BOY*/BASTARD

❝ I have scars on my palms and the insides of my fingers. There is blood in my mouth and staining my clothes. I have died too many times to count and come back again stronger. Are you proud of me, momma? are you proud of me, pappa? ❞ RODRIK STONE

[rstcnes]

eudora-redwyne:

Haughty, arrogant, prideful the man was and that she could see at a glance. She could read people as she could read her spider who had not definable language at all at the very least to human ears. Read him she could in his eyes as well that information was withheld from her and the majority of the world. A secret the young man had, plenty of them and she would dare to go as far to wager he was no commoner but mixed with common blood bearing the name of snow or hill or stone or river. There was that edge; that clipped short tone that wished for business to be done but only a fool spoke that way to the lady of the arbor but what man knew that her walks often took her amongst the people to assess that status of her holdings?

“A price yes for one or two. You seem like a man who knows quality when he sees it and you will not be disappointed with what you get for the price you pay. For you young man - a reasonable price. Im sure its not for yourself that you buy this wine but I do have other things then just wine to sell” Eudora smiled in a calculative smile waving her hand in the air and the grand ladies hands went to offer him a drink of something clear but clearly not water as it might’ve been shipped about in barrels but it was much stronger and to him she offered a taste. The merchant would be compensated for her dipping into his supply whoever it was that sold what was behind her which in truth was all her doing. This spirit though few men could handle. Further interaction would be determined on how he could stomach it. Stretching out her hand she offered it. The world stood silently by waiting for him to try the woman’s brew. This was a test and one other often failed. “Try it - just a single sip”

He struggled not to gaze back at the woman with wide eyes. Though the weakness was evident from the tremble in his lower lip. Rodrik may have been a bold man when he wished, but he still knew when he was being mocked. Eyes the lightest shade of blew fell on the goblet. Only a fool would believe it was water she offered him. A wiser man would have assumed poison. Perhaps it was just that. A woman angry that he had the gull to speak to her in such a way. If their world had taught him anything, it was that humans were capable of anything. Their ambitions clouding any sense of reason. Those like him, the ones removed and shoved into dark corners could see through the royal facade. But for the others it was a game. A game of who could trump the other until no one remained standing. The woman before him was such a person. Or so he liked to imagine. 

His palm shook as he reached for the drink. For years his father’s wife laced every drink with particular poisons or ailments to leave him sick and wailing into the night. It would be ironic if survived that long enough just to fall into the trap of another. Regardless he lifted the goblet to his lips, taking a single sip as she requested. The taste was bitter--foul even. Enough that if he wasn’t exposed to years of sour ale on Sweetsister he would have spit it out within moments. An involuntary shiver coursed through the bastard as he attempted to stomach the liquid. His throat like molten lava as it danced down. She enjoyed power, he could tell. If he were to cough she would see him as weak. So he fought it. Every torturous moment as it pooled into his belly like a ball of flame. 

It took several moments before he could find his voice again. “Have you just poisoned me, my lady? If so, I fear my sister will never have her precious wine.” 

[rstcnes]

ladyaltheda:

She wondered if she had perhaps moved too quickly, if he still thought them too out in the open, when he flinched at her touch. Though it was true they could potentially be seen here, visitors to the godswood were often afforded generous privacy. Northern men and women took their religion quite seriously and it had it’s pros and cons. On the one hand, she felt quite safe and secluded here with Rodrik. On the other, if they were caught, the gods and their followers would be quicker to condemn than to forgive. But the eyes of the weirwood tree had seen them here before and its wooded lips had never once betrayed them.

Then her hand was in his, pulled to his chest, and any nagging thoughts in her mind fled. On some level, Altheda knew it might be wiser to keep some of her attention outwards, to glance towards the doors and windows occasionally, perhaps to guide them to a more secluded alcove among the trees, but once she could feel his heartbeat, she was anchored in place by the steady rhythm. Though faint while buried under thin, worn furs, the pulse meant he was here, right now, with her.

Altheda hadn’t yet abandoned her inspection, moving her eyes from their intertwined hands back to the new mark on his face. It was small enough she might not have noticed if only he had been a stranger. Rodrik was not a stranger, though he should have been, and Altheda knew every inch, even those she couldn’t see – the scar on his neck that disappeared beneath his cloak, the burns on his shoulder, the countless other markings of other injuries she’d absently traced before falling asleep.

