“A third leg up, eh? With all the long legs and long necks walking around here, it’s no trouble at all to keep a third leg up. Though I’d ask you not to tell my wife I said that. I’d rather not stand in open rebellion to the idea that she’s the only woman I have eyes for. She might have me flogged if she hears.” He then laughed, his arms falling crossed infront of his chest as he oversaw the crowds.
“You do flatter me, my lady. Most don’t think so highly of my company. But then most seem to have broomhandles tightly wedged between their asscheeks.” A little scoff escaped him. Eyes then fell back on her, and they scanned her, from top to bottom. A man with less self-awareness would have seemed to appraise a slab of meat. But there was more to his gaze than just that. “I can’t say I can quite place you. You’re not Northern, your accent’s not the same. You’re not Southern, or you’d be storming off, all huffy like. I’m gonna say you’re either from the Crags, The Fingers or the Iron Islands. And considering your free use of the word cunt, I’m leaning heavily to my last guess.”
A bit of an ass, then. And susceptible to women, by his own admission. She would remember that. She simply returned his gaze as he studied her, and as he began to list his reasons, she let her mouth curl into a smile again – the expression a mockery of coyness, and on purpose, at that. “Ah,” she began, “so you’ve got three legs and a decent head on your shoulders.”
“Lady Runa, of House Harlaw.” She dipped into a curtsey, lithe and graceful, but her eyes stayed on him, betraying the iron swathed in silks. She didn’t think he would have heard of her, but she didn’t look much like the other Harlaws, and that, in itself, was an answer – of sorts.
“I’m the biggest cunt of all. You can ask my brother. Or any number of lords currently in our company.” He replied, looking out over the crowd to see if he could pick out any specific faces. Or perhaps anyone that he could legitimately start a bit of banter with. He was rather in the mood for making a fuss. “Not that they’d say it right here. I might be listening in and I don’t take kindly to being called a cunt by anyone but myself. It’s good to stay on the friendly side of a man that’s half a head above all other men.”
He grinned then and looked to his new companion. He tried to place her, but found he was having quite a hard time with it. So rather than guessing, he’d just wait till she told him. “That’s not to say there’s not a good one among them. A couple of them, maybe a handful. Most of them from the North side of our borders.”
“–So I had better ask them in private, then, to keep us all from earning your ire.” Her smile grew cat-like and teasing as she looked at him, before letting her gaze fall on the crowd instead, contemplating his words. “Suppose men can be cunts wherever one goes,” she said, “though the Northerners I’ve met do have wonderful manners.” For a moment, her thoughts drifted to Celia, and she found herself wondering idly if she might run into her again.
She set her gaze on Lord Baratheon once more, craning her neck ever-so-slightly to look up.
“Well. Cunt you may be, but at least your company is entertaining, Lord Baratheon. Gives you a third leg up on the rest.” With a brief nod, she indicated to the height and stature of him.
“There’s not many other cunts that can say the same, I think.” No, most men who happened to be both cunts and of noble birth tended to be terrible to be around – lacking in humor, and unable to make up for it with tact.
He’d never been a fan of court. Too much talking, too little getting done. And a seemingly never-ending stream of bootlickers who wanted to stick their nose far up the crown’s ass. The Red Keep was not his favourite place. Though it had its upsides. The food was excellent, there was plenty of drink to have and there were plenty of ways to spend your coin. Something that Raymont was quite fond of. Though, with it being a rather officious ordeal, the King’s nameday, he would probably have to keep a low profile. And with the children joining him and his wife… Well, he needed to set a good example. Perhaps this would be one of the few times that Lord Raymont Baratheon behaved like a proper lord. Unlikely, but perhaps.
He’d found himself among the crowd in the throne room. The grand hall, with its large pillars and its tall windows. Usually he’d not bother mingling. After all, these were nought but bootlickers. But there were houses from all over Westeros here today. And he had a few friends he wished to see. And family he hoped to squeeze a hug out of. He was impeccably dressed. A black tunic, embroidered with bright gold, emblazoned with the Baratheon stag. With his left hand leaning on the hilt of his sword, he rested by one of the pillars.
He felt a presence close by, though had yet to see who it was that had approached him. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked over the heads of the hordes of lords and ladies, merchants and petty knights that all wished that some of the crown’s greatness would rub off on them. “Ah, the nobility of Westeros.” He scoffed, turning to see the person that had now surely closed the distance on him. “What a bunch of cunts.”
