@ofsecondsons | beren + asher | in a dingy tavern
     in some ways, it was a godsend that smalljon was the golden son: their father hadnât even noticed that beren had left the makeshift supper tables set in the northern camps. he had rolled his eyes a little too hard during the greatjonâs speech, excusing himself to go search for a decent tipple and conversation that didnât make him set things on fire. so the busy tavern on the outskirts of kingâs landing seemed like the ultimate gift - a welcome escape from his overachieving family and a future wife who seemed to have as much interest in him as he did her. and to its credit, the place was full of sellswords and cutthroats and probably the odd noblemanâs son too. this was definitely his lot.Â
     dropping into a seat, he took a long swig from his horn of ale - then another, then another until the cup was empty and he was already reaching to pour himself a second. the barkeep had left him a jug all to himself ( beren thanked at least two of the old gods for that ), so he nursed his drink and made idle chat with any stranger he could find - laughing at their stories, and offering nothing in the way of his own. but he was reaching for the devastatingly empty jug, halfway between a crude joke and a roguish smile, when he noticed a man he swore he knew all too well.Â
     â asher forrester? â beren started, walking over with all the surety of an unruly second son. they had been partners in crime until - well, until asher was punished for falling in love with the wrong person. that was the thing about the north, wasnât it? it cared more for honour than love or life or anything else. â i thought that was you - what in seven hells are you doinâ here? â