saltbcrne

[saltbcrne]

sebastian’s question washed over him like a pail of cold water,  chasing away the veneer of naughtiness that enshrouded them from all else.  for one short moment,  it was all harlon could do to stare at him,  his eyes wide and failing to understand.  were their affections so fickle in nature that something like this could unravel them all? did sebastian really think him to be that craven?  his lips parted as if to speak,  to breathe life into his affront,  but he quickly pressed them together again,  thinking better of his impulses.

no,  that wouldn't have been fair.  or sane.  harlon knew all too well what sebastian meant,  even if he was trying his damnedest to trick himself otherwise.  still,  he had fought too hard for this  —  their partnership,  and all which came after  —  to let it slip through his fingers at the first sign of trouble.  he was a kraken;  it was not in his nature to let things go,  least of all not that which was most precious to him,  his greatest golden treasure being one.

and so,  harlon dropped his gaze to where sebastian held him,  such a small act having anchored him in place amidst the turmoil.  his hand twitched,  as if hesitating,  before coming to rest atop of sebastian’s.  it was an overly familiar gesture,  but not entirely out of place here;  not for him,  who fussed over everyone who was dear to him,  and sometimes even those who were not.  should a wandering eye lead to any questions, his ... eccentricities were an easy justification.

harlon shook his head and sank back into the sea that was sebastian’s gaze.  “why,  only if we are called upon at a most inopportune time.  otherwise,  i do not see why it should.”  a half-truth,  a half-lie;  all dependent on how one looked at it  —  and he,  as per usual,  refused to. he owed his life to the iron islands and to his family, to those he would feast together with in the watery halls,  but there were some parts of it —  of himself —  that he could not owe,  not ever.  they were too sacred,  too incorrigible to be handed over in the name of duty.  no, he would not do it;  not even if the king himself decreed it. 

knowing this,  and that there was only one man who could cause him to change course,  harlon gave his hand a tender squeeze,  allowing him no such escape.  “you've done naught that would force me to do such an ugly thing,” he started, voice steady and soft, but when he spoke next,  it was in a tone which brooked no argument,  “nor would you, for that matter. would you not agree?”

my sweet ... the warmth rushes to his ears , spreads quickly to his chest and scratches at his neck , tingling under his fingertips . he cannot thank whichever god glanced his way , that he did not pass up on the many lords that poured him a cup or two prior this duel with the lord of pyke . it did not help that harlon had his hand on him , skin snugged oh - so - painfully hot against his . and when he moves ... hot breath stuck in his throat , that if not masked with contrived astonishment , would have made its way out an obscene sound . he mouths hangs agape , a gasp shoving supposed reaction with words . ❝ my , my ... lord harlon greyjoy , you must not speak of such a thing , not when we are in mourning . that is a serious allegation , ❞ eyes fixed on heavy browns , unable to tear his gaze away . smile not out of their usual petty banter , but a concealed gentleness , endearment , reserved only for the other . ❝ on the contrary , this morning is nothing but satisfactory , my lord . what you served to me , tasted ... sweeter than anything i've had . ❞

❝ perhaps i need to be fed more so i may have another use for my mouth . ❞ joy prickles beneath his jaw , swimming blissfully across his body that he feels like a different person entirely . pride swelling at the words he strung together , bringing both of them dangerously close the edge . he can stay here , weaving their own private world until the rest of westeros disappears behind them . then he feels the reality tap on his shoulder , judgement anticipating them around the corner , jarring silhouette at the corner of his eyes that his voice dies further down to a whisper that needed greater focus and intention to make out of . ❝ will this inquiry put a stop to our ... time together , harlon ? ❞ his hand reaches out to mimic harlon's , smile faltering but only momentarily . his gaze falling to where their bodies were linked , then back to meet harlon's . there is consciousness , acceptance even — of who he is , of what he is , of what he is capable of . he had sat with his thoughts and all that he has done , made peace with every single one . he had abandoned what it means be good , and wore wickedness with pride . in all its golden - crowned , deep blue - orbed , and fair - skinned glory . the form that stared back in the mirror , a smirk hanging from its lips . and yet in the worlds they make , dim - lit chambers and unmade beds , he is disarmed , stripped , and w a s h e d o f f the impious visage that chained him in the shadows , green - eyed , and sharp - clawed . in those sheets , he laid deliriously unguarded — not a hair in place , not a surface of skin untouched , not one innocent thought . no damn armor can protect a man when he willingly bares his neck for the taking . by now , he wouldn't be surprised if harlon greyjoy knew the power he had over him , even if the young lion adamantly denies . and why sebastian reyne indulges the stranger dressed in pleasure the way he does , he may never know ... or perhaps , never thought it relevant . what mattered is he gets harlon all to himself , without the looming presence of the ton , even if only for the night .