The indirect mention of her father, the man she had told the guards he was here to honor, caused her to meet his gaze once more. “I hardly knew him,” she admitted, “yet I mourn him. I have struggled to find the words to express the loss I feel but… he was not so old, he was healthy, and now is… gone.” She exhaled, shook her head, looked up to the cloudy sky above. “It’s not pain you bring, it’s what remains when you’ve left.” There was always the moment of vulnerability to admit things Rodrik already knew were true, even when she had so much evidence to believe they were reciprocated. 

“Everything is so uncertain. The fragility in the North, civil war in the Trident, my father… I–” she met Rodrik’s eyes again, absently tightening her grip on the hand she held, “I’d like to be certain you’re safe.”

If winter were kind it would take all of them before war did. Though it would be likely they would suffer through bloodstained snow and unrest. He wouldn’t lose blood over northern skirmishes. It held little importance whether or not a Stark or any other house sat on the throne. No matter his attachment to the cold kingdom, it was still not his. His king a Royce who couldn’t differ any of the sisters from the other. It wouldn’t be long until his own island became a desire for the north. It was no secret that they never forgave the Vale for their victory--or at least the Bolton’s hadn’t. Then perhaps he’d shed blood. But not for his crown. Let the North take back what was once theirs. At least they would treat their island as something more than three floating masses, doomed to be forgotten. 

He wanted to assure her that the continent wouldn’t crumble around them.  But only a fool could ignore the unrest that stirred. Even if they were just pawns to be sacrificed before the royalty fell, it surely mattered to some extent. For he couldn’t lie to her and assure his safety when the starving grew desperate and those who craved war became hungry. “None of us are truly safe.” A small smile that held anything but reassurance fills his face. “But I won’t fall on a blade anytime soon. If that is any consolation.” If it could prevent her from kneeling beside that very tree filled with prayers and worry. They were wasted on a man like him. 

Rodrik cared little what the gods thought of then. If they were to strike him with lighting let it happen. Perhaps it was the grief in her voice at the mention of her father. A man he hardly knew either, but grieved over more so than his own father. Or the way her voice shook when she spoke of what he did to her. The pain that Rodrik could prevent if he only were a little more selfish. Or was it just as selfish to indulge in her feelings for him at all? A man--bastard or not, that truly held honor didn’t toy with a heart like a cat with a mouse. If he were intelligent he may have pulled away from her touch. Even stormed from the castle one last time to never look back. A Borrell bastard had no business with a Cerwyn lady. 

He tugged on their joined grip, his other hand finding it’s way to her side. The soft texture of her furs a welcome reprieve from the worn leather of his sword sheath. He could barely breath as chapped lips brushed against hers. Soft and pink, so unlike the harsh kingdom surrounding them. His heart rate increased, and he suddenly remembered why he held off not kissing her the moment she came into view. It was easy to forget everything when the soft body of a woman was against him. And it was especially easy when that woman was Altheda. He may have continued to kiss her for hours if he could. But only moments passed before he pulled away, his breathing fast and cheeks flushed from more than just the cold. 

“It always hurts, yet we never stop.” 

[rstcnes]

nailaofnowhere:

“Someone.” Na’ila repeated with a nod, though quirked her eyebrow and tilted her head in a cat-like way, watching him as if she was not convinced. But, that was the unspoken agreement between them – no questions, no diving into the past. Simply… friendship, and a person to talk to about nothing over a horn or two of cheap tavern ale. “Ah. Less distractions, but more danger. Are you sure that is not the reason you travel after the sun has set?”

“Yes, someone. Danger means little to someone like me.” His tone smooth. As if anyone would rob a bastard. And if they did they would discover little of value on him. Perhaps his sword was the only valuable item. But a sword was difficult to steal when its owner had learned to master it. “And what of you?” A crooked smirk tugged against cold lips. “What are you running from in the dead of night?”

[rstcnes]

captxmenta:

In spite of how she may appear, Menta wasn’t dense. The man was barely being subtle about how he was eyeing her ship and crew, but she could hardly blame him either. Their flag was feared throughout the ocean, although more so further south, so she often encountered confusion when she docked peacefully and, more importantly, alone.

“Not by the time we’re through with them.” She winked, before stepping down from the ships edge and making her way down to the docks with her men. Her words weren’t entirely false, although haggling was hardly the forte of pirates, and while Menta herself understood it’s intricacies she found threats and intimidation to be far more satisfying tactics.

As they were walking, she took a moment to establish some basic ground rules for those who were eagerly trailing behind her. “Tonight we gather supplies, legally, and rest! We set sail again at dawn! So don’t drink too much, try to cause as little damage as possible, and for the love of the gods if you bring back any salt wives at least bring back willing ones!” The speech was more than familiar by now, and hardly necessary at this point, but it was a good scare tactic for those scuttling around the docks, and every now and then there would be one who was just willing to push his luck, and Menta’s temper.