She couldn’t help the way her brows raised in surprise at his candor – nor the way she then laughed, darkly delighted, the sound itself a little more quiet, though her amusement was obvious to him. Unlike Lord Baratheon, who wore his house’s sigil proudly, Runa looked like she could be anyone from anywhere.. which was exactly her point. The dress she wore was a fine creation, but there wasn’t a sigil to be found on it, and its rich, sea-green color didn’t match the shade of any house present.
“Are you including yourself in that statement as well, Lord Baratheon?” There was a smile hiding in the corners of her mouth, one she didn’t bother hiding.
( malin. gmt+1. 23. she/hers & they/them. none. ) the courts offer bread and salt to RUNA HARLAW of HOUSE HARLAW. many say that the TWENTY-EIGHT year old LADY of THE IRON ISLANDS is known to be PERCEPTIVE and AMBITIOUS, though ill tongues whisper that she is CUNNING and VENGEFUL. may she be blessed and protected in this war of crowns. (fc: jessica parker kennedy)
hi hello i’m Malin, and i’m following Yvvy’s lead and reposting my intro for Runa! (i’ve also amended some bits and added some blurbs for established connections, so if anyone wants anything edited, just let me know!)
BACKGROUND
Runa’s mother was a saltwife from the Summer Isles, by way of Essos, while her father was Lord Harlaw of Harlaw itself. In a sense, her childhood was lucky – had she been born anywhere else, she would have been a mere bastard, but on the Iron Islands, it gave her a foot in the door. Her older half-siblings did not see her as a threat to their claims, and so they allowed her presence.. and as long as she kept out of view of Lady Harlaw, she was free to roam Ten Towers as she pleased.
While her father busied himself with his rockborn heirs, Runa’s mother taught her only child all she knew. Strange stories of merling halls beneath the sea, of her own gods, the old gods, the new gods and the Drowned One, of other deities from distant shores.. more practical tales, of conquest and wars lost. She taught her daughter the Summer Tongue and a few of the Valyrian dialects from the Free Cities, among other languages, and how to read and write in them all – and how to keep it hidden, lest old prejudices befall her daughter. She made certain Runa knew the intricacies of nobility, showed her with a steady hand how to keep a house-- all good skills, to be certain, and yet Runa put it to use in ways her mother could not – did not – foresee.
As she grew older, she begged her older brothers to teach her how to sail and use a sword – and they obliged. She spent her days running from one lesson to another, curious and eager, her girlish hands losing their soft touch. She did not wish to make a wife of herself, to be someone’s pet or plaything: no, she wanted a real place in society, one that was hers, and she would make it herself if she had to. She bartered every bit of her intellect and skill to get herself a place on a ship, and made softness and guile into weapons as sharp as the sword at her side; Runa Harlaw carving herself into an errant lady, one who could live as she pleased.
MISC. & TL;DR
one of many Harlaw children, though she was specifically born to a saltwife – she has a whole bunch of older (rockborn) half-siblings, and that in itself has given her more opportunities than had she perhaps been a trueborn heir.
she most enjoys spending her time out at sea, but she’s adaptable – put her in a court and she’ll act the part of a well-raised lady, Runa changing tactics at the drop of a hat. she's well-versed in formalities and the idea of wars waged without weapons – and there's a small part of her that enjoys it, not that she'd immediately admit to it.
Runa’s a decent fighter – she relies on speed rather than strength, though the woman can pack a punch if she has to. looks can be deceiving: she's every bit as vicious as you might expect of the Ironborn.
she covets knowledge and adventure, and wants to live a life worth living, in her own eyes.
her primary goal is to become untouchable, in a sense: to not have to worry about what happens the day Lord Harlaw (be it her father or an older brother) decides to reign her in. if she is to marry, she wants it to be because she herself damn well wants to, and not because she’s being given away like a brooding mare. if she is to live, she wants it to be on her terms, no one else’s. to that end, she’s done her part to make herself a wanted member of the Ironborn crews – she’s intelligent, speaks a number of languages, and she can hold her own in a fight. she’s also working on making herself valuable to the Lord Reaper himself, in the hopes that he might be able to stay Lord Harlaw’s hand, somehow, should he ever wish to call her back to shore on a permanent basis.