[saltbcrne]

he must feel it.  there was no way trystane didn’t feel it:  the drumming song harlon’s heart played just for him,  how it beat beneath his fingertips,  this thunderous and treacherous tune;  the ease with which he allowed himself to be handled,  and his subtle lean into it,  as if wanting to be closer still;  the shiver his voice sent down his spine,  how it made the delicate skin of his neck break out in goosebumps from proximity alone.  this is how the lamb must feel,  he thought,  giddy to the point of delirium.  

this close to the beast of his desires,  he could smell the soap trystane used to wash away the violence of his day,  and how it mingled with the honey-scented oil harlon liked to wear.  part of him wondered if he liked it;  if it might make him want to sink his teeth into the side of his neck,  and tongue at his skin to see for himself if he tasted as sweet as he promised.  looking at him now,  wicked and wild and within reach,  it began to appear less like a fantasy,  and more like a possibility.  harlon could feel himself growing hot then,  a pink flush blooming across his cheeks.  elsewhere,  the fire in his belly was undeterred by trystane’s ice,  for he knew,  on some innate level,  what lay behind it.

it was a loathsome lust,  no doubt.  perverse,  perplexing,  and maddeningly potent.  being what he was,  in any and all capacities,  harlon had been subjected to it his entire life.  the encroaching on his person,  the hand at his wrist  —  he viewed it as little more than an attempt to regain control of himself and the situation,  the forging of an opportunity in which he could justifiably do that which he truly wanted.  reactions,  rituals,  and the restructuring of all things to fit the roles they played.  yes,  harlon knew this song.  he knew it quite well. 

if there were any chance of trystane hurting him  —  and he was certainly not naive enough to assume it to be null  —  it would not be until his loathing had overwhelmed his lust.  a most arduous challenge,  really,  as he had sought trystane out for a spar,  after all,  not anything sweet.  see,  harlon didn't want to send him over the edge,  but if the slightest provocation had led them this far,  where could a little more take them?  it was too tempting,  and he had not the discipline to resist temptation.  

thus,  harlon pressed on.  he rested his free hand on trystane’s chest and leaned in…  only to pivot and whisper his response near the raven’s ear instead,  mirroring him with a tease.  “has my appearance deceived you?  i'm ironborn.  provoking rivermen like you is what we live for.”  then,  he leaned back just so and canted his head,  willing him to bite.  “surely,  you would not deny me such a pleasure,  would you?  see,  i’ve heard many a tale about you,  but you seem…”  here,  he paused as if to think,  but really it was to hold back a self-satisfied giggle,  “rather tame to me.”

how many iron islanders had fallen to his sword during the early years of his reign? when he had to strengthen and take back what his madwoman of a mother had lost? what was killing one more?

the thought certainly crossed his mind, onyx gaze narrowing in recognition, and turning wretched at the words that fell between them like a crushing thunderstorm; did harlon greyjoy wish to rush to his death? did he think that trystane would not cut him open where he stood? not watch in delight as his life's blood poured out betwixt them? even in the center of the red keep? even if he (for some reason, a greyjoy had been given the honor) too, was a guest of the royal family?

the fact he was of the iron islands, only made the desire grow tenfold.

