we do not sow

vayon greyjoy • prince of the isles • commander of the iron fleet "when you look into his eyes the sea will still be there, cold & grey & cruel."

[lancelotfan-deactivated20151018]

You’re bold. You’re a fine soldier.

[ironbornvayon]

( lady araela rowan. )

Araela stared the man and then kicked her horse gently on both sides so the animal could get closer to the stranger. “Who’s asking is the person who owns these lands and is also the head of House Rowan, that means me. I’m Lady Araela Rowan, she answered. “I think I deserve to know who dares to come into my forests for I do not like unannounced visitors.”

The Lady of Goldengrove did not like it one bit when this stranger gave orders to the group he commanded to make camp on her forest. Her eyes moved from him to the men making a fire and sitting on the leaf covered ground and a few logs. They looked rough and could easily been mistaken by thieves or mercenaries, perhaps they were both, perhaps they weren’t, but still, she wasn’t going to let her guard down, not after what happened in the North. The woman among them stared at the man, who obviously was their leader and then glared at her. Araela only smirked at her and answered with the same look.

If she was being honest with herself, Araela did not want a repeat of what had hapened to Olivar. Yes, it happened in the North, but who could say that the murderers weren’t thinking on striking again, only this time to kill a noble? An attack on her Home would look horrible and she would never forgive herself if her people got hurt, that’s why she increased the number of knights guarding her borders and the security around her castle and important places, like the market, where many people would go daily. Anyone could be a target, herself included, but she wasn’t going to hide under lock and key in her chambers, no. If anyone dared to attack Goldengrove, she was going to answer with all her strenght. 

A party riding in the forest wasn’t always so supicious. They were usually merchants passing through or asking to stay a few days in her lands to sale whatever they had and then move to the next town a couple of days later, but one no one could be too carefull, and if her Captain took the time to tell her about this group, it was because he detected something curious about them. 

Araela gave the stranger a sweet smile laced with a few drops of sarcarsm that if it had been in liquid form, anyone would have choked inmediately. “To answer to your other question, Sir, I need to know who you are so I can welcome you into my home with open arms, or turn you into fertilizer for my plants and trees. It all depends on your answer”.

As the woman revealed her identity as the ruler of these lands they were traversing, Vayon managed to let his guard down ever so slightly with the knowledge that she was no leader of a band of mercenaries or a very unassuming thief. His band of islanders could fight their own of course, but they were weary from travelling, and only fools sought out conflict that was unnecessary. 

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady.” He said, dismounting his horse and inclining his head politely. He was raised on the Islands, not in a barn, after all. “We have no intention of being fertilizer, I don’t think we would do much good for your plants and trees anyway - much too salty.” His thick, harsh Iron Isles accent twisted his words, though they retained their joking lilt.

They travelled lightly, to move as quickly as possible through foreign territory. They had one thing on their agenda, and once they had followed Victarion’s trail as far as it would lead them, they would be back to their craggy, windswept homes without a trace but the littered empty campsites across the Reach and a few more hoof-tracks on the muddy paths winding through Westeros. 

When he could avoid it, he preferred to keep the cause of his searches to himself. He knew his loss made him vulnerable, and one mistake in his youth while his search was still young being too open had led to an easy target for those who wished to manipulate him. His identity too, was something the Prince of the Isles preferred not to share - especially not in Rose country where a few too many people may have been victims of heedless Greyjoy raids up the River Mander and along the coast. To quell Lady Rowans suspicions that they posed a serious threat to what she cared for, he supposed he might just have to give it up. He admired this woman’s fierce protection of what was hers, not many other Westerosi ladies would be out here in person like this investigating strangers on their land. And he noted there was not a bodyguard or armed soldier in sight. 

“I am Vayon Greyjoy, my lady. And this is my crew, or rather those of them that can bear to be so far from the coast for long enough to be here.” He chuckled at the looks some of the eavesdropping crew gave him, but kept going nonetheless. “We’re merely passing through. We pose no threat to your land or your people, I can assure you of that. Merely looking for something that is ours that may have been spotted around these parts.”