ESTABLISHED CONNECTIONS
Ayara Greyjoy –
There are a few absences that leave a poignant ache in Runa’s heart whenever she is far from home – and Ayara is one of them. Considering the other a treasured, precious friend, she always takes care to bring home gifts and stories from distant shores to Ayara, Runa hoping to make up for the fact that she’s often gone for months at a time. Before Ayara married, the two of them sailed together for a time, and rumors have it they grew a little too close.. though nothing ever came of it.
Celia Stark –
The Northern princess is a recent subject of interest: Runa has glimpsed a few things she perhaps shouldn’t have, and has so far kept Celia Stark’s secret – the young woman’s interest and talent for fighting; utterly wasted on the Westerosi courts. She doesn’t know yet what she wants with the young Stark… but it’s certainly an interesting thing to know.
Kristján Greyjoy –
When she was 16, Runa joined the crew of the Howling Tide, and spent the next six years with them in Essos, working as sellswords – if the rumors are true. Since then, she’s been a mainstay of the crew, and while she’ll occasionally drift aboard other ships, she always circles back to the Howling Tide. Kristján won her loyalty when he let her join the crew, all those years ago, and there is little she would not do for him – not as a vassal to House Greyjoy, but as a personal debt, one she will gladly honor.
Quellon Greyjoy –
The Lord Reaper is a man she respects – she sees him as a good man capable of great things, and hopes she can be of service to him. It’s not entirely without a selfish motive, however: by making herself valuable to Quellon, Runa hopes to gain a powerful ally should her family ever wish to command her to do anything she doesn’t want to. At his request, Runa gathers knowledge about the other kingdoms, collecting rumors and probing for secrets in the hopes that it might give the Ironborn an advantage.
WANTED CONNECTIONS
The Howling Tide –
I 100% love the idea of this oddball crew and the bonds between them. I literally have nothing to add except BRING MORE OF THEM YES LET’S DO THIS
Strangers in Faraway Ports –
She’s spent a fair bit of time traveling to a variety of places, which could be a good starting ground for relations – whether it’s as acquaintances or something else! Runa’s a subtle flirt, but a flirt nonetheless, and a #bi mess. She’s also way into learning, and seeks teachers wherever she goes, for a variety of subjects – and she herself is also knowledgeable.
Bastard in Every Port but Pyke –
I’m interested in what the more “snobbish” might make of her status as a child born to a saltwife – do they see her as a bastard, and treat her accordingly, or have they made peace with the peculiarities of Ironborn culture? Do they wish to egg her on, to antagonize her?
Celia’s anger came to a head as the man before her drew out a dagger to thwart her after she’d gone after him with the table leg, though she should have seen it coming, given the type that had been attracted to her brother’s coronation. She side stepped and twisted easily, light on her feet as she navigated the uneven ground and kept her eye out for an opening. Around them there were fights breaking out, rowdy and untamed, a person yelled out and for a split second Celia’s gaze turned from her opponent, distracted. The man advanced on her and she would have been grievously hurt had a menace in skirts not been shoved in the way. Glass shattered and the man went down with a thud, covered in the remnants of whatever the bottle had contained. “That brute.” She muttered, her gaze flicked from the man to the lady with torn skirts and the neck of a broken bottle still in hand. “Thank you.”
“Yes, well, it isn’t something brought up over the dinner table. Certainly the ways of the Ironborn allow some leniency and understanding to those who would finish a fight.” Celia mirrored Runa’s grin then it quickly faded as she remembered exactly the situation. The princess of the North taking part and causing fights just outside her brother’s hall. Gods. Though it was not a thing of note if the princess fancied swords and fighting over other lady-like activities, her desire to be a knight and proclivity for fighting was known only by the dead. She cleared her throat gently. “It would do no one harm, save myself if news of this reached my brother. I would prefer to avoid any stern words from him, if you would have it…”
Celia then caught sight of the girl’s dress, eyes widening. “You’re hurt, my lady.” She crossed towards Runa, treading upon the man’s legs with little care. The chair leg dropped from her hand as she examined the torn skirt, tutting worriedly.
“Oh, I’ve had my own fair share of stern words. I’ve no interest in making you suffer through the same.” No, she saw no need for telling the young king of his sister’s exploits – but she would tuck it away for later, as a glowing ember of interest amidst the barren north.
