intothewylde

[intothewylde]

morgan stepped beneath the silken canopy like he’d been drawn by a thread, the warmth of the afternoon sun trailing behind him. his eyes caught ellie’s first, not the diagrams or the flushed face of lord duram, and in that glance, he understood the whole story. same look she used to give when a dungeon master fudged the odds. same fire. same poise.

he strolled up beside her, hands clasped loosely behind his back, eyes flicking over the papers. “i might not wear chains,” he said, tone easy but deliberate, “but house wylde keeps a rather large collection of texts on engineering and motion. old treatises, updated commentaries. a few of them even bear my handwriting.”

he looked up at duram now, not unkind, but not deferential either. “lord duram, if you’re basing your model on ulwyne’s second edition, you’ll be missing drag. if it’s the fourth, you’ll find it in the marginalia. ellie’s right, as usual.”

duram’s mouth opened, but no rebuttal came. instead, he gave a stiff nod, muttered something about double-checking figures, and retreated through the canopy with as much dignity as he could gather. morgan waited until his footsteps faded.

“you know,” he said lightly, stepping closer to her, “i don’t expect a thank-you, but i’d accept one in the form of a lemon tart.”

he glanced at the parchment, then at her, an amused glint in his eye. “he wasn’t really listening, you know. not to the numbers. but you got him anyway.” he reached out, gently tapped the edge of one diagram. “i've seen you explain trickier things to a table full of half-drunk knights rolling dice and pretending to be lizardfolk. he didn’t stand a chance.”

closed starter for @intothewylde where & when: at the verdant concord. ellie is currently debating a math principle with another lord

the verdant concord was a living maze of minds in motion—ideas blooming in every pavilion, philosophy carried on perfumed breezes, ink and inspiration dripping from parchment and tongues alike. ellie had found herself tucked beneath a silken canopy lined with gilded diagrams, where geometric theories were being shared and debated. she had hoped for a thoughtful discussion. instead, she was halfway through a headache.

“no, my lord, you’re forgetting to account for rotational momentum. your values ignore torque completely,” ellie said evenly, though her jaw tightened as the man—lord duram of house whatever—waived his hand dismissively as though her words were mere decoration.

“i assure you, my dear, the method has been tested. you may have misread the chart,” he said with the kind of smile that made her fingers itch to hurl his inkpot at him.

ellie straightened, folding her hands neatly in front of her to keep them busy. “i read the chart quite well. that particular equation was derived from maester ulwyne’s work on counterweight mechanisms—only, ulwyne’s theorem included atmospheric drag. yours doesn’t.”

she saw the moment his confidence cracked—but still, he pressed on, refusing to concede the point. ellie had debated men like this before. she knew the pattern. she could beat him. the numbers were on her side.

but it seemed like divine intervention came in to save her as she felt the presence of her friend by her side. one of the seven quills. he would know she was righ, he always had.

she glanced toward him, just briefly. but her look was clear as day. the other lord was most likely arguing with her over something so simple probably for the fact she was a woman

ellie turned back to lord duram, her voice softer, but still razor-sharp. “would you care to wager a few silver stags on who’s read more treatises on rotational force? or shall we let someone else decide?” her eyes flicked to morgan now, at least happy there would be someone in her corner. “any chance you are familiar?”

[intothewylde]

morgan watched the coin settle, the clatter of metal against wood somehow louder than the rest of the tavern’s din. he rubbed his thumb along the edge of his card, eyes steady, jaw set.

“i’m not so sure i had better sense to begin with,” he said dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching with something close to a smile. “but what little i do have tends to keep me out of places like this.”

he shifted again, less tense now, though the noise still grated, too much laughter, too many flickering lights, the smell of wine too sweet and too thick in the air. his gaze drifted across the room, catching glimpses of men in loud conversation, women with painted lips leaning too close to eager ears. all of it performed. aemon fit here, as easily as a blade into a sheath. morgan, on the other hand, felt like iron bent in the wrong direction.

still, he didn’t stand. instead, he looked back down at the table and tapped once. “deal me in.” his voice was even, firm. not resigned, exactly—just settled. if he was going to be here, he might as well make use of the time.

“but i’m not making a show of it,” he added. “i’ll leave the flashing coins and clever remarks to you.”

he glanced at aemon again, this time less guarded. “you always did know how to make a room yours,” he said, almost thoughtfully. “even when it wasn’t.”

he picked up the cards when they came, turning them in his hand without flourish. “i’ll play,” he repeated. “only because you asked. not because i believe in luck.”

his eyes returned to the table, his fingers now still. “and if we do share that drink, i want it by a quiet fire. not in all this noise.”

aemon huffed out a laugh, merely casting a quick glance in morgan's direction whilst he fiddled with the edge of the table. "you say that like your better sense is something precious," he smirked. "it's no rarity, morgan. i think you can stand to lose it every now and again."

that was all he would offer on the matter, instead settling back into his seat and rolling a coin between his fingers with practiced ease. it was a sharp contrast - where morgan was a fish out of water here, aemon was utterly in his element, so comfortable that he could probably put his feet up on the table without it looking improper or out of place. he had always thrived in places like this, where a keen eye and a sharp tongue was worth more than luck.

on the other hand, morgan bore the pained expression of a man just waiting for something to go wrong. it was all over him - the way his shoulders tensed and his fingers drummed against the table. it was enough to send a pang of guilt through aemon, and the look of amusement in his violet eyes softened just a fraction.

"don't be so sure i'll win," he leaned forward to pluck his cards from the table, glancing at them quickly before placing them face down, his expression impassive. "it's all luck, isn't it? perhaps today will be the day mine runs out." he tapped the table, fingers making a light sound on the wood. "come on, are we dealing you in, or are you content to remain an observer?"

his head tilted, the look he gave morgan appraising. "you're right, you don't," he conceded, before gesturing around the room with his bejewelled hand. "but does that matter? half the men in this room are pretending at something. may as well have a little fun while you're here." he flicked his coin onto the table, where it spun on its side before clattering to a stop.

