#c: alecor

[ofnobilites]

They'd been sloppy. Pathetic even. Why she didn't been better at this she didn't know. Maybe Sarya had been too focused on trying to tie up her sister's loose ends, they'd never blame Ryella but that and the deal with the Tyrell's. It was all blowing up in their face because Visenya's pride was insulted. Instead of treating with the Tyrell's herself it was left to them, and then thrown away.

"Poor timing m'lord." Alecor was seeing through her, she knew that but they'd not let their cards be played until they had to be. "If you'd like an apology though I'm afraid you won't get one. I've done nothing wrong, unless leaving a tavern at the same time as another is a crime." Sarya paused, if they were stronger they'd twist out of his grasp. Physical training had never been their forte. "You may have to educate me on the ways of the North."

They'd been caught, no smallfolk wore rings like they did. Another slip, they wanted to scream. And he'd noticed them. When spoke Sarya took the chance to wrap her fingers around his forearm. "And you're Alecor Karstark." They had to know why, why one of the Karstark brothers would put themselves this close to King's Landing. "An odd place for you, one brother a kidnapper, the rest of your family traitors." He'd sworn to Corwyn Velaryon too, "If anyone sees you here you'd be imprisoned on the spot. So why?"

As she pulls her arm back, or at the least attempts to, the northern man had not budged. Blues cascade along her features, and there is a tilt of familiarity somewhere along the curve of her nose, or perhaps the shift in her gaze. Had it once reminded him another, it would be too soon to say. In fact, his effect on women seems to be of the same degree, and he does not will his grasp to tighten, only remain. "Aye? Does following others into the streets quite often give one that impression?" His tone condemning, and yet the smirk is nearly nestled into the corner of his mouth. It was faint, more so curious as his gaze glints along the curve of her snarl. "As you wish." Tongue clicks to the roof of his mouth, and the corners of his mouth twist upwards if only for a fleeting moment. "Speak." Yet he remains where he is, his hand grasped around her wrist, brows raising faintly. "Do not tell me it is now that you have nothing to say?"

His gaze follows hers, it was brief but telling. His attention now on the rings that adorned her fingers. In doing so, he brings her hand closer, his nose whiffing at the metal perfumed in herbs he could only assume were her doings. "You are a minx, and a liar."

[prodixal]

@wingsd || alecor karstark

She approaches the northman, eyes scanning over him with evident curiosity. They are almost piercing as they pass over his features, his hands, his attire. He was not of the north alone, so much could be said. Perhaps that is all that could be said...for now. "I liked your pledge, Alecor." she did not much bother with manners, with titles and last names. His name was Alecor, so that is what she shall call him. "Very...moving." she admits, hands clasped before her as she sits herself down beside him -- too close to befit a lady of her rank. "I have never met a warrior who was also a poet." head tilts as she near demands his attention. "Tell me, do the words fall so beautifully off your tongue naturally? Or did you have to learn it? Perhaps earn it?"

[prodixal]

@wingsd || alecor karstark

There were many faces in Kings Landing, which Ryella had long not seen. But one of them stood out from the crowd, and caused an emotion to swirl which she could not quite define. Guilt? Regret? Relief? These days she had felt much of everything, and much of nothing at all. As she walked through the city streets, having left the small apothecary in desperate need of herbs and gold, she was ready to return to the warm chambers of the Keep. But then she saw him near a tavern, loud and crowded, and he stood tall and grown. His features felt so familiar, though she was seeing them anew. She walked past nonetheless. Then she turned in her step, mind changed with a moment, then back again and again -- until she finally silenced her mind and proceeded to face him with utmost resolve. "Lord Karstark." she speaks his name with a bit more enthusiasm than she usually afforded her words, and the memories will take her to the first time she'd ventured far from home. Karhold. Castle atop a river, in the cold and dark North where her father had attempted to hide her away. "Last time I saw you, you were shorter -- covered in another mans blood."