“.. You can call me Runa,” she said, only watching as Celia began to fret over the state of her dress and the fresh, stinging cut. “– and I’ve had worse.” She reached down and parted the skirt ever-so-slightly, revealing the old scar already there: the strange, neat mark of a falchion, carved across the mid of her thigh.. the hint of another peeking out from further up, hidden behind torn fabric.
On the ground, the man came back to consciousness, groans falling on deaf ears. He had stumbled back a few feet as she’d struck him, leaving a trail of muddled snow and blood as he fell, dagger just out of reach.
“I won’t say a word to anyone – and I trust you’ll do the same. As for him..” Had she been anywhere else, she would have slain him where he stood, rather than incapacitating him.. but she was in a court filled to the brim with people who already eyed her folk with suspicion and hatred, and she did not think the princess would keep quiet if she killed a man.
She began to walk towards him, and for each step she took, another piece of her illusion fell away – the lady faded from view, leaving a reaver in her place. It was a woman made from salt and stone who kicked him in the ribs, her iron gaze cold as she looked down at him. As he began to squirm, reaching for his knife, she got down on her haunches and grabbed his face, left-hand fingers digging into the soft flesh. Glass had scraped his skin raw, bits of it glittering, caught in the wounds. “I’ll do you a kindness,” she said, leaning over for his dagger with ease, left hand keeping him still as his eyes widened at the sight of his own knife in her hand.
The blade trailed a path across his forehead, but she didn’t press down to cut, not yet. Her voice was soft as she spoke – and though the words were sour in her mouth, she said them anyway, hoping she might use his pride against him. “I’ll let you tell them it was a man that did this.” Drops of scarlet began to bead as a slit slowly bloomed beside his left eye, Runa eyeing him like a cat grown tired of its prey.
As she got up, he stayed down, the dagger disappearing up her sleeve.
He considered it for a moment, “Well, if I’m to have some time away from my father I suppose I should make the best of it.”
Who knew when he’d been summoned home and back to a less than exciting life, kept within Greywatch for almost all of his time. “Oh,” he blinked and poured himself a goblet of the wine, taking another sip, “Yes, that’s it! Still a funny after taste but sweet at the first sip.” he said with a small smile.
“I’d love to visit Dorne… Or anywhere else in Westeros.” he said with a smile, “All our different cultures are so interesting. Do you have a preference?” he asked, “On Dornish or Arbor wine, I mean.”
“I’ve developed a fondness for the Dornish,” she said, a twinkle in her eye, “but I’ll still partake in Arbor wine.” She held her cup aloft, before taking a sip: aye, she enjoyed wine.. but truth be told, she tended to go for the stuff with more of a kick. Rum and spiced liquors from the Summer Isles, for instance.
❝ i have. it’s a good place to get out of the cold without being confined to one’s chambers. ❞ but after being back in the westerlands for so long, cassian couldn’t help but find the glass gardens small. he’d forgotten how plentiful gardens in the more southern regions of the northern kingdom were. still, he wouldn’t complain. the climate of the north didn’t suit many flowers.
he paused for longer than he should have before answering her second question. ❝ i am. the tourneys were quite enjoyable, though i wish i could have competed rather than only observed. ❞ it had served as a bitter reminder that the chapter of his life he had loved so was truly gone.
Gods, she hadn’t realized how starved she was for conversation that wasn’t solely about the merits of the old king and the new king and the king in the south, or king in the north, depending on who she found herself speaking to; conversation that didn’t feel like they were walking on eggshells, Runa learning nothing new. This, she thought, this could be enjoyable – at the very least in comparison.
There was little that gave her away as ironborn, dressed as she was; any scars concealed, her mannerisms suitable for a lady from just about anywhere. So far, it had served her well – and now, she found she couldn’t be bothered to care if her interest in tourneys broke parts of the illusion.
“Ah! Which form do you favour?”
“Are you an archer, perhaps, or– no. A swordsman?”
“So… the only way to improve ones ability to drink wine… is to drink more wine?” he asked with a small frown on his face. He supposed on some level it made sense, “Like, the only way to be able to hold your breath longer is to go swimming a lot!” Since he swam a great deal in the Neck that metaphor made sense to him when put like that. “O-oh, thank you My Lady.” he said, gently taking her offered goblet.