( do you? )

"I rarely make mistakes." as cold as the northern winters, as hungry as a feral animal that had not fed in days.

perhaps it was the kracken lord's horribly beautiful face that stayed the bloodraven's hand from his sword. a desire of another kind rearing it's head, blurring the lines between rage and lust in a shocking feeling. why did he have a visage so feminine? and why had trystane noticed it so many times over the last few days? choking back in denial of his own thoughts, blaming the lord in front of him for having such a pretty countenance, why had the gods sent them this moment?

their fingertips brushed one another, both grasping at the flimsy parchment.

"now that you mention it, perhaps I did...in which case, is it truly wise to provoke me?"

his own expression contorted from mild annoyance to amusement, watching as saltborn hand wrapped even more so around the scroll, adamant about raising the blood pressure of the raven even more. the blackwood lord, with his ruinous smirk, pressed on with his own strength, stepping forward to push the other man back a few steps.

"you never know what a mad man might do." he leaned forward with all the grace of a predatory beast, lowering his voice to barely above a whisper, brushing the response close to his ear. trystane allowed the scroll to fall from his grasp, and seeking to find new hold on harlon's wrist.

he wasn't entirely sure what he was doing (perhaps he truly had gone mad after the blow he had taken during the joust afterall), whether he meant to intimidate or seduce, trystane wasn't entirely sure. his own emotions colliding into confusion at his own aims and whims, his gaze still glittering with nefarious intent regardless if what his motive was.

[saltbcrne]

harlon was no novice at playing the part of a little bird,  always wandering about and engaging in endless chitter with any number of colorful sorts,  but even he had his limit.  no matter how clean his own hands were,  no matter how many bridges he'd tried to build between the islands and the green lands, he knew better than to approach the river lords.  he knew better,  he most certainly did,  and yet…  there he was anyhow,  hand impulsively thrust towards the very same scroll that had caught not just any man’s eye,  but that of the raven prince,  if only for a chance to touch.

he would have liked to say he didn’t know why he’d done it,  but his chances of believing whatever lie he managed to tell himself would have swiftly turned to ash when confronted with the heat that tinged his ears pink.  harlon knew — of course he did. it was for the same reason he'd sat through the barbarism that was the melee; the same reason he'd been distracted thereafter, forced to excuse himself from the gaggle of gossips he'd been with; and the very same reason he was acting a hot-blooded fool now.

"do you?" harlon's voice was breathy, gentle. ever an unabashed glutton, he was buying himself time to study this raven up close, eyes roving about his features languidly. he had quite liked him flat on his back, covered in blood and earth and a gleaming coat of sweat, howling like a mad dog... but he supposed this version was nice, too. he cleaned up well, at least — a promising thought indeed.

he made a noise of dissent before turning his attention to their hands. the rational thing to do would have been to pull away and apologize, make up some fib about the day's sun having gotten to his head. a pity then that he had ceased all rational thought hours ago. instead, harlon wrapped his hand around the scroll and turned to him again, eyes flitting to the cut above his brow and back. amused, he smirked. "you must have hit your head harder than was previously thought then."

a challenge?! he surprised even himself. no matter. however stupid and dangerous a decision it was, he would commit to it, racing rabbit heart and all. if it backfired, he could always fall back on his queerness, or the sticky-fingered deportment of his kind. "fret not, my lord. i won't tell."

when // in the evening after the tourney where // the library of the red keep who // @saltbcrne

the library of the red keep was much smaller than most would imagine, only a stones throw from the tower of the hand, and a place that in childhood, trystane often frequented. the tourney had wore him thin, and though he had lost the joust (purposefully or not, we may never know), the melee he had been one of the more dominating figures, and his feet had carried him here, perhaps in search of old memories.