[ironbornvayon]

( lady araela rowan. )

Araela knew she wasn’t going to miss the North, not one bit. What she mised terribly was her home and when she had enough from the winds and the coldness of their people, she packed her things, for the relief of her knights, who like her, didn’t want to stay a minute longer in that frozen land, not after what happened. Still, their Lady told them to be on their guard on the road and to make sure that when they stayed to sleep at one of the inns at least one of them remained awake for a few hours. Her Captain and friend was the first one to volunteer and she was grateful. She knew that he blamed himself a little for what happened to Olivar. The knights were knights, they could protect themselves, but he was their Captain and it was also his duty to keep them safe like a father took care of his children, and if he was the father, then Araela was mother to everyone back in Goldengrove, and she also felt like she had failed them.

The Lady of House Rowan felt responsable for every single soul who lived in Goldengrove once she took her father’s place. Mathis had neglected the people, and like many noble Lords, he only cared about his wealth. The Reach was the most fertile land in Westeros and many things could grow, from fruits to vegetables. Araela, always made sure that her people were happy. Every man, woman and child should have the oportunity to do what brought joy into their hearts. She could still remember the shock on their faces when she visited most of their homes, asking what they needed, if they had a place in the market, if their home needed repairs. Goldengrove blossomed like a flower in Spring during the first years after she took control, and she intended to keep it that way.

Once her party reached Goldengrove, she told the knights that had joined her that they could go to their families and rest all they wanted, but after three days she demanded their presence back in the castle to make sure the borders and the people were safe. It was exactly after three days that her Captain knocked on the door of her chambers and walked inside. “Do you have a moment for me, my lady?” he asked her while smiling at her and crossing his arms over his chest. “Of course. What is it?” There was a male servant standing next to her desk. She signed a couple of documents and gave them to him. He bowed and left the roon in silence, closing the door. “Some of the knights patroling the borders told me that they saw a party riding in this direction. No banners as far as they could see,” he said. “Then get my horse saddled and ready.”

The Captain prepared Araela’s mount while she changed her clothes in her chambers. When she was ready, she came down the stairs into the courtyard and quickly mounted her white horse. “I’m going alone”, she told him when she saw that he was going to mount as well. “Have you gone completely insane?” he screamed, making Araela roll her eyes. “There are knights posted at the borders of my lands and they know how to hide in plain sight, so technically, I wouldn’t be alone. Stop your whinning, my friend, you’re starting to sound like a woman.” She kicked her horse and galloped until she reached the main road where she saw the other horses approaching. Araela stopped her mount, blocking them from going any further and looked at them. “May I ask what is your business around these parts? 

The search for Victarion would not stop until he was found, and this Vayon had known even from the night he was taken. No matter how many hours he rode in unfamiliar lands, how many storms he pushed his ship forward through, how many times a lead turned up to be fruitless, he never stopped pursuing the ghost of a brother now achingly unfamiliar to him. His group - a selection of the crew of his warship who had volunteered to search on the mainland with him - rode without banners through the Reach, galloping with little rest towards whispers floating on the wind of a dark haired, blue eyed figure matching the ones Vayon had alerted a select list of trustworthy accomplices of. He had been sent ravens more times than he could count telling him he might have some luck here or there, but never once had they proved right. Vayon had a suspicion, based on track record, that this one leading them to the Reach might be the same. Vayon held little idealism in his heart anymore, but the jovial laughter of his crew and the rhythm of a dozen battleaxes clanking bluntly against the saddlebags of their horses kept him going far into unknown territory, one that someone had said was skirting the lush lands of Golden Grove. Greyjoys were neither regular nor particularly welcome visitors in this part of the country, and when an unfamiliar rider come galloping towards them, a wave of silence halted the crude jokes spilling from the lips of the ironmen, looking to their Captain and Prince for the next move. A few hands moved to hilts, but Vayon’s silence kept them from drawing even as they were addressed by the hooded woman on the road in front of them. Vayon instructed his party to ride to a nearby copse of trees and set up camp for the night, which they did with the speed of a relieved group of weary travellers eager to get off the road. His first mate, however, looked over her shoulder with a wary look on her face as Vayon rode closer to their challenger as if to say ‘be careful’ before joining the others. “That all depends who’s asking.” He countered, bringing his ebony mare to a halt a respectable distance from the woman. Vayon had no interest in disclosing his intent to a stranger, though he was almost sure this woman, with her noble countenance and fine steed, had fair business questioning his darly cloaked, untrustworthy-looking band of rough foreigners making their way through the lands of the Reach. “And why you would need to know.” 