“My!” he smiled, “That one is much nicer! Where can I get some more of that?” he asked, “I read that the Arbor wine is only matched by Dornish wine, apparently it’s the colour of blood.”
“Yes, exactly!” Runa said, ever-encouraging; her mind idly working away at where he might be from – swimming, he said. From the coast somewhere, perhaps? --But which one?
“This one is from the flagon over there,” she said, gesturing to an impressive decanter wrought in silver, its handle bearing the likeness of a wolf – a gift, most like, for the young king. There were a few smaller flasks arranged beside it; she hadn’t checked, but she thought perhaps they were more of the same wine.
“Aye, that’s true. Get a Dornish wine merchant in his cups and tell him to boast,” Runa began, tone at once just a little conspiratorial; teasingly so, ”and he’ll tell you that Arbor reds are nothing more than red water when compared to his wares.”
“I suppose. Though I’m not sure if I should have much. My father wouldn’t really approve.” He’d been told that drink could his mind and if that were the case his visions may be even more difficult to interpret. It had been some times since he’d seen anything though, maybe for this evening… it would be okay? Who knew when he’d next have the chance to try something this around so many interesting people?
“I suppose. Though from watching others it rarely seems to be joyful the morning after.” Some were even sick if they overindulged. “Umm… I think it’s a mixture of the two, My Lady.” he said, frowning at the wine as if he could understand it by sight alone. “It’s not particularly nice but it might be because I’m not used to it?” he half-asked her, “Umm, I got it from that one, My Lady.” he said, pointing to the one nearest them.
“That part depends on your tolerance, and tolerance, I suppose, is only found at the bottom of the glass.” The smile she put on as she said it was one she had pilfered from a trickster, but there was no ill will to be found in Runa’s expression. “Ah,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “that one’s an acquired taste. If you don’t mind–” Runa held her own goblet out, offering up a taste.
“This one’s rather sweet, in comparison. I think it’s from the Arbor.”
Perhaps it is known throughout Westeros that creatures of the sea have no heart, that sirens consume any warm thing that offers itself to them. Perhaps it is true. Ayara readily accepts any offering not unlike a greedy idol of yearning and ire, spitting out what was not suitable and holding everything else deep within, to share with no one. She is exactly the woman her dear, wretched mother raised her to be– an Ironborn, demanding in her affections and relentless in her will, settling for nothing, not even her shortcomings.
But she is not without a heart, as much as she’d like people to think she is - she feels, her feelings run as deep as the ocean depths, washes over her like an angry tide during a maelstrom, a master to her as she is to them. She cannot help the swell of elation at the sight of Runa, her dear companion more lost to the ocean and its adventures than not, but the woman always arrived with her fair share of treasures and stories– Ayara always adored all of it, but she invariably cherished the latter more, and it was the latter she imagined when she imagined Runa’s homecoming.
“Runa,” she gasps, plush lips splitting open into a grin. Her instinct demands she embrace the Ironborn, but her fickle mind demands otherwise; it demands a game, and it demands that Ayara not give in first. “Darling, it was abhorrent. The tides seemed to know of your absence and thought to push back against us, or perhaps they thought it wise if we kept away from the mainland.” She smiles sweetly. “It’s been far too long. Have you longed for home in your time away?”
She watched that bright mouth split into a grin, and she felt her heart swell, filling with song; a smile of her own appearing like a reflection across a still lake. “Suppose we can only bide our time to see if the merling king was right in trying to warn you,” she said. Should the mainlanders try their luck against them.. well. Perhaps it was arrogance, perhaps it was loyalty and pride – maybe a heady concoction of all three – but she did not think the ironborn would fall here, no matter the tension in the air.
“I always long for home, wherever I go.” Her voice became an ember as she spoke, lingering deep inside her chest - warm, so very warm, threatening to set the world on fire if she didn't keep it under lock and key.
“And you? How has home been, in my absence?” A straight-forward question, at least on the surface – has anything in particular happened? But there, hidden in the corners of her smile, a little impish and yet still so immensely fond of Ayara, did you miss me?
Celia had lost track of where Edrik had gone and absolved herself of her self-imposed guard duty for the evening, letting his actual guard make use of themselves as she excused herself to the outside for a breath of fresh air. She had relieved herself of her skirts, her trousers and an old shirt of her brothers from when he was younger revealed beneath, and moved with increased ease and speed out from the main hall where noble guests were hosted. It was not long until she was sprinting, cloak billowing as she moved towards the celebration being held outside by a less politically choked people.