[intothewylde]

morgan sat across from jaehaerys, the silence between them thick with unspoken thought. the king’s goblet rested untouched in his grasp, his fingers lax around the stem, his mind still working through the weight of their conversation. the stormlords were proud, stubborn men—morgan knew it as well as jaehaerys did. a strong hand alone would not be enough to keep them in line. it would have to be earned.

"then give them cause to stand with you," he said. "not just in war, but in rule."

he leaned forward slightly, the firelight casting deep shadows across his face. "go to them. not as a king issuing decrees from afar, but as a man who would understand those he asks to follow him. ride through the stormlands. see the men, speak to them—not just the lords in their halls, but the ones who hold the swords, the ones who keep the fields, who pay the taxes that fill your coffers."

his fingers tapped once against the arm of his chair. "you ask for loyalty, for obedience, for coin. give them something in return. opportunity. a reason to believe that what they give will not be taken for nothing."

he held jaehaerys' gaze. "open new roads, fortify their keeps, give their sons a place in your guard, their captains a voice in your war councils. let them earn the wages to pay what you ask, rather than asking for what little they have."

his voice did not rise, did not press. it was a simple truth. "you know well, a king does not rule byj words alone. he rules by the strength of those who stand behind him. show them that you do not ask for their service lightly, that you do not take their steel or their coin without cost to yourself."

a pause, firm but not unkind. "do this, and you will have more than their taxes. you will have their loyalty. and that is worth more than all the gold in your vaults."

Jaehaerys watched his friend as he spoke, the firelight catching in Morgan’s eyes, turning them gold in the dim chamber. The words settled between them, heavy but honest. Morgan had never been one to embellish or flatter—his words always carried purpose, and that, more than anything, made Jaehaerys listen.

A slow breath left him, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “You have never been one to waste words,” he said, his voice quieter now, the edge of frustration dulling in the face of Morgan’s steadiness. “I have always valued that about you.”

His fingers loosened around the goblet, though he did not drink. Instead, he let his gaze drift, as if weighing what had been said. He knew the truth of Morgan’s words. The Stormlords were proud, stubborn men, and they would not be led like sheep. But he was not asking them to be sheep.

“I have never meant to drown them out,” Jaehaerys admitted, finally meeting Morgan’s gaze again. “Nor do I intend to now. But ruling is not a matter of listening alone—it is action, it is foresight. It is making the choices others will not.” His lips pressed together for a moment before he continued. “And there are many voices now, Morgan. You know that as well as I do. They speak of coin, of alliances, of what must be done to keep this realm from falling into the ruin my grandfather fought to prevent.”

His expression shifted then, something more familiar, something softer—though only for a breath. “But I have never forgotten who stood at my side when I had nothing but a claim and a sword.” He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “And I was always better with the sword than the claim.”

He let the moment settle, let the flicker of warmth remain before his voice turned steady once more. “I will not let them drown you out, Morgan. Or your men. The Stormlands have always been my shield, and I will not let them rust.”

A pause. A flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “But tell me, then. What would you have me do?”

[intothewylde]

morgan glanced around the room, uncomfortable with the noise, the smoke, the too-bright lights. it all felt wrong—too much movement, too many people, all of it buzzing around him like an insect’s wings. he shifted in his seat, his fingers wrapping and unwrapping around the edge of the table, trying to distract himself from the fluttering in his chest.

“you have a way of making a man forget his better sense, aemon,” he said, settling into his chair with a quiet sigh. his gaze now focusing on the dealer’s hands as they shuffled the deck. he wasn’t good at deflecting, but he did his best to keep his tone neutral.

he studied aemon for a moment, the smooth movements of his rings, the ease with which he slipped into the rhythm of this place. morgan wasn’t one for games of chance, but he knew the value of a wager. and in truth, he could appreciate a man who wasn’t afraid to gamble with his luck.

“one round, eh?” he said quietly, his fingers tapping on the wood of the table in an unsteady rhythm. “you’ll win, I suppose.” his voice was dry, but there was a hint of resignation beneath it. he wasn’t confident in these games, never had been.

he glanced up, catching a fleeting glimpse of aemon’s smirk, before his eyes quickly dropped again. “but if I end up buyin’ that drink... I’ll just call it a good reminder that I don’t belong here.”

morgan sighed inwardly, trying to push the unease down. a good drink was all he wanted after this. something simple, something quiet.

closed starter for @intothewylde

aemon knew well that this scene, a gambling den tucked behind a wine-sellers storeroom on the street of sisters, was not morgan's idea of a good time. that had been by design. he had no doubt that morgan would drag him out to the kingswood before returning to the stormlands, and so, for tonight, he could indulge aemon in this.

it was no second-rate affair, one of the more upmarket establishments in the city. even the girls serving wine were dressed in fine silks and finer jewels. smoke curled thick above tables light with candlelight, the quiet chatter punctuated with the clatter of dice on tables, and aemon loved it.

"don't look at me like that, morgan," he shot morgan a look from the corner of violet eyes, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. "it isn't like i forced you in here. and even if i did, you didn't fight very hard, did you?" he had spotted two empty chairs at a table, where the dealer was beginning to shuffle the deck for another round. he led morgan over, dropping into one of the seats and gesturing for the two of them to be dealt in.

"just one round, yes? if i win, you can buy me a drink. and if i lose, then i'll buy you one. good man." he gave morgan no space to answer. aemon's rings caught the candlelight as he placed his coins on the table, already at ease in his surroundings.