[ironbornvayon]

child born                  with a storm    for a soul where the    lightning                             strikes the     sea                 yours is a     savage sort of beauty

[ironbornvayon]

( ser alistair dayne. )

Alistair could only snicker into his cupped palm, doing his best to save face for the poor soul. Though, judging by the crowd’s reaction, they couldn’t give too shits about making a mockery of the lad. It was a poor judgement to enter him into such a display and his obvious frustration and humiliation made Alistair pity him but there was little he could do. “Perhaps. Look there, his bow wobbles a bit at the end. Could be strung up wrong and he’d have the worst of a time to fix it.” He flicked his eyes over to size up the man speaking to him, noticing his build and features in one quick glance. “Thinking of taking a part in any of the tourney later on? I’m looking forward to the dueling myself.”

There were few things that Vayon would deem truly unbearable in this world, but watching this absolute imbecile embarrass himself in front of people from each and every corner of Westeros and beyond was certainly close to being on that list. He was grateful for the man’s conversation, as good a distraction as any. Vayon had never been one with much skill with a bow, or much interest in them as a weapon, but he watched the bow wobble as his company said it was, and . “I am.” He nodded. “The axe throw and the melee. I haven’t even attended a tourney in my life before, so I may be being overly ambitious, but I’ve never been one to sit around and let everyone else have all the fun.” His brow arched in curiosity. “Perhaps I’ll have to make a point of coming to watch the duelling in that case, I daresay it’ll be more worth my while than this.” 

[ironbornvayon]

( ser alistair dayne. )

Tourneys remained a great deal of excitement as it meant getting right into the thick of everything, surrounded by members of Houses he’d barely even heard of. There was a haze of smoke covering everything like a light film, fires burning across the camps with smoked meat tempting buyers with heavy purses. Alistair barely paid them a thought, pushing through the weeded crowds until he reached the stands where the archery contest took place, eyeing the contenders and sizing each of them up. Archery had never been his strong suit; too much precision and took much waiting held very little favor in his eyes. Yet it was only when one of the contestants wavered and shot far below his target that Alistair winced, turning away from the mockery of a sport to comment to the person to his right. “Whoever told him he could shoot must’ve been so far in his cups he didn’t have time to look up.” 

Vayon was vastly curious about attending a tourney in earnest, having only really heard them in the songs and tales and never before seen one with his own eyes. The Greyjoys had little interest in playing to the traditions of the Mainlanders, but in the interests of fostering the potential alliance with the North, he had talked himself into taking part despite this being his first experience. The axe-throw and the melee were not until later in the day, and he was finding amusement plentiful in watching the other events. He hid his smirk behind his hand as the competitor currently taking their turn missed more sorely than anyone had so far, and revelled in the way the crowd rippled with cringes and quiet laughter. “That or the archer himself so far in his cups that all previous skill has been thrown to the wind.” Another arrow failed to make home in the bullseye, or anywhere near it, and the crowd tittered again. “I think you might be right though. He seems rather used to being terrible at this.”

[ironbornvayon]

( princess valdis greyjoy. )

( ✨*°*. ) → the loyal steed was escorted down the icy path that lead to winterfell’s stables, a b a r r i e r between the two siblings whilst courage and composure was gathered ─ by brother bearing bad news and by sister who remained hopeful despite predicting the words that would leave his lips. disappointment colored their youth in streaks of grey and white, grasping at whatever bit of rumor and murmured hint with eager hands and then grasping at each other for c o m f o r t after yet another failed search. she longed to have her family united once more yet she dreaded what they would find, if they ever did find her lost brother.

    how much would he have changed, being away from the salt and sand of their islands? he spent more years away from them than he did with them and by the gods, she was a f r a i d of the man he might be. “do not apologize.” soft reprimand, as the reins of his horse were handed off to a stablehand and finally, finally her hands reach for his, cold fingers firm and reassuring. “we will try again and again ─ we will find him, i feel it in my heart.” how tall vayon had grown, how wise he seemed with his weary eyes ─ yet still a boy, still her y o u n g e r brother despite his maturity. ( comfort the little ones, her mother had murmured, for that is what you are good at. stay soft, but hide the iron beneath your smile. ) “but for now, we must think of the north and it’s new king… we will strengthen our kingdom so that when victarion returns, the iron islands will be stronger than ever.”