  not because he was a scholar by any means, gods no, he came here often to hide from those he and vaegon tormented with their tricks and games, to hide from the flaming eyes of the king, and other such authority figures. trystane wasn’t sure what had drawn him here this time, perhaps, it was due to him being a nostalgic soul at heart, more so than he would ever care to admit. or perhaps it was because the first time he saw a naked woman was here, as a young boy, in one of the painted scrolls in the far far end of the chamber, her lysani white hair and laughing cerulean eyes the perfect backdrop to the seductive nature of the drawings. he had of course, taken it from its place and proudly shown it to vaegon at the time, the pair of them giggling as they examined it over and over…looking back it was truly a childish thing, but a moment he cherished anyway.

  ringed digits running across the old scrolls and tomes, artfully placed on neat shelves that stood from floor to ceiling, carved of stone and heavy oak, miniature valyrian sphinxes and dragons standing guard over their wealth of knowledge, their lifeless eyes watching every move below their mighty seats with scrutiny. the low evening sunlight creating a rosey hue, alighting the dust particles that swam across the stale, still air.

  a maester hummed softly to himself as he dusted a shelf of books with a fine cloth, ignoring the presence of the blackwood lord as he worked methodically, thinning bald head shining in the low light as he moved nimbly from shelf to shelf. 

  fingers found purchase some rows down, on a scroll that appeared newer and in fresh condition, glimpses of bronze ink peaking through the thin parchment as he grasped for it, only to be interrupted… 

  “I believe I had grabbed it first…” 

[saltbcrne]

harlon hummed, a low and rumbling sound. previously unable to talk about it as freely as he would have liked, he'd been giving it more than a bit of thought, turning their circumstance this way and that. he didn't exactly know what to think, but he was less inclined to consider it a random act of harebrained chaos. no, whoever had done this had secured themselves the upper hand. the question was: when and how would they use it?

"it rather is, or perhaps it could be, depending on how you look at it. if it was the crown they were after, and i don't believe it was, they would have killed the heir. instead, they picked off the weakest link, one that was already on her way out, and now we must all remain here, no choice in the matter, and our king's reign has been sullied by regicide before it ever truly began. i think... i think they mean to test him." or humiliate him, though harlon often thought they were one and the same.

that was his least worrisome proposition, anyway. they had all left their lands and their people to be here. should anything happen back home, it would be a time before they could return and act. harlon folded his arms across his chest, lips pursed. "it's a game they've forced him to play. he must find the killer in time, whoever they are, or he appears dangerously weak before the realm; and if he does not, then he will have to pretend that he has, which will only last until this slayer acts again. the odds are not in his favor, least of all not with all this time his... inquiry has bought them." harlon chuckled mirthlessly and shook his head. "oh, it's all such a farce."

slight  twitch  of  temple  muscle  albeit  not  in  repulsion  against  the  motion.  although  the  heir  greyjoy  was  somewhat  unaccustomed  to  such  displays  of  affection,  even  amongst  family  members,  he  did  not  pass  it  over  for  the  sake  of  being  standoffish.  it  was  easier  to  sort  things  out  with  the  ring  out  iron  and  steel  and  blood,  instead  of  in  the  quiet  where  these  moments  elongated  and  stretched.  cousins,  in  a  way,  were  closer  to  quenton  than  his  own  siblings.  or  perhaps  that  was  special  to  harlon.

a  huff.  not  unlike  a  shaggy  beast.  he  would  not  be  escaping  the  monikers  soon.  “why  does  everyone  insist  upon  commenting  upon  the  sweat  and  aching  of  my  brow?  is  it  not  a  sign  that  i'm  hard  at  work  for  the  sake  of  the  realm  or  whatever  the  phrase  is?”  kinship  of  smirking  appeared.  the  it  of  a  jest  came  out  of  pocket,  just  as  quenton's  own  comment  did.  if  there  was  ever  any  indication  that  they  were  related,  it  would  be  in  the  ridiculous  things  they  tended  to  utter.  “oh,  yes.  i  was  coming  to  arrest  you  for  the  deed.  challenge  you  for  honour." 

it  would  be  a  one-sided  fight,  and  they  both  knew  it.  still,  if  he  did  have  to  raise  his  sword-arm  against  his  cousin,  better  himself  than  someone  else.  he  would  manipulate  the  fight  in  harlon's  favour.  “what  i  want  to  know  is:  who  did?  and  why  did  they  think  it  was  a  brilliant  idea?”

