@missbluebiird
Closed starter for Harwyn Greyjoy
Location: Just outside of the Red Keep
They were, all, unused to the heat.
The Ironborn did not have a summertime, nor a springtime really. They wore boiled leather all year round and ate salted ham and when the heat did come, they complained bitterly until the drowned god saw it fit to relieve them all of it's surge with a hearty storm.
Today was no different. The sun was relentless and Yorland found his children grumbling about it, resting under shadowy awnings. He had been huddled between two of them, laughing, when he had spotted a familiar fair head. Yorland had rose before he had been able to stop himself, giving one child a fond scuff across the back of their dark head and the other, a younger, a tender caress about their check.
Then he was standing, cane in hand, clad in man bone and boiled red leather. "Harwyn." he said loudly, the command in his voice unmistakable. He was an old warlord, an old son of the iron Islands and he would remain as such until the Drowned God saw fit to drag him screaming into the afterlife.
"-Its bee a while." he said, stopping in front of him and smiling softly, because he still cared, he supposed "-I hope you are well." he said pointedly.
@fxll3ncr0wns
Closed starter for Daemon Targaryen
Location: The Red Keep
He hadn't met one of them yet, and was both relieved and annoyed by that.
He'd seen the conqueror from afar though, sat atop is throne of mangled mens swords that spread thus through the great hall like Kraken tentacles. Yorland had kept to the back of the hall, his beloved arm threaded through his had been the only thing to stop him from screaming in frustration. He had watched Aegon give his address and he heard the black dread roar like a hell best and wondered if perhaps giving up reaving was worth it so as not to die screaming in dragon fire.
He was still thinking about, about dying so horribly 3 days later, that he had not slept a wink since. It was so early that the sky was still mostly grey when he went on his walk. He had not expected one of them to be present in the halls, one of Aegons dragon spawn, cut through his path like a knife and Yorland paused, coming to a dragging stop with his cane scraping across the stone loud enough to squeal like a stuck pig.
Yorland stared at him. He was a princeling right enough, but he did not know which one. Though he seemed too young to be the heir. Eyes pale as sea glass regarded him with a barely contained distain, like a hiss of a snake full of venom, Yorland watched the Targaryen boy and did not know what to do next. He would not bow. He found that he found that he could not. Like the drown God had ripped the very spine form him and he could not move. So instead, he ducked his head and looked at the curved points of his own fine boots. It was the next best thing he supposed.
"Your grace." was all Yorland said, two words that held no more love in them than what Yorland could muster. Which was none.
asoiaf sigils â the iron islands (part 1/2) | You may dress an ironman in silks and velvets, teach him to read and write and give him books, instruct him in chivalry and courtesy and the mysteries of the Faith, but when you look into his eyes, the sea will still be there, cold and grey and cruel.
@violetamaisonx
Closed starter for Jasper Redfort
Location: The Sparring circle
He stands on the periphery, the curved handle of his cane, cut from whale bone into the shape of a fists, fits snuggly into his own hand and serves to keep him standing.
Yorland doesn't hide it behind the drape of a cloak like he he used to, he doesn't forgo it because he can't bare the thought of people knowing he needed it at all. A lifetime ago, he wouldn't have dreamed of parading through fighting men, his limp pronounced and his cane in hand. That was then though, and this was now, and now Yorland was hollowed out and old enough to not care less.
He comes to a lilting stop just shy of the ring and beside a mountain of a man that he ignores for a moment before he shifts and Yorland turns, quick enough to almost startle. Then, he makes a noise, a hum of what might be appreciation.
Yorland looks up and then....has to keep looking up until those eerily pale eyes latch like fish hook on the boys face. Then, he smiles. From ear to ear, Yorlands face splits and his teeth flash like perals.
"Big lad aren't you..." he says, bemused "-Are you a knight? or do they use you to prop up the ceilings in a storm? Hmm?"