[intothewylde]

morgan’s mouth curled into an amused smirk at norbie’s invitation, though not necessarily a true offer, he didn’t refuse outright. “gulltown, is it?” he mused, his voice edged with quiet amusement. “i suppose there’s merit in seeing it with my own eyes. if only to remind myself why i prefer to be elsewhere.” there was no cruelty in his words, only a wry honesty.

the forest around them held a stillness that morgan found more familiar than any city’s pulse. here, the air moved differently, untouched by the press of bodies and the weight of stone walls. yet he understood norbie’s attachment to gulltown, the way a man could come to love the place that shaped him. morgan supposed he felt much the same about the stormlands, though his love was not for the streets of storm’s end but for the cliffs and sea, the raw, untamed nature of his home.

his gaze followed norbie’s upward, watching as the sunlight wove through the canopy, dappling the ground in shifting patterns. “harmony’s a fickle thing,” morgan remarked after a moment, returning to their earlier conversation. “braavos finds balance because it must. like gulltown, like any place where men gather close. it’s necessity, not peace.” he glanced at norbie, considering him. “but there’s a beauty to that, i’ll grant you.”

norbie’s next words, that quiet musing on duty and self, gave morgan pause. he turned the thought over in his mind before answering, even if one wasn't warranted. “if not duty, something else would define us,” he said finally. “we aren’t made to drift aimless.” he glanced at the bow in norbie’s hand, at the way his fingers traced the strap of his quiver. “you’d still find your way to the heart of things, i think. just as i’d find my way back to places like this.”

he let the silence settle between them then, listening as the birds carried on their endless conversations in the branches above. after a while, he let out a quiet exhale and added, almost as an afterthought, “but it’s worth wondering. who we’d be, unbound.”

norbie hummed, brows scrunching together as he considered morgan's words on braavos. "i suspect you're right," he conceded. "perhaps harmony is the wrong word for it. and yet, they have found a way to make all those building fit alongside each other regardless, with that great titan looking over them. the idea of it is fascinating." he made a mental note to obtain a map of the city, so he could examine the urban sprawl. it would not be the same as seeing it with his own eyes, but it might help him visualise it.

his thumb brushed idly over the leather strap across his chest, keeping the quiver of arrows secure against his back. he'd yet to draw one, or to so much as raise the bow he held loosely at his side. he doubted he would before the day was done, but one did not come to a hunt without weaponry. "i would invite you to visit gulltown and experience that rhythm for yourself, if i thought you'd take any enjoyment in it," he chuckled. he did not know morgan wylde well, but he knew the lord's reputation well enough to know that he was a man who preferred nature's quiet to the city's bustle. for norbie, it was a different matter entirely. morgan was right - he often found himself yearning for it when he was away from home. it was his city, and he loved it dearly.

it wasn't that he could not appreciate the beauty of the forest, too, it was simply that norbie knew this was not his element. he considered himself to be a modern man, and here amongst the trees, they were in a place that had yet to be touched by civilisation. there was a stillness to the woods, a sense that they could be transported to any era, and simply not notice until the time came to emerge.

"we all need a reminder to take notice of ourself from time to time," h mused, gaze lifting to where the sunlight trickled through the canopy. "or if not ourselves, the birds at least." he let the silence grow between them for the moment, once again focusing on the calls of the birds. "who would we be if duty did not define us?" he asked, the question more rhetorical than one that demanded an answer.

[intothewylde]

morgan’s eyes remained locked on the fire, the shadows flickering across his face as his mind churned through the weight of brandon’s suggestion. the idea of refusing the taxes had been a distant thought, but now, with brandon’s words lingering in the air, it started to take root.

he leaned forward slightly, his voice low but firm. “a stand, you say?” his eyes narrowed as he thought it through. “i’ve never been one to back away from a fight, but a refusal... that’s something else entirely. it could break us, or it could make them see us again.” his hand tightened slightly around his goblet as he considered the ramifications. “the crown’s not a forgiving beast, and the tax... it’s a weight that’ll break anyone eventually.”

his friend's gaze remained steady, but there was something like understanding in it, as if he too had wrestled with the same dilemma in quieter moments. morgan exhaled, sitting back as he rubbed a hand across his jaw. “but if we stand together, all of us... if we make it clear we’ll not bend under the yoke, that we’re not their fools... well, maybe that’s a statement that even the crown can’t ignore.” he glanced up at brandon, his voice quieter now. “maybe that’s the kind of statement that could force change.”

his fingers drummed idly on the rim of his goblet. the longer he thought, the more the idea of standing firm felt less like an impulsive act of defiance and more like a necessary step for the future.

“if we stand together,” morgan muttered, almost to himself, “perhaps it’s the way to hold on to what’s ours. aye, there’s no denying the risk, but is the crown willing to make the same sacrifices we are?” he shifted his gaze back to bran, his tone thoughtful. “we’ve not been pushed this far before, but there’s power in making them reckon with us.”

he paused, looking out over the darkening room. “maybe the stand’s worth the cost, if it’s done right.” the was a finality in the statement, and he took a long sip from her cup.

♞

brandon karstark’s eyes flicked towards morgan wylde, catching the faint twitch of his fingers against the goblet. the stormlander’s steady composure betrayed little, but brandon knew better than to mistake still waters for calm. the quiet hum of the hall wrapped around them, the fire casting long shadows across the stone. “ye ask if i know the stormlands?” brandon’s voice rumbled low, the northern accent thick as the winter winds that howled through the north.

“aye, i know them. not from wanderin’ yer hills or feelin’ yer rain, but from knowin’ what it means to be forgotten. to feel the weight o’ the crown bear down, heavier than the storms ye weather. and yer closer to us northerners than any other.”

he paused, his grey eyes narrowing as he studied the flicker of the firelight across morgan’s face. “experience teaches a man plenty, wylde, but it’s the sharp eye that keeps him breathin’. i’ve seen enough to know what happens when pride turns brittle, and we've seen a whole kingdom crumble ‘cause they didn’t see the cracks ‘til it was too late.” brandon shifted slightly, the leather of his gloves creaking as his fingers tightened briefly around the edge of the table.