[oflovrs]

He was no stranger to the lull of beauty, and how it lingered in the room. However, he spent many nights alone in travels, where taverns such of these provide him the most of his company. Little did he wish to marry, as he did to travel. In doing so, he was well taught to not burrow himself in every maiden that fair blinked in his approval. And this one, she strikes like a vipers bite, and he does not falter from its hiss, but rather his smile stretches with a quiet nod. “Yes,” he begins his voice hummed and slightly gravel in the back of his throat with the accent of the winter skies. “Liars, the lot of us.” However his tone is light, amused even. Alecor does not speak much in elegance, as someone from a title might have spoke. He as well, does not fear the point of fangs, nor does he mind when they graze his skin. Normally, when given contract, outside of taverns and warm nights as the sun sets beyond sand horizons, he was far more stoic. Far more aware. Far less .. captivated by the pleasures of wine, and women. However, tonight he allows the brush of violet eyes, and the simmer that cast with the flutter of dark lashes upon velvet cheeks.

He’ll take a long sip from the cup, before acknowledging her answer. Though, blues spark with fever, and they subtly lift along the curve of her jaw, or the draping of the dress she wore. However, he did not linger. He did not boast or ravish with his eyes, only feigning quiet interest. As if he was setting it across the table and allowing her to do with what she wished. His smile though, rises to the corners of his jaw and ticked there beneath the muscle. “Clever,” he adds with a raise of his brows. See, he had no intention of weaving a fable that would be difficult for her to untangle. In fact, he quite enjoys her closeness, the bold press of brims and how they stained flushed with the promise of dornish wine. “The dragon and the wolf unmistaken, fall in love, and in that love between two beings, shifts the balance of time. Nature bows in quest to their devotion.” His chin tilts, and there’s the faintest smirk nestled against the corner of his mouth now. “As sunlight cast itself through the morning dew of the forest, man then fall back on their swords, and word travels amongst the kingdom. The dragon was no dragon at all, but cursed to live until another creature bestows upon it love unyielded.” He leans forward a bit on his forearms, as if to tell her a secret, as his voice notches an octave lower. “And swiftly, the dragon becomes the lamb, as it lays with the wolf.” There’s a faint hum, and he leans back again, pulling wine to brims and flickering blues to violets over the rim of his cup. “And the wolf if no wolf at all—“ There’s amusement in his tone now. Lifted, light, voice a little echoed between the bottom of his cup. “He is a fox.”

So while she did guess a fraction of the story, the ending was not what was branded on stained lips, and he can’t help but smile. It’s a gentle kind of brimming, one not expected of a man who bore scars deeper than that of knives and swords for hire. “Must I?” He asks, and he sets the empty cup down now, his frame shifting so that he may look at her directly now. “That was not part of our deal, but perhaps I am willing to strike a new— your company, for my name.” Blues shift behind her only momentarily to the friend she’d mentioned briefly, who nearly buckled the moment his gaze met with hers. “Have you decided, what it is you will tell your companion of my stories?” His chin tilts a bit as his gaze is returned to her. “Or should you wish to hear more of them tonight?”

There was the faint hum of the tavern song, drifted between the low rumbles of speech and the crackling fire that sat in the midst of the stone walls to keep warm. Still, he had shed his coat, revealing most just cotton tunic beneath. He’d binds too much cloth for the south, each piece peeled off and lingered in his bought room, as the days stretched on. The days were longer, the sun stretched over valleys of sand and sea, and in the moments of early dawn, or twilight, when the stars kissed the sun— he doesn’t miss the north. That in itself should have spoke volumes for the people of the south. He’d been hired as a sword for the city, under the guise of coin. And while the coin did lead him, his adventure far and wide from his home of cold mountain tops.. it was not the only reason for travel. He did not wish to marry, he did not wish to rule. Alas, that feat was bestowed upon his eldest brother, for now. While his youngest, was traveling summers between the north and kings landing.

He’s halfway into a sip from the goblet that rests against his palms, his voice bellowing in laughter as the barkeep fills his drink. They speak of the woods, of the men that hired him that could barely wield a sword, let alone lift one above their shoulders. But his gaze, quietly, occasionally, feels the lull of a viper. The barkeep will nod his head, and blues will cast out over his shoulder, finding that of violet and brimstone. When he turns back to the keep, his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek to keep the smirk from resting beneath the twitch of his jaw. She was stunning— as women within Dorne quite are. But she was more so, unlike the women he’d met through his travels. She was the kind of beauty, that hung stars and whisked stories of old gods falling in love with mortal women. Though, he fears beauty like that will ruin a man. And he’s willingly cast himself into the sun, for a moment of orbit.