She wasn’t entirely sure at what point the brawl had started, perhaps it was after her second cup of ale, the princess was not of a habit of drinking and one had been enough to bring a healthy flush to her cheeks, two and… well…
Celia had found herself stepping on a man’s chest accusing him of cheating her out of a game when her arms were gripped from behind and she was dragged kicking from the man. Then the real brawl began. She hadn’t really meant to cause it, but a well placed kick landed to the back of another man’s legs and he had fallen forward into another drunken fool who then became angry and so on went the fall of decorum until cups were thrown and she was no longer held aloft, but surrounded by a riotous, drunken lot of fighting.
What else was a princess to do but finish what she started? So, she approached the man, grabbing two broken sticks (which later turned out to be chair legs) before tossing one at him.
“Duel me, you honorless man!”
“You…you scoundrel! How dare you cheat!” She yelled out drunkenly, tugging her cloak free and tossing it to the side.
Having grown tired of the atmosphere inside the keep proper, Runa had sought her fortune elsewhere – outside, among the comfortable camps of the various noble and royal retinues. It hadn’t taken her more than minutes before she’d batted her lashes at a man and made off with his bottle of brandy, the taste of pear both heady and strong, a burn she relished trailing fire down her throat.
Out here, they were raucous and gaudy and just how she liked them – not half as concerned with the games being played inside the keep as they were with how much ale they had left in their tankard. She flitted about, collecting what she could as Quellon had asked of her, though she doubted even half of it would be useful.. and then a fight broke out. She had spent so much time being good, play-acting her part of a lady like the most wonderful mummer, and now… now she had tired of it. When a man tried to grab hold of her wrist, she let her fist find his face, and then she entered into the fray, skirts and all.
Her knuckles stung, the feeling familiar – comforting, in its own way. She held out hope that her dress might be salvaged, though she had a feeling she’d have to find her other one come morning––
A shove sent her half-way into a hit intended for someone else, and as a stray dagger tore its way through the thick linen and wool of her skirt, she felt a cold rage fill her as she turned to face her would-be assailant. There was a flash of a bare, tan thigh and an old scar as her dress and underskirt tore, Runa barely even registering that there might be a new wound to join the old one. “Oh, you fucker.”
“I’ll take that dagger,” she said, and she could see the wheels turning in his head – small, he thought, couldn’t hurt a fly if she tried–
Her hand flew out, bottle held tight, aimed right at the side of his head – and as the glass shattered, she finally saw who it was she had inadvertently shielded. Celia Stark. In a pair of confoundingly practical trousers, and what had to be her brother's old shirt, no less.
"Well," Runa said, and she couldn't help the smile that grew across her face, "I certainly didn't peg you for the type."
EVENT (01): Northern Coronation
LOCATION: Winterfell, somewhere at the outskirts of the feast
WITH: @ayaragreyjoy
She often thought of her heart not as a whole organ, but as a miracle of ill-fitting parts – a piece for every place she adored, every person she held dear. She imagined she could feel them rearranging themselves of their own accord: she would always miss the Iron Islands whenever she was far away.. and likewise, the second she came back, her piecemeal heart would yearn to leave for distant shores. Even so.. there was only one Ayara. Her piece remained locked where it was, no matter where Runa went.
It had been weeks since she had last seen her, as Runa herself had traveled with Kristján, and not the main retinue that sailed out from the Iron Islands. The present she had brought with her could have waited until they were back home again, inside the chest she’d filled to the brim with trinkets and books – but she had wanted so badly to see if Ayara might like it that she hadn’t been able to keep herself from bringing it along.
Their respective duties – she herself left to her own devices, but Ayara in the throes of noble business – had kept them apart during the festivities so far.. but tonight, she saw her chance. As a lord took his leave of conversation with the ruling lady of Pyke, Runa stepped in effortlessly, a familiar smile on her face as she greeted her friend.