“rebellion, ye say? it’s a fool’s game against a king like jaehaerys. man’s temperamental, too quick to the sword. he’ll rip the stormlands out by the roots if ye give him cause. but there’s another way. nightsong—it needs to be yours again. it’s a start. a symbol, aye, but symbols carry weight.”

he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “ye want to make a statement? then do it right. refuse the tax. all of ye, together. they can’t punish ye all without cripplin’ themselves. it’s not rebellion—it’s a stand. one they can’t ignore, but one they can’t call treason neither.”

his gaze darkened, shadows deepening the lines of his face. “things got complicated with the king. we weren’t on the same page no more. what we wanted, what we thought best for the north—it didn’t align. so, it ended, as these things often do. sometimes, partin’ ways is the only way forward. and aye, it’s a lesson, one i reckon ye might need. know when to stand, and know when to step away, ‘fore the whole thing falls to ruin.” he sat back, the firelight glinting in his eyes. “ye’ve got a storm to weather, wylde."

[intothewylde]

morgan leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on the worn oak table between them. the fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across jaehaerys’s face—the face of a king now, but still the boy morgan had once raced through the stormlands with, drenched from summer rains.

he saw the tension in Jae’s jaw, the grip tightening on the goblet. he understood it. perhaps better than most. the weight of leadership, perhaps even one that was unexpected, was a burden few could truly comprehend. but morgan was not here to test him. he had never needed to.

“i’ve never doubted you,” morgan said, his tone low but steady, measured like the man himself. his eyes found his friend's, and there was no wavering in his gaze. “not when we were boys chasing each other through the mud, and not now when you wear that crown. i believe in you. i always have.”

the warmth in his words was subtle, but it was there—an anchor amidst the storm. still, his fingers tapped lightly against the wood, a thoughtful rhythm betraying his inner calculation.

“but belief isn’t enough. not for them.” he tilted his head, meaning the stormlords who whispered behind closed doors, their frustrations simmering just beneath the surface. “they need to know their voices are not drowned out beneath this crown's weight. they are proud men—hard men—and they do not ask for much beyond being heard.”

he paused, his dropping briefly to the flickering flames before returning to his king. “there are those in your halls now… voices eager to shape your rule. that is their nature. but ours—ours has always been to hold the line when storms rage. do not let their words drown ours.”

morgan sat back, his point made, his loyalty plain. “that is all i ask.”

Jaehaerys listened carefully as Morgan spoke, his gaze never wavering. The weight of his friends words settled around him like a heavy cloak. Morgan’s voice was firm, as it always had been, but it carried a weight of concern now that Jaehaerys had not heard before. He could feel the underlying tension in the air—both the unspoken frustrations of the Stormlords and the growing distance between them.

“You do not speak out of turn, Morgan,” Jaehaerys began, his voice steady, but with a hint of something deeper, “You’re my brother, and your father welcomed me in his halls as mine did you. You speak with the firmness I expect. A man should not be afraid to speak for his people.”

The words were meant to be reassuring, but they felt distant. There was a part of him that resented the underlying concern, the implication that the Stormlands might not be as loyal as they once were. His hand clenched around the goblet before him, fingers tightening against the rim, though his face remained neutral.

“I know what you’re saying,” he continued, turning his attention back to Morgan, his gaze unwavering. “Perhaps the Stormlands are not holding their weight. Yes, they are my mightiest sword—and still, we need coin.” The words left his mouth with a frustration that could not be masked. “The crown has many mouths to feed, many roads to pave. I cannot simply rely on the will of men who will not see the necessity of what must be done. They will not always see the big picture.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, his mind working through the implications of Morgan’s words. Was Morgan testing him? Did he question his rule now, after everything they had been through? The thought sent a cold wave through him, and for a moment, his face hardened with a flicker of doubt. But he quickly tamped it down, the weight of the crown always forcing him to maintain control.

Jaehaerys let out a slow breath, steadying himself. "I understand your concerns, Morgan. Truly, I do. But you must understand mine as well." His voice softened, though the edge remained. "The weight of this crown is not light, and sometimes it requires decisions that are not popular, but they are necessary."

[intothewylde]

morgan listened in silence, his arms crossed and shoulders squared against the torrent of wylliam’s words. the room was still heavy with the lingering smells of roasted meats and spilled wine, but the air between them carried a sharper edge now, one borne of anger and frayed patience. when wylliam finished, his final question hanging like a blade between them, morgan let the quiet stretch for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

finally, he uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, his boots thudding softly against the stone floor. “will, let me be clear—i didn’t invite them here for this.” his voice was steady, unflinching, every word precise. “this was meant to be a gathering to mark my sister’s birthday, nothing more. but you know as well as i do that a room full of stormlords cannot help but speak their minds when the mood strikes them. if they’re restless, it’s because they see no other outlet for their frustration. ignoring it won’t make it disappear.”

he took a few steps forward, his boots soft against the stone floor. “i spoke to the king myself, appealed to reason, to fairness. and it got us nothing. the taxes remain, heavier than the burdens we already bear. and now, these men—our peers, will—feel cornered. men cornered for too long will do desperate things, and i’d rather have them talking in my hall than scheming in shadows i cannot see.”

morgan paused, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve before continuing. “as for akhirah, his actions are his own. but they’ve rippled through the stormlands in ways you and i can’t control. we’re not conspirators, will, nor fools throwing ourselves off a cliff. we’re men trying to navigate a storm without wrecking the ship.”