When she approaches, his chin tilts in quiet studying silence. The corners of his lips threatened to twitch upwards, but instead it was the faint amusement in his eyes as she drawls forward with a game. A brow lifts, and he finally speaks when she’s done. “Aye? Are your purse straps deep enough, my love?” There’s a faint smirk now, lingering against the corners of his mouth as his body has already warmed from the wine. Still, he’s in good standing. “Though perhaps,” she leans forward and his eyes drawl down to take her in as she does so. “I am incredibly skilled with the art of tongue.” He pulls back, his hands drumming a bit on the wood before he decides to play. “Along the mountaintops, there was a wolf, smallest of the pack. His fur was auburn, and touched by the sun unlike his brothers, whose coats blend seamlessly into the harsh winters.” Blues shift to her now as he speaks, leaning against the wood as he spoke with his hands, one still holding the cup. “One summer, the wolf grew tired of the cold. And he ventures out into the world, where he blends amongst the forest and the animals that lived within it. Vast and unyielding. Until, he’s met with a dragon.” His chin tilts, his gaze shifting along the curve of dainty collarbones, before back to her. “Now this dragon, she bears no teeth nor claw, and she lingers in the forest amongst the other creatures, saddled by man and locked away at night. The wolf, smallest of his pack, slips through the bars of her cage.” It’s then when he drawls back. “What becomes of the wolf, Lady Dayne?” Yes, he knew of her— that part he’d kept out, kept hidden between a silver tongue and a story of strangers. But the keep had spilled her name, only moments before her arrival to his side.

[prodixal]

@wingsd | alecor karstark

Rickon had not seen his brother since the man departed for Dorne -- which now seemed like a lifetime ago. And while two kept in touch via ravens, letters could never replace the rawness of real life connection. He'd missed Alecor dearly, having always looked up to him as both a man and a fighter. And while the younger Karstark could never quite understand what pushed the other to leave home and venture into southern sands -- he grew to appreciate all the many lessons and stories sent to him along the way.

Now, as he arrived to Kings Landing, before he could even bother to change into more appropriate attire, or take a much needed bath -- he followed the flags of house Dayne to seek out a Karstark.

"Brother!" he exclaims, feeling like a child as he stepped up to him throwing hands around his neck to pull him into a much needed embrace. "It is so good to see you! Are you standing duty? Or could Lady Dayne spare you, so that we might catch up over a bottle of northern ale. I did recall to bring some down -- just for you."

[prodixal]

@wingsd || alecor karstark. contd.

"Alright, alright, I get it. I've curls and red hair, you need not extend that jest every time we meet. Soon enough I will be taken prisoner so they may harvest my goods for a new line of boots and you'll have no one but yourself to blame." he joked back, fist folded as it hit the others shoulder. They were roughly the same height now, though in spite his brothers comments regarding his size, Rickon was still a boy in comparison. Less rough, less broad. "Aye they fed me well, had more visitors in prison than I do in Karhold. Perhaps I will be doing it again." lips curved into a cheeky smile. "That is unless you plan on returning soon brother, wait no... my lord." he curtsies, mockingly. "Mother is keen to meet the grandkids. She fears another winter will come before you do."

[prodixal]

"Lord Karstark." he speaks the name in an almost delighted tone. Varyn couldn't quite place the distaste behind the others eyes, after all, he had given permission to his lady wife to continue making her guard happy. He did not seem happy. -- Perhaps the both of them took their honour in much too high a regard. What an awfully sad and miserable way to live. Then again, Northerners in particular seemed to relish every opportunity to needlessly suffer for bullshit higher principles. "Just as well." he gives up on the idea of seeking his son out, and shifts his focus. "Perhaps it is about time you and I should grab a drink. You can tell me more of this...pesky little contract that binds you to my lady wife."

location, outside sometime near sunset. closed, @prodixal

"Aye, if you're looking for your son, he has already been taken for rest." He's sitting on a stone wall, his sword in hand as he cleans what was left from the training yard from it. His gaze shifts upwards, and there was sourness on his breath, but something else in his eyes. Hatred, maybe? Envy? It was difficult to tell.