@northaern
Closed starter for Vickon Greyjoy
Location: Private Docks (at the Red Keep)
The sea is restless today, tossing herself into the air with a lick of salt each time a wave rolls in. The smaller boats creek and knock into each other, and the ships sit, rocking idly, their masts rising high as Naggas bones with their sails strapped down to temper the weather, though it's been nothing but scorching this far south.
Yorland stands braced on the dock and the wind this close to the water is a sharp thing, a blade that cuts across his cheeks and hurts. In front of him with his back turned, a man he knows too well. Yorland had always been able to pick Vickon out of crowds 20 or 30 thick, so attuned to one another they were, so familiar. They had grown up together, raced through pyke as boys, reaved through the north as men. Vickon and picked him up of the bow of his ship when that Westermans blade had ruined his thigh for good. Yorland had stood at the Kingsmoot, high above the rest and proclaimed Vickon Greyjoy as their King, their leader. They had clapped each other close as brothers and Yorland had whispered his oath of fealty to him with such reverence, it was a wonder the drowned God himself had not risen to bare witness.
Yorland loved him, he loved Vickon, better than a brother or a subject or a man who owed him his life.
And yet now...he felt so betrayed. How much compromise was too much? How many axes and ships and raids along the west did the they have to give up before they could no longer call themselves Ironborn at all. How could Vickon do this?
Yorland frowns so deeply that his cheeks hollow and he wants to leave, thinks it might be best lest he says something he can not take back.
But Vickon is Vickon, and Yorland can not bring himself to lock someone he loves so deeply out of his life. Not now. Not here, in this terrible, terrible place, so far from home.
"A good day for a sail." Yorland says mildly, coming to stand beside his liege lord, but there is a coolness in his tone that suggestions he is wound tightly, that he is on edge. "-that wind alone could carry you to Pentos and back before tomorrows end, I fancy."
Torrhen chewed his sourleaf with slow, grinding patience, as he leaned against the balcony. It was quiet, apart from the wet, rhythmic smack of his lips. His body was in ruin both from the tourney and from Tyronâ scrap. His shoulder ached, it felt wrong in its socket, as though it no longer belonged to him. He entertained the thought of tearing it free, of ripping it loose just to silence the torment.
He spat over the edge of the balcony. The sourleaf vanished down below.
Torrhen had scarcely marked the other's presence, another body in a sea of many. Faces blurred together after a time. Names mattered even less. Still, something lingered at the edge of his notice. Torrhen slowly turned his head, his dark eyes narrowed slightly. His gaze fell to the belt slung low at the manâs waist.Â
Fingerbones.
Torrhenâs jaw worked once, grinding the last of the sourleaf to pulp before he spoke. âFingerbones. Interesting choice.â He gestured down to Yorlandâs belt of fingerbones. His voice was low and flat. There was no curiosity in it; no flicker of surprise or disgust.
The only indication that Yorland was a living, breathing man, and not a statue, was the way those too-pale eyes flickered to the left and regarded the stranger with a cool, detached look. This was a man he did not know but felt like he should. Yorland rattled through the list of nobles in his head, tried to match names to this face but could not. At a push, Yorland did not think him a southerner, something about the lilt in his voice, the look in his eye. This was not a man who made his home below the neck, Yorland thought.
"Yes." He replied, eyes sweeping the the stranger before settling on his face. "A name day gift. From my wife." Yorland said and the placidness of his drawn face made it hard to decipher if it was a joke or not.
They stand in silence a moment longer and it drags on as the sun beats down. Yorland goes back to watching the sea, and the sunlight streams across the bones at his waist, making them glint, bright as torches. A blinding, dragonfire type of light, that only the white of a mans bone could be.
Eventually, Yorland says- "-I don't know you. You aren't Ironborn." He faces him then, this stranger, and blinks languid, like a lazy cat would before leaning heavily on his elbow, now pressed into the high stone railing of the balcony.
VIKTOR MOVES WITH the heavy rolling gait of an ironborn - a step that expects the world to tilt, even when the stone beneath them is annoyingly, deathly still. he doesn't announce himself with words. the ironborn don't need them to recognize the scent of salt and old leather that clings to a man like a second skin, even in a place that reeks as foully as this city.
he stops at the railing, his mismatched eyes fixed on the same shimmering expanse of the blackwater. to any reachman or crownlander, the view might be beautiful, but viktor sees the same lie yorland does. itâs a pond. a stagnant, shallow thing compared to the iron grey fury of the sunset sea.