“I really thought this time maybe I’d find something.” He rubbed his eyes wearily with his free hand, sighing as if somehow that would push the weight of the world off his shoulders. The things he’d interpreted as clues from the Drowned God - the stormy skies on his departure from Pyke, the rain that had pelted down on his upturned face and reminded him heartbreakingly of the fat, hot tears that had rolled down his face on the night Victarion was taken. He let the reassuring words of his older sister wash over him instead of the pulsating guilt he had become so used to, grounding himself on the fact that he had trusted Valdis all his life, and she had never let him down - now could be no different. Vayon loved her dearly, and without her he’d be barely just a spectre floating on the open ocean. She would be a Queen of iron, steel and salt one day - it would be a day the islanders remembered forever, and a day blessed by the Drowned God when Valdis’ brow was adorned with the crown of the Isles. 

He often thought long and hard about if he would even recognise his baby brother if he saw him again after all these years. Victarion had been barely three when he was ripped from Vayon’s arms, he hadn’t even had the chance to grow into his looks - would he still be as iron as he and Valdis were? Would he still have those sky blue eyes that their mother had so cooed over? Would he still possess that rare toothy smile that Vayon used to spend hours bent over his driftwood cot trying to elicit from him? His stomach twisted every time he thought about the fact that that smile was surely what the Faceless Men had taken from him first. “I hope you’re right Val. For Vic.” It felt wrong to know he had to plaster a diplomatic smile on his face and enjoy the coronation of the new King, even a King who was as good a friend to him as Calder Stark was. He pulled himself out of his own head, and smiled sadly at his sister. “I suppose there’s nothing left to do than try to make as good an impression as two krakens can with these mainlanders. The North could be a strong allies for us if we play this right, especially with Calder on the throne, but god if I have to kiss any Southerner ass during this visit I swear it’ll be the end of me.” He chuckled darkly, the stables coming into view as Kelpie whinnied softly as if to agree with him. 

[ironbornvayon]

( lady regent aregelle baratheon. )

( ⚔*°*. ) → had she been younger, a girl who was sheltered beneath her father’s indulgent shadow, she would have protested against the p i n c h of the corset and the billow of the skirts that accompanied her every step. had she been younger, with a father still breathing, she would have arrived in breeches and an embellished tunic, knowing her cousin would not care for the supposed insult ─ she had lifted a sword by his side, surely what she wore held little importance in comparison to her a c t i o n s. painfully, aregelle had been reminded that she now carried the reputation of her land upon her back as well as the future reign of her brother and she would not, could not do anything to jeopardize or shame their family. 

    ( the jolt of thunder that rang through her ears c u r s e d at the thought ─ as though she had ever shamed her father, as though she needed to be chided by her councilors. )

    against their wishes, she had not relinquished her blade, finding comfort in resting her hand u p o n the pommel as chalice was lifted to her lips. the dark liquid within did not meet her tongue, gaudy carrier of wine shielding most of her face as she peered over the rim, watching for a moment before words fell from wickedly curled lips. “the north has now been blessed with a new king, a strong king ─ long live the king!” resounding cheers from the men that had followed her echoed down the table and she retreated to the shadows immediately after, having completed the task e x p e c t e d of her. 

The purpose of Vayon’s visit here rested on his respect for the soon-to-be-crowned King in the North, and the duty of representing the Kingdom of the Isles at an event of this historic  magnitude, but that didn’t mean he was necessarily enjoying himself. He had somehow been seperated from his sister, his only ally to make snide comments about the southerners to, and had not consumed nearly enough ale to be having a good enough time to forget that nearly half the pairs of eyes staring at him in the banquet hall thought him a barbarian and a savage. 

When the room toasted to the new king, Vayon, rowdy as ever, had joined in the chant, but had taken a moment afterwards to utter a prayer to his Drowned God that Calder Stark’s reign be a fruitful one for their northern allies, or soon to be allies, if Vayon’s negotiations proved successful. Iron fit with ice like a puzzle, but for now, the iron in him craved fresh air and a break from the ceaseless nattering of the finely dressed lords and ladies around him. 