Satisfied that she was finished, the Revenge’s crew took off on their own, most heading towards the nearest tavern, while their captain turned to the man to whom she had been speaking. Resting her palm around the hilt of her sword, she sauntered towards him as she spoke.

“Are you as ready to give your name as you are unnecessary advice?”

Once more he pondered over why anyone would willingly find themselves in the Three Sisters. Since his half sister had taken their father’s seat, it seemed the small island was more of a ghost town than it had been before. Shops and stalls closed in bounties from the lack of interest or business. Most spending their free time in the taverns forgetting where it was they were drinking. But his sister would never admit to such faults, so the problem only grew. Like a sickness slowly infecting all of them.

If he’d only been born in a cluster of islands to the south, maybe he would be the one stepping off that ship. Perhaps his belly would stir with pride rather than fear at the sight of black and gold sails. He hadn’t been to the Isles enough to say he’d ever belong there, but something about it always felt superior to anything within the sisters. Their king, who wasn’t much older than he, possessing more wealth than the rest of them. Robbing the other kingdoms blind wasn’t a noble act, but it was smart enough. 

 As she approached he didn’t recognize the woman. The voice that escaped her lips held an accent he didn’t quite recognize. Not the gruffness of the north, but not quite southern either. He no longer questioned the complicated nature of the Iron Born. Why they raided some and left others alone. Or why this woman appeared to be their captain--yet the rest of the fleet wasn’t within sight. He thought to ask her such things. But the words clung to his tongue. It was no secret how quickly good nature could turn sour. And though their small island held little treasure, it would still be Rodrik to blame if they were suddenly robbed. 

“I don’t think you’ve ever negotiated with shop keepers like these.” He retorted. They were desperate. The winds grew harsher, and the snowfalls became thicker. A gruff sailor--Iron Born or not would have them shaking the way winter would. 

“My name means little in the grand scheme of things.”

[thesunderwars-rp]

Welcome to Honesty Hour !

Every Monday is honesty hour for the entire duration of the day. Please reblog this if you’d like members to send you questions on or off anon. No hate will be tolerated. Please try to answer everything in your inbox, and have fun.

( The main will typically post this at 12am. EST every Monday )

[vikingsinuppsala]

[rstcnes]

vikingsinuppsala:

Hvitserk: 4x16 “Crossings”

[rstcnes]

ladyaltheda:

When they finally stepped past the threshold, releasing them into the godswood, Altheda took in a deep breath in time with Rodrik. It took just a moment for her eye’s to adjust to the difference from candlelight to setting sunshine but she continued forwards even as her companion stopped. The castle was her home and she knew that, felt it, truly, but there was something so freeing about having nothing overhead but tree canopy and sky.

When she spun to meet Rodrik’s gaze again, she had replaced her expressionless mask with a smile. She felt better immediately, like a weight had been lifted. Her embarrassing stammering and rash decision to indulge a dangerous conversation seemed much smaller now, easier to smooth over. The crisp air invigorated her, sending goosebumps over her arms. It was just the cold that did it, she told herself. Only the cold. 

All the poetry she devoured and every minstrel’s lilting song she’d ever heard had filled her head with tales of romance, but she had always known she was born into a role to be devoid of such soft feelings. Her heart would not be considered when it came time for her to be courted, or betrothed, or wed. Passion, she knew, was reserved for heroines on the page and heroes in epic ballads… Yet Rodrik stood before her, his hair catching the light even as stray snowflakes settled atop his head and shoulders, with words that rivaled every poem and every song not just because they were real, but because they were his – to her.

The golden hour settled around them, rosy and warm and soft. Far from the prying eyes, spare the eyes of the gods, Altheda had a moment to freely consider Rodrik in the fast fading light of day, to finally see him, to trace his features from afar, just as she remembered them… But…

“It seems you’ve found ruin all your own,” she said at last, her smile fading as a smirk turned his lips upward. She stepped towards him at last, as close as she’d come when she first brushed past him in the great hall. She lifted a hand to him, pausing only a moment before eventually making delicate contact where his neck met his jaw. “Do you come with new scars?” she asked, brows furrowed as she strained to remember if the ones she could see now had always been there or if they were truly new.