his gaze fixed on his friend's, calm but pointed. “so, i ask you—what do you suggest? how do we temper their anger without alienating them further? what is the path forward that keeps us loyal yet unbroken? because i assure you, inaction will not solve this.”

who: @intothewylde when and where: rain house, one of the wylde siblings threw a birthday feast that resulted in many stormlanders attending - soon, wylliam quickly realised this feast was more than just a birthday gathering.

the door thudded shut behind them, and the weight of the evening fell heavily on wylliam swann’s shoulders. the laughter and chatter from the feast had faded, leaving the room cloaked in an uneasy silence. he stayed still for a moment, staring at the now-empty table, the remnants of wine and crumbs scattered across the polished wood like evidence of the stormlanders’ schemes. his jaw tightened, and his fingers fidgeted with the edge of his tunic, smoothing fabric that didn’t need smoothing.

he turned to morgan wylde, one of his oldest and closest friends, though in this moment, wylliam wasn’t sure he recognised him. his words came out measured but strained, the irritation in his voice barely masked. he was never one to stop himself from sounding blunt, and in this moment where wylliam's mind had been working on what felt like overdrive for the past hour in trying to refute his peers sat around a table, he finally felt as though he were at the end of his tether. “why?” he began, his gaze fixed on the floor before flicking up to meet morgan's gaze, putting down his goblet with a heavy, defeated thud. “why would you let them speak of such things here, under your roof, like it’s some sort of... celebration? as if we’re conspirators huddled in a corner?”

his fingers moved to adjust the spectacles perched on his nose, a gesture more of habit than necessity. “do you know what this looks like, morgan? do you know what they’ll say if word of this reaches the capital? if he hears?” wylliam didn’t need to say who he meant. the king’s shadow loomed large over every decision made in the stormlands. he began pacing, slow and deliberate, his boots barely making a sound against the stone floor. “you think this is clever, don’t you? getting everyone to fall in line behind akhirah—making him the first lamb to the slaughter, so the rest of you can gauge the reaction before you follow suit.” his voice sharpened, though it didn’t rise. wylliam never raised his voice. “it’s cowardly. and reckless. and dangerous.”

he stopped suddenly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “you know i agree with you. you know i think the tax is too much, that celtigar has pushed too far, but this?” he gestured toward the empty room, as if the lingering shadows still held the echoes of their earlier conversation. “this is not the way.” his hands dropped to his sides, and he exhaled a sharp breath. “and do you know the worst of it, morgan? i sat there, silent, because it was clear—painfully clear—that i don’t represent the stormlands anymore. not to them. not even to you, it seems.” his voice faltered, but only slightly, before he looked morgan in the eye once more.

“when did you all decide that? before or after you decided to fling yourselves off an apparent cliff?”

[intothewylde]

morgan’s gaze lingered on the faint tree line visible from the courtyard, his breath forming soft clouds in the cold air. her question hung between them for a moment, her wry humor not lost on him. his fingers flexed idly at his sides, brushing the rough fabric of his cloak.

“the market?” he repeated, as if the notion amused him. he exhaled softly through his nose, a sound that might have passed for a chuckle if not for its restraint. “i’ve no interest in bartering for what i don’t need.” his tone was calm, thoughtful, as though he weighed each word carefully before offering it.

morgan glanced at her, his dark eyes steady but not unkind. “and you?” he asked, his voice low and deliberate. “found what you were looking for?”

he shifted slightly, leaning a hand against the cold stone of the courtyard wall, his other resting on the hilt of his belt. he still didn’t know who she was, but her presence here, alone in the biting northern air, felt deliberate. intentional. it made him wonder.

the wind picked up, tugging lightly at the edge of his cloak, and he adjusted it absently, his gaze flicking back to her. there was something in her stance, in the way she carried herself, that struck him as familiar. not in recognition, but in nature. grounded, solid, unbothered by the fraying edges of courtly pretenses.

“you don’t strike me as someone who favors crowded halls,” he said after a moment, his voice thoughtful. “not many venture out into the cold unless they’re looking for something—or looking to avoid something.” his words carried no judgment, just quiet observation. “whichever it is, the air out here’s better company than most inside.”

Given who had granted Anya her title and her position in the Northern court, it wasn't rare that when the realm broke apart, she remained steadfast in her fealty to House Stark. It had not been mere convenience that kept the blacksmith-turned-lady loyal. It was her genuine faith in the vision for the North that King Owen had that made her keep her oath. And so when the king's ball was hosted in Winterfell, she was one of the guests who did attend to show her continued support.

Large gatherings were still not something she was fully accustomed to, however. The raven-haired woman still appreciated being on her own, perhaps more out of habit than any true desire for solitude. And she was certain she was alone until she heard the man's voice, her dark eyes narrowing ever so slightly as she studied the figure that joined her by the edge of the courtyard. His face was not entirely unfamiliar, she half-remembered the man from fleeting introductions in King's Landing when Jaehaerys II' crowning gathered them all in that place.

His attire marked him as a Stormlander, his presence grounded and his tone measured. She gave him a polite nod. “Aye, something like that,” she replied without more explanation, her voice calm. “And you, my lord? The market disappoints?” she asked, her words edged with the faintest touch of wry humor. The Northern king was supposed to find a new bride, and it was well-known other attendees were looking to potentially establish betrothals as well. All of that involved as much trading as what Anya witnessed at the marketplaces that occupied her time. She looked at the Stormlander with subtle curiosity, gauging whether his calm demeanor masked ambition or if he was simply another lord doing what he could to navigate the frayed tensions between their realms. Or perhaps, just like her, he simply needed a moment outside to breathe.