Retreating back to the shadows felt like returning to safety under a shield against a volley of arrows, and he was surprised he was not the only one to have had this idea. “Is there room back here for one more to hide?” He said, a gravelly amused laugh, quiet though it was, accompanying his smirk. “Or should I find another uninhabited pocket of shadow to call my own?”

[1day-archive-deactivated2018073]

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[ironbornvayon]

✧ ･ﾟ:* Now time to go back Ocean of tears Before the sailing gonna turn back Now it’s the time to go back My tongue can make or break Before I slip and realize

Yeah, it’s the time to go back He hasn’t figured it out Guess I should have to go back Maybe I’m bout to go to hell Some things are roaming It’s so hard to pull it out *:･ﾟ✧

[ironbornvayon]

( king calder stark. )

His breath swirled as it rose, mixing with the composition of Winterfell’s frigid atmosphere. Bane had spent his evening flashing vermillion-stained fangs at all who approached his human pup. It was far from an aggressor’s eve; shimmering gowns adorning their bearer’s golden twittering, brilliant, engaging grins flashing with shielded intent. The arisen king knew not of untarnished festivities or the clink of their celebratory goblets, his features a battered disguise of present duality: the omega’s ephemerality and the alpha’s ignition. Leathered soles cascaded masoned steps, ancient cracks harboring tales of attempted siege and crusted crimson. Dark pads bounded past, the mass of coal fur momentarily vanquished by the Godswood’s treeline. Tonight, it was a feat for the Warring Wolf to elude prying castle dwellers. And he was nearing obliteration – his structured resolve threatening to purge itself.

It was a feigned tone of pleasantry; its hidden gravel scraping ocean flooring which tore his mind from warging possibilities. Abnormal allies fused both sea and snow. Iron vessels sailed alongside Northern steel. “Vayon,” the wolf hailed, canines sharp behind his smirk, “did an enraged salt wife chase you from Pyke?” The stablehand’s spine bent, frame bowed deeply at their king’s approach. When Calder’s hazel gaze found them, a dutiful nod dismissed their company. He was not the senseless menace Braddock had proved to be – extravagant courtesies meant nothing to him. Courtesies could be illusions; it was loyalty which he had always strove to deserve, and what he had earned in earnest. The kraken’s presence was remarkably sanctioned. Amidst the freeze, his ally’s inky curls coveted salted granules. Molten, predatory irises peered through the underbrush. A mere second parted, then the direwolf erupted from forested cover, engaging in an attack that held sportful intention upon the Ironborn.

It hadn’t been a salt wife that had driven him from the rocky shores of his home, but the ghost of his brother - their childhood laughter was the only thing he could hear in the quiet of the nights, and his own screams the only sound as the sun rose. A lead in the form of a skewered Faceless Man had arrived at Pyke addressed to him, and a few hours beneath the blade of Rodrik’s very sharp battle-axe had elicited clues that were vague, but the best option against nothing else to speak of. The arrow piercing the captive’s shoulder had been unmistakably of the North, and the handwriting familiar - the King in the North. This kraken had friends in high places, and by the time the tides had turned the Kraken’s Kiss had left its berth at Pyke to follow what the wolf had given him with a promise to his sister that he would do his best to meet her at Winterfell, Victarion in tow. He had failed his search, as usual, and he would have continued searching unless his duties as a brother had been put to a stop by his duties as a prince. 

He would not have missed this for the world, though. A coronation of historic proportions within the austere halls of Winterfell, one that would no doubt propel the North into a period of prosperity, the Kingdom of the Isles beside it. This would mark his first visit to his friend’s home, and though it was a far cry from the dingy, salt-crusted tavern they had met in as teenagers, it made sense that the stoic, weathered warring wolf had been shaped by it. “If one had I’d have to run further than Winterfell, Calder.” He laughed, shaking his head in amusement. He knew Calder well enough to know that he was not the only one coming to greet him, and much to the horror of the watching stablehands, a flash of dark fur was racing towards the kraken. Ever one to indulge the monstrously sized, though terribly lovable pup, Vayon pretended to let himself be bowed over onto the snow-covered ground as he was laved in kisses by Bane. A laugh escaped him, the first in a long while, and he looked up at Calder through tousled black curls. “No kisses from you too?” He joked, both hands busy repaying Bane’s affections 