He wondered if the old gods were anything like his. The seven for all its popularity held judgment. Seven gods staring down, waiting for a mistake to be conjured so that repentance would have to be made. He accepted long ago that he would never join his gods. His very existence was a sin. Rodrik would never make up for that sin by praying to them. Often forgetting the lines he should say before they reach his lips. It felt foolish to kneel and ask mythical beings in the sky for help. He would not appease them with marriage or children. And he made a living hurting and killing others. Perhaps he would have faired better in the Isles. Their god promoted drink and salt wives. Violence was desired and playing house was not. He once heard the old gods were cruel. Harsher than the seven, yet just as ironic. They had to be, for choosing a tree with tears of blood as an idol. Maybe they wouldn’t frown upon her the way his gods would. Maybe they would smile knowing a lady had betrayed everything she knew. Or there was the possibility they wouldn’t do anything at all. 

His thoughts consumed him enough that he just noticed how close she was. Enough that he could pick up the scent of her, and let it consume him. Nothing was quite as sweet without being overwhelming. He searched far and wide for something similar. Yet there wasn’t a shop keeper that could mimic it with their endless vials of perfume. Though Rodrik felt a sentiment to that. Knowing that there likely wasn’t another woman in the world that could remind him of her. None that smelled so sweet, with a touch as gentle. 

Despite that gentle touch he flinched when soft fingertips brushed his flesh. Unexpected, it took the breath right from his throat. In the privacy of the Godswood there was no longer the worry that one would find her stroking the fresh scars that painted his face. But Rodrik hadn’t prepared himself for how much he longed for her touch. Or how much he longed for her to graze more than just the scars that plagued his face. 

He reached up and grasped her hand, though quite unsure what to do with it. He found himself intertwining his fingers with her own, bringing their conjoined hands down toward his chest. How long it had been since he grasped her hand in his he could not remember. Too long it seemed. “You notice everything, don’t you?” He quipped. A slight smirk tugging at the edge of chapped lips. He only noticed the sadness in her eyes  since their last meeting. But she had lost a father since then. And while he did not weep when his own father died, he imagined it was more difficult for her to stomach than it was for him. “You bear new scars I cannot see, yet they still bring you pain. I know I’m to blame for some of them, more than I’d like to admit.”

[rstcnes]

myrcolla:

the way her storm grey hues track the other is comparable to someone seeing an act for the first time. a new singer, a dancing bear, sword swallowing and flame throwing. the queen was fascinated by the new thing to play with at her court. for now, there was no ulterior motive she only wished to probe him for useless information, to learn all about it. she did so enjoy collecting the very souls and hearts of others.

a pleasant laugh slips past her lips and she nods. whether he had no idea who she was, or simply did not care, rather than grow irritated with his lack of formalities she welcomed them. found great amusement in being treated as less than her title would suggest, and found plenty more freedom with it too. and when the truth came tumbling out? she would hopefully enjoy his awkward apology too. “it is. among many other things. i simply like to know what everyone is doing that’s all.” still myrcella smiled, and there’s a twinkle in her eyes as she runs the sash of her dress through porcelain fingers. out in the rosegardens she takes her strength from the sun, knows this is her ground and she has the upperhand here. of home turf, of knowledge, and of mistaken or unknown identity. “then of course i shan’t stop you if you wish to leave. but i do promise you that highgarden, no matter how she appears, finds great pleasure in hosting anyone no matter their status.”

she waves a nearby servant over, requests the mans ale and whatever food the kitchen thinks a man like him might eat and then sends them away. “is that all you drink in the vale? surely there must be some other taste you can stomach. i’ve never liked the taste of ale myself. i’ve always held a preference to sweet.”

Under her eye he grew uneasy. As if he were a boy once more avoiding the curious gazes of ladies at court. But in the Vale women didn’t dress or act so lavishly. In the sisters noble women reminded him more of commoners with heavier purses than much else. Their dresses drab compared to the silks he was standing beside at that moment. His mind tried to reason itself. A kingdom apparently filled with wealth should frown on a bastard more than his own. Only Dorne looked at a bastard as if it were another child. If only he were born further south. Then perhaps it wouldn’t feel strange to have her speaking to him as if he were a lord like any other. Or she wants something. And you’re the perfect trap. 

There was the hook, line and sinker. As sweet as honey when it left her lips. If you wish to leave. A test, or a tease. At the moment he couldn’t decipher what she’d rather do. Regardless it had enough of a hold on him that he decided he wouldn’t leave just yet. Not with his sister’s request like a knife against his throat. He’d have to get the wine one way or another. “I won’t leave yet.” The words more like a death sentence on his lips. “I cannot leave empty handed. So it appears you’re stuck in my company until the lord decides to show his face.” Whenever that was. “But I find it hard to believe a kingdom with this much luxury enjoys the company of lesser men. I have yet to see a lord that isn’t wrapped in silks. Where I come from even the noble men don’t wear such things.”