[saltbcrne]

𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁:   𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙻𝙾𝙽  𝙶𝚁𝙴𝚈𝙹𝙾𝚈.  he's nervous,  and more than a little indignant,  but keeping it under wraps.  he bows before the king and stands tall again, his stilled hands clasped in front of him.  for once,  he does not fidget with his ring.

who was seated beside you during the feast and was conversation made with them ?

is there anyone who was not making conversation,  my lord?  i was among my men mostly,  and had the pleasure of making the most merry conversation with lord [thain] harlaw in particular.  his grace honored me with a seat at his table for a time thereafter,  and while i would not dare speak for him,  i'm certain he would agree that i made the very most of that blessed time and talked his ear right off, just as i am doing now.  he tsks. a terrible habit,  i'm afraid.

at what hour did you leave the feast ? were you alone or did another accompany you ?

harlon hesitates,  gaze flitting to his grace and back in such quick succession that one would have missed it had they blinked.  he swallows and,  aiming for nonchalance,  lifts one shoulder in some kind of half-shrug.��  i took leave once i'd had my fill of the honey cakes and others started trickling out.  my family had already left by that point,  so i sought out a friend — lord sebastian reyne — to walk me back to my chamber.  the hour was late,  however, and…  i,  ever a gracious host,  bid him to stay, so that we may finish our conversation, and so that he would not have to walk back alone.  he left the following morning.

did you hear or witness anything suspicious regarding the princess regent or the royal family ?

his lips twitch,  fighting off a giggle.  still,  the amusement,  however indelicate it appears in that moment,  shines through in his eyes,  the tone of his voice, the smile that seeps into his words.  just who did they think he was? oh, come now, my lord. that isn't the type of gossip i've any interest in. it's unseemly, not to mention... ill-advised. he wrinkles his nose and cants his head, emphasizing his disapproval. i've seen captains cut out a man's tongue for far less, and here you are asking your guests and your subjects to disparage the king's line right to his face. is there anyone, of any station or motivation, who would answer such a question as truthfully as i have? if they had been privy to such a thing, i'm sure their fear of being penalized for not coming forward sooner would stay their tongue. what incentive is there then for any such persons to speak truly, even if bound by duty? what purpose does such a question serve, but to... catching himself much too late, harlon sighs out of his nose and shakes his head, eyes slipping shut as he nips his tirade in the bud. he thinks it's a waste of time, all of it, and it is. it so very is. when he looks up again, he looks directly at the king this time, solemn and sure. i am sorry, your grace. truly. but i am of no help to you. i had no involvement, intentional or otherwise, and nor did the company i kept.

[saltbcrne]

it was as much a gift as it was a curse to be so easily riled up.  the warmth that colored harlon's ears had spread to his cheeks,  painting him in a most treacherous shade of pink to match that of his lips. words had failed him in that moment,  as they so often did in sebastian’s presence,  and what could not be spoken begged to be expressed otherwise.  it was something innate,  beyond choice:  that urge to touch him,  to communicate in a language only they knew;  a language of hands and mouths and skin against skin,  of truth and pretense and the space in between.

harlon wanted to quiet him,  which of course meant that he wanted to kiss him quite ardently,  here and now and at once,  which…  he supposed also meant that he had found himself in the position of wanting to embrace the very claws that instinct had always compelled him to run from  —  a fate that did not seem so terrible to him then,  especially when compared to the grim reality surrounding them.  no longer were they hidden away in his bedchamber,  free and unencumbered in a dream of their own making.  being in the world required a show of strength,  and if sebastian was willing to lend him his own,  then he would take it.  

his gaze dipped low to the smile on his face and lingered,  watching him speak,  enthralling him in real time.  the lion made it look so easy.  maybe for him,  it was.  meanwhile,  what worried harlon could fill tome after tome. there were some things he could only say in the dead of night, however, when their armor lay scattered on the ground alongside their pride, and that was one of them. conceding to this, harlon nodded his head and willed the worry to ebb from his features as best as he could. it was fine. more importantly, they would be fine. there was no alternative.