â itâs the smell of rot and vanity. â viktor murmurs, his voice a low grate that cuts through the distant bustle of the capital. he doesn't look at yorland, giving the older man the courtesy of his silence for a moment longer. â they think because they put a crown on a hill, the water should bow to them. but thereâs no life in it. no sting. â
he shifts his weight, the movement deliberate, letting the scabbard of his sword clack softly against the stone. a reminder of where they are and what they carry. he can see the ache in the other manâs stance, the way the shore stillness is a heavier burden than any storm. viktor knows the feeling of being a caged bird, even if his cage is currently gilded in the heat of the south.
Yorland stands there, as unyielding as the great rock cliffs of Old Wyk. He's clad in black, save for the sharp slash of red on his chest and the bright white belt of mens bones about his waist. He glances side long at Viktor, his eyes lingering on the curve of his nose before turning back to the sea. It shimmers blue before them both, not the grey of home, and that sours Yorlands mood further. He makes a noise, a hrmpf of acknowledgement in the back of his throat but other wise, his stillness persists.
"They've called it Blackwater bay, I hear." Yorland says mildly "-doesn't look black to me. Unless they can see all the shit we can't at the bottom of it when they rise high on their dragons above."
Yorland turns then, a half twist to look at Viktor head on. His mouth curves, just barely, and he gives the younger Greyjoy a courteous nod. "Viktor of Noble House Greyjoy." Yorland says, his tone light, as teasing as someone like Yorland could make it. They'e known each other a long time, a life time. "-should I bow to you? Is that what we're doing now?" Yorland turns strangely grave then, his cheeks hollowing like a corpses when he sucks in a steadying breath. His thigh throbs dully and he ignores it pointedly.
"How are you?" Yorland asks, sincerely. He waits. A beat, a breath, and the water below them sparkles on. "-....how is your Brother?...How is Vickon?"
Dominic was ready to get out of the Red Keep. there were too many eyes on him. too many ready to dig a dagger into his back and he rather it be done on a place he felt at home, like the sea or the Isles. so to his surprise when he came across another Ironborn. finally the Drown God seemed to have kept him away from the wolves of the North.
"Lord Yoland, how do you do? are you as ready as the rest of us to get off this godforsaken land?" he said as he approached someone he grew up with stories with. someone his father talked about from back in the glory days. Days he himself wishes to see once more again and not under the rule of a dragon.
Yorland turns when he hears his name and the face is a familiar one. He looks like his father, Yorland thinks and he can not keep the warm, fond smile from his face as Dominic approaches. Yorland gives him a friendly clap on the shoulder when he is close enough, squeezing gently by way of greeting. He can not express wholeheartedly how happy he is to see another Ironborn among this keeps wretched red spires.
"Dominic." he says, before nodding "-Well. I'm well-" Yorland shrugged then under the heavy red surcoat "-as well as I can be, living among Dragons and Wolves and Lions and the rest of this mainlander lot." Yorland gave him a nod, curt and to the point. "-Aye" he says "-keen as any of you to get back to Ironmans bay, and beyond. We are not suited for ground as solid as this."
Yorland regards the young man carefully, thoughtfully for a moment before- "And you? How are you? How is your Father? Your mother?. I've not seen him either here yet."
It felt like he was uncomfortable being near her and she wondered if she smelled or something, not knowing what she had done to warrant such a reaction from a stranger. Normally people gravitated towards her, with her becoming the life of the party ever since her parents' demise just a few months prior.
