and standing at the height he was now, propped up from the bones of long - drowned sailors.
' aurion, ’ he murmurs the name like a prayer, and then shakes his head. ‘ we have both grown older... the true waters have missed you, dear friend. ’
timestamp: the lion’s bride, pt. i ; second seed, 300 ac location: king’s landing, the docks tagging: @blacktde
the bone hand’s heir is not a man unacquainted with ghosts. enough skeletons — — man and beast alike — — had washed upon the shores of old wyk ; tidepools with salt crystalized formations that became home to the gaunt figure, even then something peculiar about the boy. that said nothing of the family’s own ghosts, where the sentiment of women and children first seemed to linger. after three decades of such an existence, little should truly startle him.
yet, as he returns to the docs in the light of the sun dipping over the horizon, his breath catches without water to fill his lungs. the sight of a man he had once known, once ... once. the ring that did not quite fit his knuckle seemed suddenly heavier, and lithe fingers begin to spin the thing around and around, a whirlpool - like motion. it would be best to say something, to acknowledge what the waves had returned to him, but instead he stands still as the grave and watches, waiting to be spotted himself.
timestamp: the lion’s bride, pt. i ; second seed, 300 ac location: king’s landing, the docks tagging: @gysellas
like so much water runoff, the ironborn had arrived at the shinning capital city ; building in volume and dragging things along with them ; the lords pulled by regretful duty, the families of many, and the crews of the ships needed to carry them — — quite suddenly the docks were crowded with the drowned god’s favorites, and despite the proximity to the tide, they were notably separated from everything familiar to them. it did not sit right with derran. the water here had no character, no life despite its clarity.
as he steps off of the thunderer, you might assume the occasion was funerial rather than matrimonial, given the sour expression painting his features. the bride to be would do well to not take it personally if she saw him, however, given that there was usually something acetic in the look of the sea captain. however, at the sight of one of his own, a shark - like smile finds his features, though the cause of it likely has one of her own.
‘ gysa, ’ he speaks, voice not raising despite the relative chaos of the docks, as he moves closer. ‘ i would say it is good to see you, but i suspect you share my sentiment of preferring ... anywhere else. ’ he wouldn’t wish this location on her even in her worst moments.
hello again , hopefully i convinced you to all love brandon so we can all hate derran as a team! a lawful evil waterlogged bastard who looked at the stories of dagon drum and said that, that’s what i want. always slightly damp.
º . ♔ ⸻ the capital of king’s landing welcomes DERRAN DRUMM of HOUSE DRUMM, the LORD HEIR of OLD WYK. news borne by a raven sends word that he bears a resemblance to DANIEL SHARMAN. the THIRTY ONE year old CIS MAN is reputed to be INTELLIGENT and ASSURED, but with the eyes of court watching their every move, they might turn out to be MORBID and ZEALOUS. when songs are sung, their verses speak of A BOY IN A GRIP, LIKE CATALEPTIC RIGIDITY, THE FATAL HOLD OF ANCESTRAL GHOST STORIES AND PATERNAL DEVOTION, SWIRLING LIKE AN EDDY THAT THREATENS TO PULL EVERYTHING UNDER ; BLOOD SPILLED IN THE WATER, LIFE IS GIFTED TO THE WAVES AND IS GRANTED IN RETURN ; AN IRON SKELETON THAT BRAVES ANY STORM WITH CONFIDENCE, FOR DEATH HAS COME AND HIS PRICE ALREADY PAID ; and HOW THERE IS DIVINITY IN HIS BONES AND HE WILL NOT SQUANDER IT. whispers throughout the seven kingdoms claim that their allegiance lies with THE DROWNED GOD, where they conspire to LIVE ACCORDING TO HIS PRINCIPLES. but in the end fealty means little when you play the game of thrones.
tl;dr → canon change: i really hated the name denys, okay? so he is derran now. // grew up in the holiest place in the iron islands and was deeply impacted by his father’s piety, the loss of family, and one creepy drowned man // made the leap in logic that if life can be given from one body to the waves and back again, that it must be possible for life to be given from one body to the waves and then to another // keeping most of his nonsense to himself to appease his father, but even know among the ironborn as creepy as hell
i’m still working on reformatting his doc but you can find it here! please keep in mind that there is content related to death, self injury, and extreme religion within it, and to interact as you are comfortable! a few plot ideas can be found beneath the cut!
the thunderer’s crew , despite his peculiarities, derran is not a bad captain. he treats those in service aboard his ship fairly, though expects that they will not disappoint. it is likely that his crew can sense that something is off with their captain, if not exactly what it is. they would be acutely aware that derran is, like his father before him, a pious man who lives by the old way, with an mildly concerning fascination interest in life and death.
mercy shown , derran isn’t known for keeping prisoners — taking them, perhaps, but not keeping them. however, there was something about this character that derran felt drawn to, or some reason that he decided they deserved his mercy. he let them go, knowing his reputation was strong enough that one story wouldn’t be believed.
not as hard as he seems , it would be difficult to argue that derran is a good person, but that doesn’t mean he is universally disliked. some find that, despite his reputation, they don’t particularly mind derran drumm. others find that they actually enjoy his presence ; perhaps they’re similar to him in some way, or perhaps they simply find him curious.
a ghoulish presence , however, there are also those who simply find the heir of the bone hand off putting. perhaps it is the skeletal hand that adorns his banner, the fact that he appears just slightly too tall and too gaunt, or perhaps it is something in those startling blue eyes of his. they don’t have a concrete reason why, but something about derran makes their skin crawl.
hold out your open palm , derran will forever be thankful for brayden skinner, the man who guided him to the power he believes he has now. if he could offer someone the same feeling, he would love to, but it would have to be someone he both trusted completely and believed to be worthy of the drowned god’s gifts.
a marriage stronger than iron , derran knows that his father is right in choosing this match for him, and he’ll play along for the sake of securing his place as the future ruling lord of old wyk. however, this is only a political transaction to him, his feelings lying elsewhere.
burn the witch , most of westeros, if they have heard of derran drumm, know only rumors of a cruel ship captain. however, there are other rumors as well, ones closer to the truth. this is a character who is strongly opposed to the to the actions derran is taking, whether it be due to religious objections ( someone who sees what he is doing as blasphemous, witchcraft ) or someone who simply thinks it is wrong.
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