He catches her remark, and a smirk spreads against his lips. They ate whatever they could. With winter coming the sisters were as desperate as the others. Though he doubted that Highgarden served the fish lurking around the small island he hailed from. But the ale would be a welcome reprieve from the sweet scent of just about everything in the Reach. “It’s safer to drink than the water. And sweet things can be overwhelming. Ale does the trick without rotting one’s teeth.”

[rstcnes]

nailaofnowhere:

“It is not my cloak’s fault you have let yourself get fat,” Na’ila quipped, her shoulders relaxing ever so slightly at the sound of a familiar voice. It’d been some time since she’d last seen Rodrik – at night or during the day – and much sooner than she’d expected. “Why have you been dragged into the cold this time, hm? It cannot be simply because of the peaceful nights.” 

“I was going to say I have the height advantage, and that was why it wouldn’t fit.” He countered, a slight smirk tugging against cold lips. The face before him a welcome sight. As there were few people who greeted him with a smile anymore. “I was headed to visit someone.” His answer short. Careful not to reveal the intentions he had with another. “I figured it would be faster to travel at night, less distractions to run into.” 

[rstcnes]

What memory has scarred you for life?

HONESTY HOUR(ACCEPTING)

He’s just a boy of ten. Still naive to the world around him, and constantly asking his mother why everyone gives him strange looks. Though the only look that doesn’t perplex him is the hatred that emits from his father’s wife. He’s young enough not to understand the extent his mother’s actions. But old enough to know that they offended the other woman greatly. He doesn’t see the guard come up behind him, his eyes are too focused on the fish swimming in the water below the docks. But he feels the rush of air that leaves his lungs as he plunges into the waters below. The surface grows further and further away and his body sinks. His arms flair and tug, but he has yet to learn to swim. Always begging his father, and then getting ignored in return. He curses the man now as the breath grows weaker in his lungs. 

It isn’t until he’s gasping for air, vomiting up the sea water like a geyser that he wakes up. His clothes soaked to the bone, and his frail form shaking from the chilled seas. He barely recalls the fishermen beside him. Going on about some fancy guard shoving the boy into the water, and being unable to ignore it. If Rodrik knew enough then he would have told the fishermen to hide. For his step mother would surely find out her plan was ruined by a simple fishermen. He doesn’t want to believe one of the guards would harm him. The same guards that ruffled his hair or played swordsmen with him in the court yard just a few years before. 

But he knows better now not to trust anyone, and that the guards he once looked up to are more enemies than they ever were friends. He still can’t bring himself to go in the water. Despite being so close to the sea, and constantly aboard vessels. He knows he’s as good as dead should one ever capsize. But every time he looks to the water below he can feel the air escaping his lungs. So he avoids it, another thing ruined by his father’s wife. 

[rstcnes]

who do you think about the most? Good or bad?

HONESTY HOUR(ACCEPTING)

When it comes to the bad he thinks about his mother. Her motivations perplex him, to the point of madness. Often he spends late nights with bloodshot eyes thinking of everything she’s ever done. He wonders if she ever loved him–or the idea of him. The idea that a son could get her all she’s ever wanted. But it didn’t, and she’s another ghost whispering in his ear when sleep fails him. The good is almost always his younger sisters. He misses them the moment he leaves their side. Fearing that whenever he returns they will be married off, and away from him. It’s only a matter of time. He also thinks of Altheda. When negative thoughts threaten to consume him, he imagines her laying beside him. Blue eyes filled with humor as her head tilts back in laughter. Honey curls grazing the bare flesh of her shoulder. He’d like to hear that laughter again before fate rips them apart. His favorite sound. 

“I think about ale. A man’s best friend.”

[thesunderwars-rp]

Welcome to Honesty Hour !

Every Monday is honesty hour for the entire duration of the day. Please reblog this if you’d like members to send you questions on or off anon. No hate will be tolerated. Please try to answer everything in your inbox, and have fun.

( The main will typically post this at 12am. EST every Monday )

[rstcnes]

nailaofnowhere:

“It is quite late to be out alone. Is there not some place you belong, instead of hiding in the dark like you are planning to steal my cloak?”

“But it’s much more peaceful at night.” No one to bother him the way they did during the day. “I don’t really belong anywhere, but I’m due for home eventually.” A chuckled escaped his lips. “I would never steal that cloak either, I doubt it would fit.”