[intothewylde]

by shx.photography

[intothewylde]

morgan listened quietly, arms crossed as norbie spoke, his gaze steady but his thoughts churning. the man’s words carried a certain ease, a warmth that made morgan feel as though he was speaking to an old friend. yet, the mention of gulltown’s unrelenting bustle and norbie’s musings on braavos reminded Morgan just how different their lives were, even if their paths had crossed in the same stormland rains.

“the rainwood,” morgan said, his voice thoughtful, “is a place that lingers with you. wet, aye, but alive in ways a city could never be. the air hums there, almost like the trees themselves are breathing. I can’t say the same for gulltown. or braavos.” a faint smirk touched his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “you won’t find harmony in braavos, not the way you speak of. it’s a city that thrives on the clash, on the chaos. what holds it together isn’t harmony—it’s the will to endure.”

morgan shifted, the weight of norbie’s words pulling at a quieter part of him. his gaze flicked upward, catching a glimpse of the canopy that shrouded them. “the woods silence the world because they demand it. a city doesn’t, nor should it. gulltown’s chaos is its heartbeat, and i reckon you’d miss it if it were gone.”

he paused, glancing back at norbie, his expression more open now, though still restrained. “but you’re right about one thing. it’s easy to forget what else there is. i’ve spent so long focused on the duties of my station, i’d near forgotten the peace of a quiet wood or the stillness of a mountain. lady antaryon’s chance to see it reminds me i ought to take notice, too.” he gestured faintly toward the trees. “these places—they remind us who we are, when the rest tries to pull us apart.”

norbie's gaze lingered on morgan, his expression open in its earnestness. the upbringing morgan spoke of was different to norbie's own, surrounded by the comforts of gulltower, his books and his library, but it did harken back to his time with the swanns, a ward of the stormlands. "i remember the rainwood. from my time as a ward." the grin that crossed his face was fond. "it's a little, ah, wetter, i suppose, than the forest here, but all woodlands have their way of silencing the noise from beyond their borders. as though they exist in a world of their own."

his gaze drifted upward, but in that moment, it was not the canopy and dappled sunlight he looked for, but glimpses of the sky above it. "gulltown is never quiet," it was something he loved about it, the way a city was never still. "there are always ships coming and going from the docks. it is no small task to bring order to the chaos, nor to find a moment of stillness there."

and then there was braavos, a place that was different again. "i should like to see braavos, one day." he confessed. "i am always intrigued by how the buildings of a city sit in harmony with one another, and braavos... it is a place of many peoples, each with different needs and tastes. when i think about it, i'm not sure how it can be a place in harmony with itself. everything should clash."

he paused for a moment, allowing a look of thought to cross his face. "you know, when you're in the city, it's easy to forget what else there is in the vale. we can see the mountains outside the city gates, but the nearest woods are a few hours ride away," and norbie was not a man given to making such a journey without reason. "i am glad lady antaryon has the chance to see it."

[intothewylde]

setting: the winter ball, morgan brings some of his sisters to see if the king, or any fitting lord, would wish to marry them. he has a lot of siblings under his watch ; starter for @anya-snow

morgan wylde stepped outside the warmth of winterfell’s castle, seeking a break from the bustling winter ball. the night air was biting, the snow crunching beneath his boots as he walked through the quiet grounds. he needed a moment to himself, away from the constant chatter and the constant pressure to find suitable matches for his many sisters. his mind wandered back to the task at hand, wondering which lords or kings would see fit to marry one of them.

as he rounded a corner, he spotted a woman standing alone, looking out over the snow-covered courtyard. her posture was relaxed but purposeful, as if she had been in this moment for some time. she was dressed in the fine, formal attire of the ball, though there was an edge to her presence—a certain sturdiness in her stance, the way she held herself, that suggested she was no stranger to hard work.

morgan’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than was polite. Her striking features were hard to ignore, and there was something about her that piqued his curiosity. it wasn’t often that he encountered someone who seemed both out of place and completely at ease with it.

he cleared his throat and approached, taking care not to startle her. “a bit of air to escape the festivities?” he asked, his tone casual but observant.

[intothewylde]

morgan stood still as jaehaerys spoke, his expression carefully measured, though inwardly, a tangle of thoughts churned. the king’s words struck like flint against steel, igniting a spark of unease. as jaehaerys moved, his silver hair catching the firelight, the image of a friend he once knew was overlaid with the figure of a king who seemed further removed from the lands morgan called home.

“yer grace,” he began, careful to weigh his words, “forgive me if I speak out of turn, but i find myself puzzled by one thing. ye call the stormlands the sword of the crownlands, a place forged for strength and purpose. yet swords, as ye well know, must be tempered, aye, but also cared for—sharpened, polished, rewarded for their service. not burdened until their edge dulls or they break beneath the weight.”

he stepped forward, his boots echoing faintly on the stone floor, though his tone remained composed. “to tax those ye deem yer sword feels less a reward and more a punishment. and while i trust yer wisdom, it’s difficult to see how this serves the cause ye speak of. a sword does not wield itself—it requires the hand of those who believe in the one commanding it. belief, yer grace, is a fragile thing.”

morgan’s fingers brushed absently over the back of a nearby chair, though his focus stayed on the king. “if the stormlords are to carry the weight of this legacy ye envision, surely they deserve more than the burden. something to remind them that their place is beside the crownlands, not beneath them. if they’re the sword, then they must feel it’s an honor, not a penance, to be wielded.”

he paused, the faintest sigh escaping him. “i know the storms of rule are relentless, yer grace, and yer vision spans farther than most. but in this, i ask: what is the use of a sword if its bearer doesn’t trust it will hold in battle? or worse, if it begins to see itself as nothing more than the weight of the hand that wields it?”

morgan straightened, his tone even but resolute. “i don’t stand here to challenge ye, yer grace. i stand here as a friend, hopin’ ye’ll see that the storms ye’re stirrin’ can’t just be weathered. they’ve got to be understood.”