[prodixal]

Rhaena was not only the lover of love. She was the lover of beauty. And as deep blue eyes of the northern man fill with a sense of joy, and a smirk pushes into his lips, she will feel herself glad for inspiring such a beauty to transpire. He was a sight to behold, truly. Tall and rough with a sweet gentleness. He was confident, yet calm -- and she could sense he may have also been somewhat, wounded. But it was only an assumption, truly. She liked to let herself assume things in order to fill the gaps her brain could not yet grasp. At times she was right, at others not so much but...it rarely mattered in the end. No one ever stayed, no one ever would. "No, sweet wolf, not all men." she says then. "Some men are closer to the gods than others. I do not know what it is that makes them so favoured, only that such uniqueness must feel terribly...lonely." after all, if there was no one around to truly understand ones nature -- they would ultimately feel so very unseen, overlooked, misunderstood, unappreciated...and each of those would simply be a branch of loneliness. "How special are you?" eyes demanding of his, as her hand slips off his shoulder down to his chest. The words translate beneath the risen brows 'how lonely are you?'. She will laugh then, perhaps sweeter than she normally would, at the mental image of his runaway bride. "Now that is a story I should wish to hear more of, my dear poet. There are so very many reasons why one would choose death over marriage." smile is still on but she is more herself now, the flirtation mellowing as her playfulness assumes. "I like you dearly and yet, if it was forced upon me to marry you I would not be so approachable, I assure you." there's a beat, when her eyes find him again and she beams. "Or perhaps I would. You eyes are just so...blue." He is closer now, so close as his hand traces barely up her wrists. Shivers pass her like a cold dash of wind, and it appears she is not the only one in need of forgetting. Rhaena could not tell what he was running from, or running towards -- only that she would be happy to be a stop along the way. -- Her fingers will trace up to the string hanging off his collar, pulling at it gently as her violet eyes focus on the confident gaze and lips twitch at the words. "No, you do not bore me." she says, and his words amuse her. "Titles come and go, but names? Names are written across our minds, our hearts. Grabbing attention, holding it...keeping it. Tell me Alecor..." her voice drops to a near whisper, ears burning at the thought. "When you are in bed with a woman, does it bring you more pleasure to be called by your title...or your name? Which forms better into a scream?" With his finger at her chin now, she will follow the nudge and focus on his gaze. "Ember." she'll repeat and something around her heart will swell and warm. Then a cheeky spark will pass her eyes as she's leaned in at the tips of her toes, and she'll whisper "Show me how the winter comes."

The baited breath was not lost on him, the way she held it with her gaze without so much as realizing it. Though the smirk was left evident on his features, pursing lips to swallow it. It was easy to agree with her, men were often speaking of honor and loyalty and yet it was given away to the first glance of war, women, or wine. Always one of the three. "Most, but you do not believe in all?" His chin tilts at the question, because it signaled that in spite of the soil being trampled with men that were left without much other than their own glory, that she believed others lived that were not. At the mentions of travels, he nods. "I've spent time through the Seven Kingdoms. When the coin was right for hire." Though, he yearns for the cold again. He yearns for a time where the battle around him wasn't with only himself, when his brother was happy and blissful without this- looming uncertainty. "Though, I must say- it was likely the vision of my betrothed, in an attempt to jump the garden wall of Kings Landing, ready to face the drowning waters than be wed." There's a light chuckle, the memory surfacing a smile, genuine in nature. The next is her spiteful of her title, and he steps forward, pushing from the wall and the distance were closer. In truth, his mind needed much of a distraction. His heart, needed much of a distraction from it's bleeding. "I do not bore you." He speaks boldly now, eyes shifting down to her features, where he captures her in mountained blues. "Is it not in right to do so?" The tone shift, different, lower. "Seeing as we will lose them, soon enough?" He knew of this, he knew of it the moment he swore his sword to that against the crown. And he had done so, if only to tease her. "Rhaena," he repeats. "I quite enjoy your name, as it is." Though, his hand shifts as she does, trailing up the course of her wrist with barely a touch. "You are made of infernos it seems, that much is true. Perhaps a proper call for you is Ember." Her touch was warm, it reminded him of the sun, and falling stars. His gaze shifts down to the curve of her mouth, and back to violets. She was closer now, the scent of honey and cinnamon, filling his senses with unfamiliarity. She did not smell of Dornish flowers, but yet it enticed him still. "That is the thing of snow, it melts." Index shifts her chin upward to meet his gaze, for the lack of distance between them and to encourage her closer. "Though it will fall it again. You can not stop the winter from coming, no matter how hot one burns."