“My lady,” she said, and underneath the words rang Ayara, her voice warm with it as she spoke. “I trust your journey went well?” She longed to find some secluded corner of the keep, to talk as they would in private, but she would play her game of patience – the gift would not spoil, hidden as it was in the sleeve of her dress.
rhaenys felt alive. her heart was beating wildly in her chest as she fluttered about the room. her movements, even in her state of excitement, were graceful. for most of the evening she hadn’t left the dance floor, taking the hand of any lord or knight who wished to dance with her but never lingering with the same partner for more than a dance. anything else wouldn’t be fit for a princess. when the current song ended, violet eyes scanned the crowd and she saw the other person standing away from the crowd. that wouldn’t do! after excusing herself, rhaenys hurried over to them, a vibrant smile upon her lips. ❝ don’t tell me you intend to lurk on the outskirts for the entire evening. come, you must partake in the festivities! i insist! ❞
So this was the princess Kristján had fled from – as lovely up close as she was from afar, Runa thought, though she wasn’t certain a southron Targaryen would have taken to being a lady of Pyke.. a lady left behind, often and for long, at that.
Had they been in a tavern somewhere in Essos, she might have asked the princess for a dance, just because she could – but they were not. She was well-aware of their standing – as women, as nobility and royalty, caught in a myriad web of expectations. She did not enjoy having shame imposed upon her, but she would not soil House Harlaw’s reputation, nor risk her own hard-won freedom. She would not ask.
Instead, she let her lips curl into a smile, amber eyes studying the princess. “It won’t take much insisting, your Highness.”
he held a cup of wine in his hand, though it remained mainly untouched. normally he enjoyed a good drink but ever since arriving in winterfell he’d avoided indulging too excessively in either wine or ale. he didn’t want to make a bad impression during his first outing as a lord. people cared far less if knights got a little rowdy when they celebrated; it was different for nobility.
dark eyes watched the crowds around him. cassian had retreated away from the largest crowds in order to have a few moments away from the loudest sections of the celebration. glancing to his side, cassian saw he wasn’t the only one seeking a little distance from the crowd. he offered his companion a warm smile. ❝ this is quite the celebration. fitting for a new king. ❞ the northern feasts had never been this grand during his youth. then again, there hadn’t been such a large event during that time and therefore no reason for needless celebrations. ❝ are you enjoying yourself? ❞
“Truly, it is,” Runa replied, smiling warmly at the stranger – she had finally spotted Ayara, though she would hold off on their reunion just yet. Her goblet was half-full,
“I am. Winterfell is a wonder, I find. The glass gardens alone– to find all those flowers blooming so far north.. Have you found your way to them, yet?” She had half a mind to try the same on Harlaw, somewhere, but she doubted such a structure would survive the storms – and besides, there were no hot springs to fuel it.
It was overwhelming. The sights, the sound, all the different people. It was the kind of event he’d dreamed of attending yet here he was sitting near the back corner of the room and gripping a goblet of wine tightly between his hands; odds were he appeared as inexperience incarnate… Wonderful.
He brought the goblet to his lips to take a large swig and immediately winkled his nose at the unfamiliar taste. “M-my apologies,” he said, looking up at a passerby, “I’m uhh, not that familiar with the taste of wine.”
She was on the outskirts of the feast, looking for Ayara – but so far, she hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of the other. What she did spot was a little lordling clutching his goblet like a lifeline, knuckles threatening to turn white. She’d been content to keep her amusement to herself when he looked up at her, his words a confession, she thought, of just how nervous he felt at the prospect of actually drinking what was in his glass. Was he as young as he seemed, or was it simply the way he looked at his drink like a rabbit facing down a snake? She hadn’t missed the way his nose had rankled as he actually took a swig.
“It’s as fine an occasion as any to learn its joys.”
“Do you find the taste displeasing, or simply unfamiliar? -- Which flagon did it come from?” She’d spotted more than a few kinds as she half-heartedly searched for something stronger.
❛ BE MISSED I MAY VERY WELL BE , but they would get over it . ❜ he grinned at her . it was enjoyable to think and talk about running from this place . but he knew that ultimately he would be staying put . it was one thing to flee from the iron islands bound for essos . it was another thing entirely to abandon his siblings in a den of wolves . he doesn’t say any of this , much rather continue their little game . pursed lips , he pretends to look thoughtful . thinking on her question for a moment before a decision is reached . ❛ the summer isles . ❜ he offers up . ❛ i have not been there in sometime and i will go on a limb and say you haven’t either , hm ? we’d go there . and then the stepstones , because i have business there— which then may lead us to the basilisk isles . i would ask that you be sure not to tell my siblings about that . ❜
“Some say absence makes the heart grow fonder.” A grin for a grin.