"I wouldn't say appealing," she snorted, "visuals appealing? very much so, but it's nothing like nightsong," she said, looking forward yet again, eyes growing distant for but a brief moment. "I'd go home but I have some business here for a bit longer than I'd like" she said, both lying and telling the truth in a way. "And if you don't like being here as much as you say you do, why don't you just sail wherever your domain is, my lord?" she asked, genuinely curious
Yorland watched her, face placidly bored and the eventual purse of his lips into a tight frown, he felt said enough. Silence stretched between like a mile of cold, unbroken water. Yorland did nothing to make it comfortable either, he found silence did something strange to people, they spilled and spilled like torn wineskins and did not stop to think about what that meant.
So he stood there, hand pressed lightly into the stone railing and waited her out. His eyes rose to the top of her head, trailing coolly down her face with the intense precision of filleting knife. He kept going, all the way down to her toes and then with the same lofty deliberence, let his eyes rise and catch hers again.
"Hmm." was all the noise he made for a while, before inhaling sharply through his nose and sighing. "-My business in the red keep is my own." he tells her and then, unable to hide the distaste in his voice, says "-I come when my King calls. Like we all do."
if there was any inkling of piperette's world compared to those that surround her is that even within the harshest weathers of the dorne county, she will still be able to ride alongside it within the grace and steady-hands of her forefathers.
and yet, through the kings landing, it seems her steed had other actions as she finally hasted herself. "next time, it'll be the long trek." she muttered to the trusted steed before making her way towards the red keep.
peaceful...
the immediate comfort of the waves crashing against the rocky tide pulled her towards the balcony as she noticed another figure there. "i hate to interrupt your peace, sir."
Yorland glances side long, realises he does not know this woman, and immediately turns back toward the ocean. The water hisses this far away, and he can not hear the lap of waves against rocky shores or high cliffs. Even that familiarity has been taken from him. Yorland frowns before he can stop himself.
"Then why are you?" he asks mildly before lapsing into another, hard silence.
Eventually, when she persists, Yorland turns ever so slightly to look at her and fights down the heavy sigh of frustration that sits behind his teeth.
"The Red Keep is the centre of the world, i'm told-" Yorland can not keep the contempt from his voice, is sours his accent into something hard, like Iron. "-surely someone like you-" he looks this noble stranger up and down pointedly "-could find something more interesting to be doing with their time."
leonella comes to a stop beside him, her presence quiet and unhurried. ironborn. of all things. her gaze lingers on the water a moment longer than necessaryâblack, brackish, wrong somehow compared to what men like him must consider home. âfor a city that prides itself on dominion,â she says lightly, âit does little to earn the seaâs respect.â a pauseâmeasured, deliberate. she wonders: he hasnât noticed me yet. or heâs too far inside his own thoughts to care.
âitâs not often one sees ironborn so far from waters that suit them.â her eyes shift to him now, assessing. unsettled. displaced. that kind of distance makes men predictable⊠or dangerous. âi find displaced men tend to fall into two kinds,â she continues evenly, voice smooth as ever, âthose who resent what theyâve left and those who begin to consider what they might take instead.â a faint tilt of her head, studying him as much as the horizon.
which are you, i wonderâand how easily could either be guided?
It's as swift as the snuffing of a candle. One moment, he is lost, thinking too hard about things well out of his control, and the next, he is looking at her. Those pale eyes furrow and Yorland is at once, regarding this girl with as much distain as he could be bothered to muster.
"Southeners-", he says in that curt Ironborn accent, cutting through the last of her words like a knife through flesh "-always talking so much and saying so little."
Yorland watches her with the intensity of a half starved hawk, but there is a calmness to him that is eerie. He is so still, standing there bathed in midday sun and wearing the hand bones of a man so long dead, he no longer has a name. Yorland blinks once, long and slow, and even that is a deliberately honed act. The sun catches in those cold eyes as he rakes her from top to two, and they are at once, corpse-like, too big and too bright and too dead to belong to a living man.
"You may keep wondering." Yorland tells her, eventually unfurling in all his bright red glory as he turns away from her. The bones that hang from his waist clack together dully as he moves. "-It'll give you something to do."
The sea enamored her but after the mysterious death of her parents in the vast ocean, their bodies not even recoverable, a part of her feared going on a boat and possibly meeting the same fate as them. She knew she wouldn't go down without a fight, but her parents also probably went down fighting to the end.