[prodixal]

His laugh awakens within her a warmth, and she cares not that it shows as she beams at the mere sight of him. "Most men are full of shit to begin with." she adds confidently, though she had loved men nonetheless. She had loved people. Rhaena fell in love daily, easily, constantly. Even if it was only fleeting, only for the moment. Surely it was better to love in passing, then not at all. What kind of sad life would that be? "Alas, I imagine it is hard to blame a man, taking his final breaths in the face of death -- for losing control of his bowels, or his bladder." it was a fact, a fact she pondered sometimes. She wondered what it must have felt like -- knowing death was coming, seeing it as it stared back, the fear loss, the sting of hoping it was all but a dream. She will shake her head then, as if to rid herself of such a thought, and a smile will carve into her lips once more. "You seem well travelled." she responds to the mention of bards and travels, it was odd for a northman to be such. They seemed to mostly congregate where they sprouted from. Like godswood trees. Unmovable, with deep roots. And yet. "What inspired you to venture out, Alecor?" brows raise, but a smirk is still on as she says playfully, "And do not call me a lady, it is awfully irritating these days..." her hand is offered to his now, truly she just wanted a touch. "Rhaena. But you can call me Rhae...a poet can call me however he so pleases. Except by the formalities, do not bore me so..." Breath is caught in her lungs as he speaks, as his demeanour assumes a sort of irresistible confidence. Her brows rise and mouth falls gently open as she forgets herself for a brief moment. With her head spinning only lightly so, she will finally pull herself together as she's met with a question. Her fingers will trace up his collar, followed by her eyes, as a gentle shrug passes her shoulders "I do not know, Alecor." she says, lilac eyes finding the blue in his once again. "I fear for the snow you see, it might just...melt away beneath my touch."

He laughs, and it's bore from his chest as the chuckle catches him off guard. It has been so long, since another had made him laugh, truly. It felt like they had traveled far since Dorne, and had never one thought, one of northern blood- should miss the sun. His skin was still kissed of it, in more ways than he could allow himself to wonder on. Still, he laughs and it feels- comfortable. "Aye, if they're full of shit to begin with." His native tongue heavy in his words, though his eyes captured hers and there's a light shrug of shoulders, shifting so that now he leans against stone wall, his full attention to the silver misted dragon. "Perhaps too many of bards I've spent traveling with. Their stories fall on twisted tongues, and yet we can not help but to listen." He doesn't dwell on it, he had been a storyteller, he always had been. He'd painted pictures while others spent their lives within a moment, and how he yearned to be that way- when his stories led him to disbelief, to lifetimes of searching for happy endings. Rewrite it, he'd thought. Rewrite it again. Is it really worth listening, if it had not made you feel? How many times would his heart reverse the ending?

His name is what drawls him to her again, blues casting along her frame. She spoke in such common tongue, such pleasantries he had also yearned for since leaving for Kings Landing. He was drawn it seemed, to women who spoke of him as a man, rather than a Lord, rather than merely a sword. Though, it seems as if that title would soon fall to the blade, as those around him would find themselves. He cared not for the title, in truth. It would have only served him, when his heart had beat for a babe not of his blood. It did not matter now, none of it were his to claim. So what good was it? The title of a man, with nowhere to pass it? "Perhaps." He finally answers. "My lady, if the time called for it. And if not, I am nothing but fast to learn. For the woman whom demands it." The title rolls off his tongue as a tease, somewhere smirked between brims and a sideways glance, but he observes her, the warmth that pools from her eyes and the laugh that pulls his attention from his own thoughts, as deadly as it were. "But you must tell me first.."

"How do you fare in the cold?"

[prodixal]

"And whose beauty has left you starving, my lord?" her words are playful, but latch onto the possible allude behind his own. She had always been too curious, too forward with her questions -- and yet she found people longing for them, for someone to care enough to ask, to see. Alecors reassurance eases her breath, and a gentle laugh falls from parted lips. "Seems your brother has yet to see the true face of marriage. He should hardly want it then." a presumptuous thought, dark thought -- she feels odd leaving it there. "Or perhaps he is right to desire it so young, while the mirage of it is still sweet and uncorrupted." Another laugh follows his words, and there is a gentle but soothing sting of guilt within. "You are a fair man, lord Karstark." Her eyes are playful at the question, and she will sit herself down beside him. "Suppose I would start by getting you a drink." she does so with a simple hand gesture at the waitress close to her side. Then focus shifts back to him. "Then, I would attempt to redeem myself. Perhaps through a mix of flattery and poorly-crafted excuses. -- It would work too, I assure you."