The chamber was quiet save for the faint crackle of the hearth, and Jaehaerys sat with his back straight, his violet eyes fixed sharply on Morgan Wylde. He let the words hang between them, each one falling like a stone into the growing tension in the room. When Morgan finished, Jaehaerys didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he tapped his fingers lightly against the arm of his chair, a small sound in the stillness, yet one that carried weight.

“The Stormlords,” he said finally, his voice low and deliberate, “have always been proud. Proud of their land, their history, their storms. But tell me, Morgan—what has their pride earned them?”

His tone sharpened, irritation flickering behind his words. “I’ve given them more than purpose. I’ve given them a cause. A chance to rise above the squabbling and the petty rivalries that have kept the Stormlands stagnant for generations. I’ve made them the sword of the Crownlands, not just the windbreak for some fleeting storm. And yet, you stand before me and tell me to be careful?”

He rose from his chair, his silver hair catching the firelight, casting an almost ethereal glow around him. When he stepped forward, it wasn’t with the ease of their boyhood friendship, but with the measured authority of a king.

“Did you think I imposed these taxes on a whim?” he asked, his voice growing colder. “Do you think I do not hear the murmurs of discontent? That I do not feel the weight of their resentment? They may grumble and curse my name, but they will pay. They will see that the price they bear now will forge a legacy greater than their forebears could ever dream of.”

His gaze bore into Morgan’s, unflinching. “The false queen sought to reunite what was never meant to be whole again. Her failure is a lesson I will not ignore. The Stormlands will not serve the whims of a dead dream. They will serve me. And through me, they will be remembered.”

He stepped back, his tone softening but only slightly. “You say their anger is subtle. Let it be. A fire burns brightest when it is tended, not smothered. They’ll learn their place in time. Just as we all must.” Jaehaerys crossed his arms as he looked at the other. "I recall a time when the Stormlords boasted of killing Gods and marrying their daughters. Resiliency is what I expect from everyone in my Kingdom. I have opened the doors for greatness, all needs done now is walking through that door."

[intothewylde]

setting: flashback to before the dornish war occurs, morgan wylde requests an audience with the dragon king, his old friend, regarding the stormlords restlessness regarding taxes ; @jaehaerysiitargaryen

morgan stood before king jaehaerys, his posture steady, though his thoughts were far more turbulent. the years had changed him; he was quieter now, more cautious. the once-easy camaraderie they’d shared as boys had slowly worn away, replaced by the weight of responsibility and a growing sense of distance. still, he considered jaehaerys a friend, but that bond seemed more fragile with each passing year.

“yer grace,” he began, his tone steady but not warm, “i appreciate ye seein’ me.” there was no need for pleasantries; they both certainly knew why he was here.

“i wanted to speak about the taxes ye’ve set on the stormlords,” he continued, letting his words come slowly, carefully. “i’ve heard more than a few speak of it, an’ i can’t help but think it’s not sittin’ right with them. they’re proud men, yer grace. proud of their land, their history. i understand the crown needs gold—aye, i do—but there’s a limit to what even the most loyal of men will bear.”

morgan’s eyes never left the king’s, but there was a hint of something in them—an old frustration, perhaps, or just the lingering sense of disappointment. he’d known jaehaerys before the throne and the politics had come to rule his life, before, so it seemed, the valyrian bloodline had become more than a part of his name.

“i’m not sayin’ there’s trouble brewing,” morgan went on, the words measured, “but there’s anger. subtle, but it’s there, an’ it’s spreadin’ fast. ye can’t ignore it. the stormlords don’t forget what it means to stand tall, and they’ve always been proud of that. i’d just be mindful of that pride, is all.”

morgan paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle between them. “i’m not askin’ ye to change course, but ye’ve got to remember where ye come from. the stormlands will stand with ye, but ye need to be careful where ye push them.”

[intothewylde]

morgan’s eyes remained fixed on the fire as brandon spoke, the flickering flames casting shifting shadows across his face. he listened, unmoving, until the northern lord’s words fell away into the quiet hum of the hall. his fingers, still wrapped around the stem of his goblet, twitched slightly, the only betrayal of the thoughts churning beneath his composed exterior.

his voice, though quieter than the karstark’s, carried the steady cadence of the stormlands. “ye speak of the stormlands like ye know them well. like ye’ve walked our hills and heard the rain poundin’ against stone. it’s rare for a man outside our borders to see it so clear.” he paused, the faintest crease forming on his brow. “where does that come from, brandon? experience, or just a sharp eye for the lay of the land?”

the firelight caught the lines of morgan’s face as he leaned back slightly, the movement slow and thoughtful. “yer words, they’re not wrong. the pride of my folk, it’s a strength. aye, it holds us together. but it can turn brittle under strain. these taxes—this unrest—they’re like embers, aye? it’ll only take one gust to set the whole forest ablaze.”

he traced a finger along the rim of his goblet, his tone softening but not losing its edge. “a statement, ye said. bold enough to be felt but not so bold as to bring ruin. that’s a fine line to tread, and it’s easy to stumble. we’ve no desire to see heads on pikes, not ours, nor anyone’s, but the weight keeps buildin’.” he hesitated, the weight of his words clear in the way his shoulders set. “if the stormlands stand together, we might weather the gale. but fractured? we’ll be swept away.”

morgan tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful, almost searching. “if ye were still wearin’ the pin, how would ye advise me? or is yer advice now the same as it would’ve been then?” his gaze lingered on brandon’s, quiet but steady. “because ye speak like a man who’s seen what comes of makin’ the wrong move.”

the lord's words hung in the fire-warmed air, tempered steel wrapped in quiet intrigue. his gaze shifted back to brandon, sharp with curiosity. “so what of you, karstark? hand o’ the king no longer. did ye jump, or were ye pushed? if it’s treachery ye smell, what made ye step away? i’d wager the truth of that tale might hold lessons for me yet.”