[ironbornvayon]

( princess astrid stark. )

“Oh right. My apologies, prince.” Astrid smiled at the man, taking a long sip of her drink. Playing nice was not so fun, but luckily he made this interaction easy. She hoped he wouldn’t go on some tangent about boats, or fishing, or the sea, there wasn’t enough ale to help her through many of the ramblings she had had to listen to this evening alone already.

The wolf princess raised a brow at Vayon, shocked he didn’t know who she was, but she supposed she hadn’t known him either. Names became blurred, unless there was a face to put with it. “That’s quite refreshing, I have to admit.” She started. “Astrid Stark, er, princess Astrid Stark.” She jokingly rolled her eyes at the title. She never thought it suited her, but while she enjoyed being a warrior so much more, being a lady and a warrior was something that she held onto as being likened to her late mother. She knew she’d be proud of her for trying this evening, anyways. “You have nothing to fear, I am not the best at these sorts of interactions, either.” She winked.

Vayon felt a definite spike of discomfort up the back of his spine every time a well-dressed Southern lady smiled at him, or he caught wind of someone’s conversation. He was built for parties in poorly-lit coastal taverns where the ale poured as abundantly as the laughter and there was little pretence for anything else. To put a kraken in the midst of a celebration like this full of people desperately trying to make the right impression and appear more lavishly dressed that each other, was akin to putting a lobster in a pot of boiling water, Vayon thought - vastly discomforting, infuriating, and counter-intuitive at best. 

For Calder, however, he would endure it. The Isles and the North were fostering a potential new alliance, and even if they had not been, the great respect the eldest Greyjoy prince had for the newly crowned King in the North would have spurned his attendance to this event anyway. He smiled to hear her name, realising that this was the feisty younger sister that Calder had spoken so highly of. Princess Astrid was everything Vayon should have expected from a wolven princess. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He smiled, more genuinely perhaps that others he had given that night had been. “I hoped that I might meet you while I was here. Your brother speaks very highly of you after all.” 

[ironbornvayon]

( princess valdis greyjoy. )

( ✨*°*. ) → they brought the s a l t in the wind with their arrival, the sight of sea roughened men finding their feet upon snow covered ground gentling the sharp corners of the smile she bore. dark hood was drawn atop her head, covering the golden tresses as the familiar figure of her brother rode through the gates ─ she would never admit it, but a sudden sense of r e l i e f flooded through her at the sight, easing the tension that had stiffened her muscles since he left for his voyage. past memories had turned her into something wary, protective over her own ( over the ones that r e m a i n e d ) and constantly worrying when one left the cold comfort of the islands to search for the lost prince.

    “has it been that long, brother, that you’ve forgotten your own sister?” soft words were almost carried away by the harsh northern wind as she rested her palm against the neck of his steed ─ a silent gesture of t h a n k s for bringing him back safe to her. hood was withdrawn slightly, the bright blue of her eyes visible, sparkling with amusement. “come, i will take you to where my ægir rests, while you speak of your journey.” unspoken question lingered overhead ─ she knew he still hoped but it pained her to keep faith in his beliefs; she longed to give up the search, to forget but g u i l t would not permit it.

“So long that I’ve forgotten, no. But still, too long.” Vayon smiled, the familiar lilt of his sister’s voice signaled home to him more than even the sound of waves crashing against the rocks of Pyke or the wind whistling through the sails of his ship. He had missed her, he always did, and relief flooded through his veins at the sight of a few golden strands snaking their way from beneath Valdis’ hood. They were so different to look at, one golden crowned like the sun on shallow water, the other as dark as the shadow of a ship’s hull on the open ocean, and yet brother and sister had the same eyes that knew great loss, and the same iron-forged bond between them. 