And yet, even with the reassuring thought that her parents didn't simply give into their fate, she still feared possibly meeting the same end and leaving her siblings alone back home. So, she delayed leaving, making it seem like she had boarded a ship back to nightsong but quickly left the ship before it set sail.
"The sea is beautiful but unlike mine back home in the stormlands," she stated as she walked up besides Lord Drumm. "A part of me misses nightsong but at the same time I've found myself fond of King's Landing
The realisation that he is no longer alone, hits hard enough to rattle him. Yorland twists to look at her sharply, fingers digging into the smooth stone railing for something to cling to. She's unfamiliar to him, another face among an army of mainlanders he did not trust. He studies her carefully all the same, the surprise in his corpse pale eyes fading into something unrecognisable. His expression is cool, a hard, strapped down thing that he controls as easy as breathing.
Yorland forces himself to nod once, a curt little thing that is as unpolite as he dares to make it. The sea wasn't beautiful, he thought sourly, the sea was a wicked thing that killed men as easily as it nourished them. He wants to say that, he wants to tell her that she's wrong, that she's foolish in what she believes-
But she's just a girl, he thinks, not some grizzled old man like him.
"At least someone finds this place appealing." he says instead. His voice is low, gruff and straining under an Islanders accent. "-I think we're too high up. A man shouldn't be this high up."
Location: The Red Keep (a public balcony overlooking the sea)Open!
The sea calls to him like a siren, like the arms of his mother. Yorland misses the uneasiness below his feet, misses the taste of salt in his mouth. He misses the sound of waves drumming against the creaking hull of his ship, now tied down like a prisoner in the bay.
Yorland eyes the horizon in silence, the blackwater sparkles like Tyroshi sapphires in the midday sun, but the smell is off-putting. Like shit, he thinks, the sea shouldn't smell like that. The Islands don't smell like that. There's no salt to be found in Kings Landing, it seems. Yorland suddenly, feels so far away from home that the melancholy of it settles deep into his bones and gives him a chill. His bad leg aches and he wishes he had listened this morning when his beloved had told him to take his cane.
He's a picture. Trussed up in his red surcoat and wearing finger bones as a belt, he no more belongs in Kings landing than any other Ironborn. Do not die so far from the sea, he remembers his father saying before his first raid, come home to me. Yorland drums his fingers on the balcony railing and thinks of Old Wyk and then, horrified, thinks of a pale haired man on Dragon back laying it to waste. He does not hear the person approach, so engrossed in his horrors, nor does he feel them at his elbow when they stop.
"Descended from the Rock Kings of old, the Drumms command the Iron Island of Old Wyk and are, by some accounts, considered H O L Y by the Ironborn."
Now Playing: Blood in the Water by Grandson
( cillian murphy, cis male, he/him ) HARK! I believe the heralds are announcing the arrival of YORLAND DRUMM, the FORTY EIGHT year old, LORD of OLD WYK. They are known to hold loyalty towards THE IRON ISLANDS/HOUSE DRUMM and little birds sing of them being INTELLIGENT and PATIENT. When one dreams of them, images of âthe dull clinking of old bones hung by the entry gate, the thrash of a wave against a dark red hull, the corpse white eyes of a man intent on seeing his way of life returned to himâ comes to mind. However their COLD and RUTHLESS nature can make for difficult times. Time will only tell what their true intentions are.
NAME:Â Yorland Drumm
TITLE:Â Lord Yorland Drumm, Head of House Drumm and the Island of Old Wyk.
MONIKER:Â The Red Hand, the Bone Hand, The Cold Reaver, Yorland Blackheart
AGE:Â 48
HEIGHT:Â 5ft 7
EYE COLOUR: Very pale grey/blue
HAIR COLOUR: Black (in his youth) but now he keeps it shorn close to his head at the sides which shows of how salt and pepper he has become.
SEXUALITY:Â Asexual/Demisexual
GENDER:Â Cis man
OCCUPATION:Â Lord of Old Wyk, Head of House Drumm
RELATIONSHIP STATUS:Â Married
FAMILY:Â 5 children, 3 younger siblings.