♞

brandon karstark’s grey eyes narrowed as he listened, the weight of morgan wylde’s words settling over him like a fresh layer of snow on unforgiving ground. the stormlander’s voice, though steady, carried the undercurrent of unease, and brandon could feel the tension coiling tighter between them. for a moment, he let the silence stretch, his broad fingers drumming once against the rough wood of the table. finally, he leaned forward, his shadow long and looming in the flickering firelight. his voice, thick with his northern accent, came low and deliberate.

“ye’ve the right of it, wylde. walkin’ a blade’s edge, aye, and the steel cuts deep if ye lean too far either way. but here’s the truth of it—the north, the stormlands, even the vale—we’re all walkin’ the same edge. and it’s sharpened by valyrian hands.”

his gaze hardened, his tone steady but edged with the bluntness of a man who had seen too much. “pride runs deep in the stormlands, ye say. good. pride’s what keeps a man upright when the winds come howlin’. but pride alone won’t shift nothing. it’s action that matters now, though not the sort to bring the king’s wrath down on yer heads. nae, what’s needed’s a statement—one bold enough to remind those silver-haired bastards the stormlands won’t be cowed. but careful, mind. too bold, and it’ll be yer necks swingin’ from their bloody gallows.”

he sat back slightly, the firelight catching the sharp lines of his face, making him look more wolf than man. “ye say yer folk feel forgotten. less. that’s the wound, aye, and wounds fester if left untended. but ye don’t heal it by beggin’ for scraps from a valyrian table. stormlanders’ve always stood tall, same as northerners. remind them o’ that. remind them who they are, who they’ve always been—lords of their own fate, not lackeys to some foreign crown.” he paused, his expression darkening as he mulled over his next words. "do something, something that'll hurt 'em where it counts."

“if i were still hand, i’d advise the king to tread careful. but i’m not. what i am is a man who knows treachery when he smells it, and i’ll tell ye this—jaehaerys and his ilk aren’t playin’ fair. they never have, and they never will. so if ye mean to act, do it together. do it with purpose. and for the gods’ sake, do it with caution. the stormlands can’t afford to bleed for nothin’, and neither can the north.” he lifted his goblet at last, though he still didn’t drink. instead, he offered a sharp, humourless grin. “walk the edge, wylde, but don’t lose yer balance man. yer'll be dead."

[intothewylde]

[intothewylde]

morgan’s gaze lingered on the goblet in his hand, the swirling red wine catching the flicker of the firelight as brandon’s words settled around him. he nodded slowly, his lips pressing into a thin line. “the stormlands have always had a certain... volatility,” he murmured, his voice low and measured. “our pride runs deep, our tempers deeper still. but it isn’t anger I’m hearing—not yet. It’s quieter, more like a heavy sky before a storm.”

he glanced at the northman, his expression contemplative. “his grace has done much to strengthen his hold on the crownlands, but with every move that favors the valyrians, the stormlanders feel their own footing slipping. some speak of old grudges, of the baratheon blood that once ruled. it’s subtle, but it’s there. a wrong word, a slighted lord, and the whispers could grow louder.”

morgan leaned back in his chair, the weight of his thoughts pulling his shoulders down. “it’s not just the weight of the coin they resent. it’s the feeling of being… less. less trusted. less important. they see the valyrians flourishing under another targaryen king, and in contrast, they feel forgotten. that, i think, is the true wound.”

he hesitated, watching brandon’s sharp grin with a flicker of unease. “i'm sorry, i didn't know." morgan was not the nosy type, though curiosity did not elude his features, and it only elicited another question. "still, you’ve seen more of this game than I have. if you were still hand, what would you do? how does a man serve his king without losing the trust of his own people?”

his question hung in the air, the fire snapping softly in the hearth as morgan finally met brandon’s gaze. “it feels like walking a blade’s edge, and I’m not sure which side is the greater fall.”

♞

brandon karstark leaned forward, his broad shoulders casting long shadows across the dining table as the fire crackled behind him. his goblet sat untouched, and he regarded lord wylde with a faint exasperated grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “aye, the vale’s pretty enough,” he rumbled, his northern accent thick as the snows of karhold. “but don’t let the peace fool you. even the prettiest woods can hide wolves. what's the position between yerselves and the vale anyways?”

his eyes flicked to morgan’s goblet, then back to his face, reading the stormlander’s unease like a map. “restlessness, you say? that’s no surprise. stormlanders’ve never been ones to sit quiet under another’s boot, not for long. heard whispers myself, though nothing recent—what’s this about tension? something brewing down south?” brandon chuckled, a deep, gravelly sound that seemed to echo in the hall.

“i’ll tell you this much: if your folk are restless, it’s likely for good reason. the north’s got no love for jaehaerys and his lot. too much fire, not enough steel. but taxes, you say? only hitting the stormlords?”

he let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “if owen stark tried to bleed the north folk dry while sparing the rest, there’d be axes in the hall before the ink was dry on the decree.” he knew not why he had said such a thing, why it seemed to tumble from his mouth so naturally. it shocked and surprised even him. brandon’s expression darkened for a moment, his thoughts clearly drifting. the firelight caught the lines of his face, making him look older than his years.

“but you asked if i’ve heard anything. truth is, morgan, i’ve been out of the northern court for a spell. handed my pin back to the king."

his grin returned, a sharp, wolfish thing. “it ain't hard enough to know the stormlands stirring won’t end quietly if this continues. if your folk are angry, good. anger sharpens a man. but tread careful man. jaehaerys won’t take kindly to dissent, and dirty valyrians never play fair.” brandon leaned back, lifting his goblet at last, though he didn’t drink.