There's a reflection of a smile on her face, and he leans into that. It had been a shit pitiful few days, the least he could do is relieve the ache in his shoulders with their jest. He remembers the day quite well, he had not been used to the heat of the city by then, much too young to have traveled very far yet. And still, spent his day in the training court, where the man's blood had stained his clothes- and the white collar shirt their mother had picked. It felt like lifetimes away, written somewhere on the pages of a book, let alone memory. "Better to be pricked on beauty, than to stand and be starved on the memory of simply watching."

There's a small fall of his shoulders. "I do not. I fear I was too young for marriage, unlike my brother who yearns for the sake of nothing more." Fingertips tapped on the iron mug. "Though should you risk the fate of drowning, rather than my company yet again tonight- perhaps I may be a bit sour with you in the morn coming." "Had I held it against you, what is it you would say to waver my mind?"

[prodixal]

His accent is thick with north. Rhaena quite liked that. The northmen had ice in their veins, and she burned too hot, too dragon-like. Perhaps a bit of ice could provide some much needed relief. Rhaena craved something new, something different, something exciting. And perhaps the coolness of a northern man would prove to be exactly that. "Yes, a poet." she will confirm, and as his arms return to the sword she'll imagine herself in its place. She was a jealous woman to be sure, but she could not recall ever being quite so jealous of a sword before. Once he is finished making sweet love to it, and his eyes are finally on her, a smile creeps into full cheeks and she will raise her brows in wonder. "Is that so? I have heard most soldiers shit themselves in their last moments, pleading for dear life --" perhaps such a thought boded better. "...does not sound very poetic to me and yet, you have made is so with a single sentence." impressive, she was right about him, and it pleased her. Her eyes widen at the sudden question, chuckle catching in her throat as he leans forward. She does not so much as blink, he was fascinating...mesmerising, and he had read her oh so well. "Now Alecor..." she will speak his name, pushing him backwards with but a tip of her index finger. "Your senses serve you well." she says, finally pulling her gaze away. "I have yet to learn which one I prefer, you see, I have not had the fortune of encountering someone capable of providing both." she pauses, eyes steady and curios. "Are you? Capable of both?"

This one was smaller than he'd imagined her. A dragon of the sea, or if the rumors were true. Painted her as tall, woven, a head that could handle the heart of her sister. He knew the feeling a bit too well, should he ever admit that. Still, he'd imagined her-- taller. "Aye, a poet?" He nearly laughed, turning his back on her only to continue cleaning the sword he'd used just earlier that day. If he were honest, he'd much preferred the sands of Dorne, to the shores of Driftmark. Alas, that hadn't mattered, not anymore. A brow raises, as he gives her a glance over his shoulder. As she continues he stops, tossing the cloth to the wood and now turning to face her, straightened, his chin tilted down ever so slightly to make up for the adjacent difference in eye level. And yet, she held it none the less. He thinks back, his father had been a good man. A good husband. Loyal, in the way the North prevailed. He loved his mother, more than the light within days. "In their last moments, a solider is far more a poet than any bard I've yet to meet."

"Do you wish for me to teach you?" The corners of his mouth is nearly a smirk, brows raising just a hair. And then he leans forward, down so that she may hear him properly. "I sense you prefer lashing, to that of poetry."

[prodixal]

As he leans in, so does she -- instinctively. Then her eyes widen ever so slightly and a quick, genuine laugh escapes her lips. She had almost forgotten the sound of it, the feel of it. Warmth wrapped around her chest, sudden and gentle. and it soothed her. "There is always thorns in my way, my lord." the memory is sweet, yet sour at the same time. What an odd way to feel, over a simple thought. "Makes it hard to see the roses...when you're bleeding."

She had not managed to climb over that wall, in the end. Yet she had escaped him all the same. Pity. Perhaps she would have been happier in a prison of his love, than she had been in the prison of her grief. She had missed entirely, the rose she had now known him to be.