RELIGION: The faith of the Drowned God
PERSONALITY:Â + Intelligent, Patient, Loyal - Cold, Ruthless, Vicious
MORAL ALIGNMENT:Â Lawful Evil
MBTI: ISTJ
STAR SIGN:Â Capricorn
TEMPERAMENT:Â Melancholic
SIN:Â Envy
GREEK GOD: Prometheus âThe God of Intellect, forethought and counselâ
Biography
Yorland was born the eldest of 4, his mother had laboured for 3 days on Old Wyk before he was born, mute and unmoving. The Maesters thought him dead and he was wrapped in a sheet for disposal until it began to move and they discovered that he was alive. Still, Yorland made no sound. Upon being unwrapped, he stared up at the Maester with eyes the colour of a corpses. An ill omen, the old man had said.
Yorland grew from a quiet baby, to a quiet child, to a quiet young man. He was said to be ever observing, watching everything happen around him with a pinprick sort of clarity. Those big pale eyes were never not taking something in. His father, an old raider, made no exception for his strange son and he was trained at arms by his father. Though no where near as strong as other boys his age, Yorland was a quick learner, and soon surpassed them all in skill alone.
Though he preferred to read and climb through the countless caves that dotted Old Wyk, Yorland found that he also enjoyed being blasted by sea water on the bow of a fast moving ship. He was 13 when he first accompanied his father on a raid, and was commanding his own small battalion of Ironborn at 16. Though still smaller than most of them, Yorland bred respect thanks to his tactical thinking and patience.
Yorland was betrothed when he was young, an arranged marriage organised by his father. Unlike most Ironborn, Yorland never bore any love toward the idea of salt wives or lovers, he remained a virgin up until his wedding night. Despite having never met his betrothed before their wedding day, Yorland grew to like them, then respect them and eventually, fell in love with them. They have 5 children together.
Yorland is very much a family man. He is very close to his wife, often inviting her into close council meetings, and taking her opinion on matters very seriously. He loves his children very much, all for different reasons and despite his outwardly cold nature, is quite affectionate toward both his partner and his children. He is also close to his siblings
Yorland was a prolific raider in his youth, until a few years ago when he suffered a half axe in the leg. It never healed right and he was abed for days, almost loosing his leg in the process. The wound healed ugly and raised, and his leg was ruined. Yorland walks with a pronounced limp and while he sometimes uses a cane on bad days, he can usually cope without one. However, it did mean that his days as a scourge on the mainland were over. While he still enjoys sailing with his crew on his ship Bloodwitch, he would not be able to fight with axe or sword like he used to do.
Yorland has very little love for the Greyjoys left. He feels like they are contributing to the loss of the way of the Ironborn. While he is glad of the peace they have achieved, he can not help but feel like they gave in too easily. He's no fool though, he knows a war campaign against the dragonlords would be a suicide mission, but whispers of something called the Ashen promise are beginning to sound more and more promising to him. He holds the line for now, but the war between peace and his fathers fathers fathers fathers way of life are beginning on take their toll on him. What kind of Ironborn life is he leaving for his own children?
Wanted connections
The Ironborn: Yorland is a proud Ironborn, i'd love to see his dynamic with other Iron Islanders, it could be antagonistic or friendly.
The Dragonlords: As an avid reader, anything in regards to Dragons and magic intrigue him, but he is growing more and more disillusioned by the Targaryens and their culling of his Ironborn traditions. Id love to explore some of that foil!.
Members of House Drumm: He's a self proclaimed family man, so any member of House Drumm is a welcome one!
Any of the Dornish Houses: He sailed to Dorne in his youth but they were fierce opponents so he was not granted the chance to speak to any of them, I think their respective love and respect for their own cultures could be an interesting thing to explore, seeing as both are so different.
Anything else: Im so open to any plots or ideas, hmu and we can brainstorm!.
kianamaiart
germansingergirl
romaincrisis
tangentwithtanner
vaporwave