Vayon tugged on the reins of his black mare with care, Kelpie had travelled a long way through snow she was unused to, and though Vayon had no particular affinity for horses, he appreciated her need for rest just as he did.  The two of them had come miles from the coast, leaving the Kraken’s Kiss with his crew to venture to Winterfell where he had been dreading this moment, no matter how used to it he had become with Valdis. “There’s not much to speak of.” He was tired of coming up short, finding nothing and returning home without the lost kraken, but he was never tired of searching - he could not let himself be tired of searching when Victarion was out there somewhere. “No luck, again.” He scrubbed a hand through snow-speckled black hair wearily. “I’m sorry.”

[ironbornvayon]

( lady taera reed. )

Few things moved without Taera knowing something about it in some sort of a way. What good of a spymaster would she be if she knew a few things about most things - what good of a woman would she be if she knew nothing of anything at all besides dresses and shoes and other superfluous frocks to dance and prance about in. Taera knew a decent amount about dresses and shoes enough to know she disliked both torturous garments and preferred the feel of armor against her skin and boots on her feet and a good weapon in her hand with another three or four knives hidden away in some portion of her ensemble. Taera knew and Taera was surprised by very few things in life but she was surprised by this man. The crowned kracken - Vayon Greyjoy. Polite. She was surprised but Taera knew better than to assume all things that rose from the sea were built to raid and reave and ravage the countryside. Lifting a brow he must’ve mistaken her for someone other then who she was not that many people even her own fellow Northerners knew much of her or her own peoples existence. Before she was to be sewn into her dress she could play the part of servant and have something to tell Calder later when the two of them found some corner of the world to talk and drink alone together as old friends… Bowing her head Taera pointed in the direction of the stables. “Just around the way and a little further, your Highness. I know it well and I can take you there”

Vayon had spent the long ride here from the coast contemplating just what he thought Northerners would be like - by all accounts a more honourable breed of people than his ironmen, though just as shaped by the harsh, unforgiving landscapes they lived their lives amidst. The gruff laughter he quietly emitted was in surprise, he had not expected the Northerners to be so forthcoming, although perhaps that mistake was on him for being so cynical about people outside of the craggy islands perched in the middle of the sea that he so dearly called home. 

Eager to get himself, and his horse, out of the biting cold before he began to lose even more feeling in his fingers, he nodded at the stranger’s offer. “If you have the time, I’d appreciate that.” Every snow capped corner looked the same to Vayon’s travel weary eyes, especially since he hadn’t been here nearly long enough to get his bearings just yet. “You know it well?” He asked, curious about this place just as he was it’s people. “Are you from here, my lady?” He couldn’t be sure whether this woman was of noble birth, or merely a servant, but his reputation for being the most diplomatic of the roughly hewn krakens begged him not to make any assumptions.

[ironbornvayon]

( princess astrid stark. )

Astrid recognized the man, or perhaps could place him as being of the Isles, but she wasn’t particularly sure who he was. Politics and the such that went with it never really interested her. Sure, she loved to strategize and was a great fighter, but she never truly dove deeper into the reasoning for all of it. Not that she would blindly follow, but that she only needed a simple reason for acting.

“Oh, right.” She gave a small laugh. She was never really all that great at hosting, despite the effort, and brushed off the little mishap. Astrid figured that now would be the best time to at least get to know those around her. “I apologize, I feel as if I should know your name, but it’s slipping from my mind.” She admitted. “I’ve never been all that good at remembering people.”

He had had enough contact with Calder Stark to know the look of a direwolf when he saw one. Most certainly this girl possessed the kind of fierceness he saw in the soon-to-be-crowned King in the North, the very same that had cultivated such a mutual respect for the warring wolf despite the fact that most mainlanders held very little interest to the ironborn at all. Though she was certainly of the North, he could not be sure if she were Stark or subject, and hoped that he was not mistaken in her identity. 

“Don’t worry. I’ve been pretending to know people’s names ever since I got here.” He punctuated his words with a gravelly laugh. “Vayon Greyjoy.” He offered, screwing up his nose ever so slightly as he remembered he’d forgotten his title. The wrought iron circlet nestled in his inky black hair gave it away anyway (though he would have like to have forgone the circlet too, and would have if his mother, the Queen, had not insisted upon it for such a formal occasion). He preferred to go without it anyway. “I won’t pretend to know yours either, if you’d be kind enough to enlighten me so I don’t make a fool of myself like I did infront of that Arryn over there.” 

