Location: The Red Keep (a public balcony overlooking the sea)Open!
The sea calls to him like a siren, like the arms of his mother. Yorland misses the uneasiness below his feet, misses the taste of salt in his mouth. He misses the sound of waves drumming against the creaking hull of his ship, now tied down like a prisoner in the bay.
Yorland eyes the horizon in silence, the blackwater sparkles like Tyroshi sapphires in the midday sun, but the smell is off-putting. Like shit, he thinks, the sea shouldn't smell like that. The Islands don't smell like that. There's no salt to be found in Kings Landing, it seems. Yorland suddenly, feels so far away from home that the melancholy of it settles deep into his bones and gives him a chill. His bad leg aches and he wishes he had listened this morning when his beloved had told him to take his cane.
He's a picture. Trussed up in his red surcoat and wearing finger bones as a belt, he no more belongs in Kings landing than any other Ironborn. Do not die so far from the sea, he remembers his father saying before his first raid, come home to me. Yorland drums his fingers on the balcony railing and thinks of Old Wyk and then, horrified, thinks of a pale haired man on Dragon back laying it to waste. He does not hear the person approach, so engrossed in his horrors, nor does he feel them at his elbow when they stop.