[rstcnes]

ladyaltheda:

There was black comedy in the sentiment – easier to silence with a sword – to be sure, but she was not quite able to find it. As tensions grew throughout the kingdom, she had inherited the hope from her father that any northern quarrels could be solved through diplomacy. After his death, however, Altheda feared that ideal had died with him. On another level she wasn’t ready to consider either, she knew the consequences of Rodrik wielding one over the other. She had always known which one he preferred.

As they walked alone through the familiar halls, Altheda was ever-aware of Castle Cerwyn’s walls around them and ceiling above them. The timber and stone seemed to cage them in, serving as a reminder that there was no place for them here, that they were always somehow under threat of observation. If they could only make it to the godswood, she felt as if she might be able to breathe more easily, to speak more openly, to consider what it might mean that Rodrik was even here.

She meant to reply I missed you, too, when he’d admitted it. She’d wanted to ask how else might you express those feelings? She, in a fleeting moment, even considered saying I can think of a few other things you’re good at… But she stopped herself. It never took long for her to shed all semblance of formality with him and it had only gotten easier, and worse, every time; but still she tried, sort of. Only minutes ago, when he had thought to say her name aloud, she had vowed to hold him at a safe (safe for him and safe for her) distance. But, by gods, he missed her. She couldn’t help be soften. Even though she was still reluctant to admit she might reciprocate in so many words, the warm, pink flush that flooded her cheeks gave her away.

“If you were to try,” she began slowly, conversationally, “to put those feelings into words–” she cast a quick glance towards him before fixing her gaze forward once again and angling them left down another hallway that would lead them safely among the weirwoods, “what might you have said?” Any resolve to put up an unaffected front was crumbling dangerously fast, as it always did, and Rodrik would see through her attempts, as he always did. 

He cared little for what others thought of him. Years of being looked down upon had hardened him. A lord was simply a man just as he was, the only difference was his name. It was astonishing the power a simple name could hold. While Stone had the sound of someone strong, unyielding--it was only used to mock. To ostracize those who couldn’t control their own fate. He would rather perish then pass the name onto another. For nothing was more humiliating than the look of others when they gained knowledge his surname. He was just Rodrik when he traveled. It didn’t matter where Rodrik hailed from, or who his father had been. People cared little for the origin of a commoner, and he found it best to have them assume he was such.

But she was different. He cared for every malicious gaze that fell in her direction. A victim of circumstance, for falling for someone like him. It did not sting his ego  when she didn’t reply to his advances. Let listening ears think she was dealing with another admirer that she cared little for. He knew enough from the hitch in her breath in quickness in their pace that she still desired him as much as he did her. 

Though surprise filled him at her request. That she was dare say anything while still suffocating beneath castle walls. He waited until they passed through the hall leading to the Godswood to respond. The walls slowly caving in as they drew closer to an exit. It wasn’t until he felt the chilled northern air kiss his cheeks that the bastard took a breath once more. The wind whipping through the cloak of furs that he donned. Though the fleeting moments gave him enough time to think of a response. One that was more than just a series of him fumbling blindly over words. Though if he were being true to what would have been written in a letter--surely it would be nothing but a series of the same statement over and over again. 

“I’ve never been one for trying,” He began. His feet stopped dead in their tracks, his gaze falling on her. For the first time since he arrived away from prying ears and eyes that could tear them apart as quickly as they came together. “But I would have said that it’s been hell without you. I’ve been home for a few moons, and everyday I thought to hijack a ship and sail north. There wasn’t a time where I didn’t hear a maiden laugh or eyes the shade of ice and think of you.” He fought the urge of his hands as they began to shake, balling them into fists at his sides. “The other side of my bed has grown cold in your absence, but I knew better than to request you travel south. The sisters is no place for any proper lady. Even if your mother allowed it, you’d only come back with a foul mouth and a ruined bastard in your wake.” A slight smirk tugged against his lips at the final comment. As if she didn’t already ruin him the moment they met, just as he ruined her. 

[rstcnes]

aidan-redfort:

“Well, you have me there. I cannot argue with that.” The commander had not come to Sisterton to argue with a commoner about beliefs or monarchs and he had no intention to now. The conversation had grown stale, they both felt it so they had moved on. Rarely did he actually care about another’s opinion when it came to politics, though if it was given and he agreed, perhaps he may change his mind. Peace was always on his mind, but he knew this was a child’s dream. Peace would never truly come to the Seven Kingdoms, the war to come merely laid dormant under peaceful protests of monarchs and their poor leadership. The uprisings would begin soon enough, Aidan could feel it in his bones. 