"Tell me you do not hold it against me."

Much time has been spent away from his contract in the following days. He need not spend his morn and noons, watching as the Lady Ashara consummate her marriage to the people. Had they thought they were foolish? That they would not notice? His reputation had been scandal for the mere closeness he had followed her through, let alone others thinking she were married as he did so. Loyalty was born into him. His values remained high, especially in the regards to marriage. The whispers brought shame, but it did not matter to the torn beating of his heart, either. It was why he was here, it was easier to sleep in the tavern these nights, than it was the keep. His contract to Dorne was seen to end now, and Ashara had made her choice. It was not him. Now, he lingered. Feeling the presence of the tavern shift, as he glances down unto the reflection of the mug sat before him. Dark raven hair, eyes that still held heavy but full of emotion he could never quite place. Beauty, unlike any he had seen before that raveled in warmth, spark enough to start the quietness of a wildfire. He watches as she begins, then stop, then begins again. His back turned, but the smirk lingering on the corner of mouths. As she finally decides on approaching, he turns to the lilt in her voice. Bestowed upon her, for likely the first time today for him, was a smile. "Aye, and the last time I saw you-" He allows the words to hum, the smile nearly reaching his eyes as he leans in to tell her a secret she'd already known. "You were attempting to climb the gardens wall in escape." "Your dress," His eyes shift down to what she was wearing now, then back again. "Caught on the rose thorns."

[prodixal]

There were times Rickon would have sworn he knew his brothers as well as the back of his own hand. Yet, such times were long gone -- for when he looked at them now, with all the love and fondness they were due -- he could see they were strangers with history shared. Thorian thrived within the web of Kings Landing, and Alecor beamed with the southern glow most northerners could only dream of getting used to. And while he had been proud of both his brothers, for what they had achieved, for what they had the courage to chase -- there was perhaps a small part of him that also resented them for leaving. And for leaving him behind. He was only fifteen when the winter came, and now he was a man who felt much too isolated. All he had was the North.

A warm smile that was sure to put Dornish sun to shame, spread across the boys lips as his brothers sturdy hand reached for him and he felt like a child again, longing for the others approval. "Aye, brother, the curls are gone with the winter. Much like the godswood leaves, I thought it best to start anew." truthfully, the cold and the dryness made his curls impossible to maintain. But he should laugh all the same. "You should forgive me throwing them away, I assumed your feet would grow thick and calloused in the southern sands. Do not tell me you're truly in need of boots in that heat?" for the life of him Rickon could not understand his brothers affinity for the place. "How did you get used to the southern weather, brother? Kings Landing alone is all but driving me mad." He falls into step with the other.

"Do not question matters by which I acquire things, I assure you it is best left unknown." he enters his own new chambers, where the servants were now unpacking his things for what is to be a very short trip. How utterly unnecessary. "Have you come upon Thorian yet?"

There was a special warmth in his heart that came with his family, especially his younger brother. He had always felt this urge of protection, this need to keep his blood within grasp, away from the sharpened tools of the world. Every scar he had, he'd bear so the other had not. And perhaps, that too, was not a way to live. He'd watched as his brother grow from a boy to a man, he should not fare way into his personal affairs. Despite this, part of him is anew now. Part of him, was nestled under the sun and sand in Dorne. How the sweat once dripped down the nape of his neck, fathomed to believe he'd ever get used to it's heat. Now, the warmth that burrowed itself deep in his chest at the mere glance of another, was enough to smite him brighter than any suns.. and he loathes it. How easy it was, to feel. His brother's embrace is tight, and he pulls back only to rest a hand on his shoulder with a gentle shake. Brows furrowed, and he's scoffed out a laugh. "What happened?" He's smacking his palm on the base of his brother's skull, giving it a shake over the freshly cut surface. "Have you finally headed my letters? Taken my advice? Woven those voluminous locks of yours fresh unto a pair of boots for my travels?" Another laugh bellows. "Surely you had enough?" At the mention of ale, and Lady Dayne, he wraps his arm around the other's shoulder, leading them away, and avoiding the topic of his Lady despite it being the sweetness on his tongue, or the thought beneath his pillow. "Aye, what tavern did you knick it from?"