[ironbornvayon]

( lord commander eromir baratheon. )

As Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, it wasn’t expected of him to tend to the garrons and destiers that he and his brothers in black had taken South, but he had always had an affinity for the beasts. Their selfless and often gentle nature was taken for granted when it should have been respected. It was a truth he’d learned as he’d gotten older, and one that had eluded him in his youth. Too many times had he pushed his long-suffering mount to its early end; he paid a debt to the creatures, now, and he expected no less from the men he led. 

Graves, one of the largest of their chargers, had come south with their company for the first time. It had been Eromir’s hope to break the defiant beast, to draw that sour mistrust from him, and replace it with a strong bond. Things had been going well until their camp was trampled by bandits on horseback, wielding torches and swinging crude steel. The ordeal had frightened even the older, more experienced horses, but it had enraged Graves. From that point on, Eromir had taken the beast on himself, and it had taken only one day’s ride to cement their bond.

“Shh,” he muttered, working out the matts of a coal-black mane. Eromir had wanted to give them each some fresh air before the festivities began; it would be a long night. 

“Headed there myself,” he answered, eyes passing over the young man briefly to inspect his equine companion. With a lift of his chin and a tug of cured leather reins, he veered Graves down the narrow street. The crunch of snow and a disgruntled whinny was his answer. “Come.”

Vayon had never been one with much fondness for horses, preferring instead the pine-carved mounts that carried him across the ocean. He knew that he could control a ship far better than he had ever learned to ride a horse, though he was forced to take to the saddle when journeys called for venture further than the Kraken’s Kiss could manage. So far from the sea, his eyes strained for the sound of the waves, or the tight humming of rigging, but he was met with only wind whipping past the cobbles of Winterfell and the quiet snickering of his horse, and the horse of his company. 

Black cloaked, and black shadowed, Vayon had no doubt that he was speaking, for the first time in his 25 years of living, to a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch. Next to the hulking great beast of a mount he was tending to, and with a stare that had very clearly seen more than Vayon’s ever would. 

He nodded curtly, and followed next to the man, making sure to keep his distance from the huge animal he was leading considering its very size, its air of agitation and the fact that horses and him had never gotten along - apart, of course, from Kelpie, his black mare who tolerated him just as he tolerated her whenever he chose to make a journey with her and not by sea. 

“That’s one hell of a horse.” He commented idly, warily eyeing the beast as its hooves pounded rhythmically against the snow-dusted cobbles, echoing far more than Kelpie’s relatively light ones. “How’s he got any business bein’ that big?”

[elyamartell]

Game of Thrones meme: 7 locations [5/7] ⇒ The Iron Islands

“The Islands are stern and stony places, scant of comfort and bleak of prospect. Death is never far here, and life is mean and meager.”

[ironbornvayon]

( princess cerena lannister. )

the harsh north was much colder than she expected and it was so different from what she was used— not that the princess was complaining— it was nice to be out of the rock for once. And though the north was foreign to her, there was a certain charm to it that she did not expect at all. the lioness’s eyes were fixated on the far horizon, just where the meets land; it was quiet and serene and for a moment, she was away from the crowd and the festivities and was simply mesmerized by the natural beauty around her. it was as of the universe did not want Cerena to feel an ounce of comfort because a cold gust of wind rustled through causing her to shiver in her thick cloaks. a small smile cracked on her slightly chapped lips, rubbing her the sides of her arms with her gloved hands. “does the cold not bother you?” she asked. “— or have you, too, grown accustomed to this harsh conditions?”

Rodrik held a large amount of awe for the sheer frozen beauty of the Northern landscapes, bright white, sharp and icy as they were. Sure, they didn’t hold such as fundamental place in his heart as the craggy, salt-encrusted rocky shores of him home kingdom, but he held as much respect for this frosty tundra as he did for the rough breed of people who made it their home in the lands surrounding Winterfell, perhaps the jewel in the Stark crown. 

“I’m not sure I’ll ever grow used to it.” He replied absently, pulling the slate grey, fur lined coat he was wearing tighter around his frame to ward off the icy Northern gales that made the sail-snapping ocean winds Vayon was more accustomed to feel like summer breezes. “I underestimated just how bloody freezing it would be this far North.”