Or perhaps it was the upcoming winter that made him tense. Whatever it may be, it only made him move faster towards the town so that he may purchase the furs and leave. “Perhaps you are correct in your bold statements, Rodrik and it will be no fault but their own. Still the Reach is a profitable ally, wealth or lack of it as they possess a strong army and many followers at their side. Though I would say now the only kingdoms that seem to be fairing quite well for themselves are the Dornish and the Iron Isles.” There was something there, the two kingdoms that had aligned were now better off than the rest. What did they know that the others didn’t? How did the Dornish keep their riches while the Reach could not? Did they merely possess more money from the start? Perhaps. But his concern was with neither, seeing as he was a man of the Vale. 

The commander sighed at the ‘big’ reveal, though he had already come to the conclusion that Rodrik the ‘commoner’ was truly Rodrik Stone, the house Borrell bastard. He know he’d heard his name before, but it was not until the man continued to loom over the castle that he did catch on. Truly, he could care less if the man was a commoner or a bastard, though he felt intrigued as to why he had lied. The irony of it was, that the commander before him happened to be in love with a bastard, as he was the last person whom should be lied to about such a thing. Aidan shrugged, eyeing the stall Rodrik had gestured to. “If I may speak honestly, Rodrik, I care not about your title as a bastard, nor do I particularly care that you felt the need to lie, though I am curious as to why. I’d much rather purchase the fur than discuss your personal life, however.” He spoke bluntly, which he thought Rodrik may appreciate, though either way he’d be turning in the other direction towards the stall. “Thank you for your guidance. I appreciate it, especially since it was not something you had to do.” 

He lied more out of habit than anything. Lords often looked at commoners and bastards as one in the same. Though there was always less shame when it came to a commoner. Without the reputation that came with being the illegitimate son of a lord or king. When he first looked for work as a sell sword noblemen would scoff in his face. Look at him as if he was more of a risk than a worthy sell sword. Then there was the venomous look that never left the eyes of his father’s wife. Even in death he could still feel it in the form of her eldest daughter. It was better not to be Rodrik Stone when he could help it. Rodrik Stone was a problem. A mistake that paid for the actions of others before him. A punching bag for a jealous wife, and an eye sore for the girl who helped carry him around as a babe. But Rodrik the commoner could do whatever he pleased. Lords didn’t question when he asked to serve them. And men simply dismissed him without the judgment and confusion that came with his father’s past. Rodrik the commoner could marry if he liked--even sire children. Ones free of the chains that bound them to stone. But he was not Rodrik the commoner, and more often than not many figured out who he was. Just as the lord beside him did. Though the other may have stated he did not care for his status--and perhaps to some extend he didn’t. But the prejudice would always be there. No one looked at the bastard the way they looked at a lord. It was never that simple. 

“You would have made your way to this stall whether Rodrik Stone or just Rodrik guided you to it.” He began. Well aware his words may have been wasted on Lord Redfort. “I lie more for my benefit than yours. But as you said you do not care, and what you wished to find is right beside you now. The woman is going to over charge you--especially when she gets a good look at your retire. Most of us look like commoners--wealthy or not. It’s easy to spot someone who doesn’t hail from here.” Even his sisters wore frayed skirts that weren’t as vibrant as those found in the Reach. “Bargain with her, even if she claims not to bargain. It’s just a ploy to overcharge you. She needs the coin as much as you need the furs.”

There was an awkward tension then. Though it was likely more Rodrik’s doing. Creating his own distance between the lord and himself. He would not confess that he enjoyed pretending to be someone else. That the namesake Rodrik Stone brought him more shame than it had to his late father. “I don’t believe there’s much else to say. Unless you need assistance looking elsewhere. Or with bargaining. But I’d like to think we aren’t the only ones who negotiate for a living.”

[rstcnes]

janasnow:

“Well, then it is a good thing I have already proven in the past that my word is worth something” the blonde stated back with a slight smirk. The word of a bastard. No one truly valued it except another bastard, and those that knew her already. His following question surprised her somewhat, earning him a skeptic look from her part. “Of course not. I have a reputation to uphold, if it were to shatter I would be left without work. And a girl has got to eat”. Healing was the only thing she knew how to do well. More than just well, even. If Jana could no longer practice healing then her options would be dreadfully narrowed. Begging, whoring, Gods know what few possibilities there could be. None of which she wished to ever do.