She perked up just a little at his mention of the Summer Isles, amber eyes alighting with interest. He was right – she hadn’t been there in quite some time; too long, truth be told. If there was ever a place she loved as much as the Iron Islands.. it would be the Summer Isles, her mother having carved out a fondness for them in Runa’s heart.
The Stepstones, he said, and she nodded once.. and as he shared the rest of it, she cocked one eyebrow up, curious as ever, hoping he might confide: this was a game, but there tended to be threads of truth woven into it. Things that were already set in motion – or would be, sooner than one could snap one’s fingers.
“… And what business is it that might bring us from the Stepstones to the Basilisk Isles?”
“Are we leaving skulls of our own on their shores? --I spoke with a gentleman in Braavos once. Said he wanted to see if he could find an idol on Skull Isle, of whichever god it is they worship. Wanted to bring it to the House of Black and White.”
LOCATION: Winterfell, atop the walkways near the Hunter’s Gate at dusk.
STATUS: open!
When she was a child, her mother had oft told her a fanciful story – that the waves had carried her ashore one day, a little girl made of sea foam and driftwood, her hair a tangle of seaweed. A runaway treasure of the merling king, she had said. It had taken her mother a full three days to brush the seaweed until they were curls, to polish the coral set inside the driftwood skull until they were eyes. She had believed it, ardent and wide-eyed with the giddy wonder of a girl not yet ten, and even now, that story stayed with her. Maybe that was why she felt so restless, staying inland for so long. Like she would never quite be the same without the sea there to whisper in her ear, sweeping salt across her lips. Perhaps she was just a driftwood woman, sea foam given legs; one who would not know rest until she was out on the open ocean.
Still– she felt comfort knowing it was much the same for the rest of her iron brethren, even those of them that made their homes on the isles, and not upon the waves. To be so far from the sea felt strange, especially here, tensions pulled taut. They all felt the pull.
It had driven her up on the walled walkways that overlooked the keep and its many courtyards – and, most notably, the wolfswood to the west of Winterfell. With dusk painting the world in shades of blue and violet, the northern sky gleaming, she found herself wanting to hear the howls– but the faraway forest remained quiet. Instead, she heard the sound of someone joining her up on the would-be outlook, and she turned to face them. Below, people continued to mill about through the courtyards, light spilling out from the doorways, candelight flickering from behind frosted glass.
“Have you come to listen for the wolves, too?”
“– Or did you come up here for solace’s sake?”
He would trade the well-worn stones beneath his feet for weathered, creaking planks, the flakes of snow for sea mist, but here among the wolves and the dragons, the stags and bears, Quellon and his kin were out of place. He felt the unease of those he’d brought with him, their irritation oft leading to brutal altercations that he had to stamp out. They would whisper about how the Lord Reaper had done this to them, his plans too far-reaching, and yet Quellon remained firm in his decisions.
When he found Runa, stone beneath and land surrounded, his grim face turned out towards the direction of the forests. He was two people, one wished for the sea and the old ways of his people, the other for power and to bear the weight of his predecessors, both were at war, creating a chasm in his chest, splitting his ribs in their ambition.
“I have heard enough of their yelping.” He would sooner have them turn to whimpers beneath the Ironborn’s fleet. He stopped beside her, studying the land as if it might bend to his will. “They howl, but it is the stone that I wish would speak.” His sharp gaze turned from the land to Runa, and softened from steel to iron. “Do you know what they say?’
Quellon – if Kristján was a tempest, the kind that would wreck ships in its wake, then his oldest brother was a dead calm sea: the kind of thing any sailor, highborn or low, had to bend the knee to. She respected him – and found she liked him for it. “I've yet to learn the tongue of stones, my lord, though for you, I would try. Our kin grumble most about the sea. They miss it.” As do I. As do you, I’m certain.
“As for the rest.. I am afraid I do not have much to show for my conversations. Not yet. The Stark princess grieves. Their father, I suspect. And the king in the south is.. pompous.” It was, she thought, both entirely descriptive and yet not quite descriptive enough. “Do you have any specific concerns? Someone I should speak more with?”