“That is a good one” the healer assured him. Then she tilted her head towards a darker liquid in one of the vials. Cacao oil. “If she does not wish for something simple you could get her that one. It is quite useless, truth be told-” she began, earning her a frown from the seller which Jana easily ignored. Surely the seller claimed all these oils were miraculous. “-but it is more exotic. Has a lovely smell, though”. The blonde then turned to the other bastard, smiling briefly “So is this what you do with your time these days, Rodrik? Shopping for oils for your sister?”.

Her statement left a smirk on his lips. Nothing either said was worth shit in the grand scheme of things. Two mistakes that spent the rest of their lives trying to make up for it. As if his own parents ever bothered to do anything to repair the damaged reputation that bestowed upon him. Only leaving him with a chip on his shoulder and little power to his name. “Your word is worth something to me, if that’s enough for you.” It likely was. If they couldn’t trust one another who could they trust? In a world that looked down upon those with names like Snow and Stone. As if they asked for the eyesore that was being a bastard. “But you’re right. Reputation is why we’re bastards in the first place. Social status is a fickle thing, even in terms of career.”  

His gaze fell down on the vial in his grasp. His sister didn’t know enough to experiment with anything too risky. With is luck if he were to get her something more powerful the eldest would reprimand him to no end for it. Something he certainly couldn’t afford right now. “That should be enough. She enjoys pretty things, more than anything. The smell is lovelier than that of fish I imagine.” A chuckle escaped his lips. “No, despite the look of it. I’ve been working as a sellsword. It keeps my eldest sister satisfied if I disappear for a few weeks. And the pay is decent enough.” He wouldn’t admit that some of the word he had to do was vile. Hired to rid the world of men that held the same stature as he did. Sometimes protecting lords that wrinkled their noses when he looked away. Not the greatest career, but it provided coin all the same. “As you said, we have our own reputations to build. Can’t rely on our fathers to do such things.”

[rstcnes]

myrcolla:

she’s an observant woman, deceivingly so, and so it’s easy for her to see that her appearance brings disappointment to the young man. not the reaction she was used to getting, admittedly, but then perhaps he simply was not used to waiting so long in the sunshine of the reach. she had heard heat was not something one dealt with often in the vale, and even worse if one lacked patience as it would seem he did. so, for now, she would give him the benefit of the doubt. who knows how charming he might be once in the shade with a cold drink?

still, her brows raise in surprise at the quipped statement and she simply nods. as with everyone else, she would never place judgement on a person without knowing them, and that included the actions of their parents. a bastard or not, she’s not going to hold him accountable for it. not when she harbours one of her own. even if that was known by no one but three. “my apologies then. with so many faces and names to remember i struggle at the best of times to remember who is who.” still, she smiles easily, and the charm flows through her natural as breathing. you never knew who might make a useful friend.

a light laugh leaves her, head tilting to the side as if she’s examining the other for any sign that he might be the lemon tea sort. “no, i must concur that i did not believe you to be the kind of man who might take to it, but one can never be sure. however we have plenty ale or wine to offer if you’d like to rest for a while. it would seem your friend is no where to be found and it would be a shame to waste such a long journey no?”

He isn’t used to anyone charming him. Charming a bastard is a waste of time to most. More concerned with doing that to one of his sisters, and his late father before them. For what could a bastard offer nobility. Though her attempt was still flattering all the same. Even if it was only to get him to do what she desired. Whatever that may be besides sitting in the shade and sipping on wine or lemon tea. Everyone held their own hidden agendas, that much he knew. The brightest smile always hid the sharpest knife. If the woman before him was simply stalling for the lord, or just trying to further he own gain--he had yet to figure out. 

“Is that your job then, to keep track of everyone?” He quipped. Though he had no prior knowledge that he stood in the presence of a queen. If he had the scolding voice of Rodrik’s mother would have filled his head. For even he knew better than to so casually speak to royalty. “It’s a shame, I was hoping to return home tonight. Highgarden seems too formal of a castle to host a man such as myself.” Not a lie. He looked more like a commoner than a lord. But that was only the result of being one half of each. A tainted last name that boasted his status, yet the bastard came from the loins of a man who was a lord in his own right. Quite an unfair predicament. To not be one thing, but completely forbidden from being the other. He should have forced his sister to do her own bidding. Now he would have to sit through a woman’s flattery in hopes of getting the barrels of wine she desired. And trying not to believe a word of that flattery. 

“Ale will do.” He replied. The thought of sweet or spiced one an unpleasant one. Only once had he tried the drink, after a name day celebration of one of the Vale lords. Hours later he was hunched over as the bile stained his boots a pale red. Rodrik’s younger sister cackling like a hyena as he wretched for what felt like hours. It was an experience he hoped to never relive, if he could help it.