"perhaps there is... some truth in what you say, my sweet. i'll grant you that." and only that, as he so hoped he would not lord it over him forever. "we've nothing to worry about, except..." here, harlon had to meet his eye and smile, roguish and entirely indulgent. elsewhere, his thumb caressed the inside of sebastian's elbow — a poor substitute for all that he'd really rather do. "is it murder that has made you so mouthy? or did we not make well enough use of it this morning, and that is why you've seen fit to tease me so?"

it was the idea of drowning that made him stay , the urge to move surreptitiously in the dark , scuffed bricks against the palm of his hand as he looks from behind pillars . the placid water pulls him further to the bottom , to sink on his own volition , rid of air , hope , and thought . touching him is a plunge into nothingness , to a space void of reason and control , eyes closed and an utter surrender to what lord greyjoy deems he deserves . in the confides of that chamber , sebastian gives in the only way he knows how . the first breath he draws is not an imploration for air , for life but for more ... for harlon ... for harlon to take more , everything . ❝ and aren't you a good bo — ❞ sebastian was quick to remember where they were , to shove his senses back to its rightful place before he is swallowed by his own boldness . ❝ i envy your memory , lord greyjoy . even after innumerable ... voyages , some are still as exhilarating as the first time . ❞ cerulean orbs remained on the dark - haired man before him . searching for scars or marks on the softness of his fair skin , to anchor himself to here and now , and failing . harlon is free of flaw , even beneath this painstaking mask , and sebastian slides into the depths of the ocean , losing his grasp of the warmth of now to waves of imagery , entwined fingers and staggered breaths . the chatters are muted and the burst of color fades to solace ... until he makes out of the worry now carving itself upon harlon's face , the way his body shifts , and how vigilance began to claw its way beneath them . but it forgets that sebastian is not one to cower at the face of danger , he is , after all , a lion . ❝ the princess regent is dead and there are damning whispers , they must want subdue them to reassure the court . what are you even worried about ? ❞ he , too , leans close , a composed smile glimmering with the faintest of mischief danced upon his lips . ❝ we were together all night , weren't we ? don't tell me you're afraid of having to share details , my lord . you were not so reserved while we're ... reacquainting ourselves . ❞

[saltbcrne]

harlon has just been granted a private audience with his grace, @vaeles.

it was a brazen idea.  brazen,  indecorous,  and all too unlikely to work,  and yet…  there harlon was,  against all odds,  standing face to face with the king of all things  —  again.  and though so very much had changed,  both between and around them,  it seemed that the racing of his rabbit heart had not.  it thumped in his chest uncomfortably,  echoing throughout his body,  threatening to drown out the precious sound of the kingsguard’s retreat.  harlon watched them out of the corner of his eye with his quivering hands clasped behind his back,  waiting for their moment of peace at last,  before finally allowing his gaze to settle once more on his new king,  and dear old acquaintance,  vaeles targaryen.

looking at him,  harlon felt something inside of him shift and buckle  —  a yielding of an unspoken sort.  powerful men made him nervous,  nervous in ways little else in this world ever could,  and there were none as powerful as he:  the war-won soldier,  the king,  the dragon,  the god.  he commanded the skies,  the seas,  and the land in-between.  it was beyond harlon’s understanding that one single person could be so important,  so immortal,  and so he focused on what he could understand.

vaeles,  above all else,  was a man made of flesh,  bone,  and sensation.  a man he’d once known,  however briefly it had been,  and a man once wanting and now willing to be alone with him still.  that,  he felt,  was more important than any other title he held.  yes,  that was something he could most certainly work with.

thus,  harlon pivoted and turned his mind’s eye towards the past.  he had not won vaeles’ favor that fated night by groveling at his feet or vying for a sliver of the power he commanded.  no,  he,  in all of his eager,  relentless,  and puppy dog-eyed enchantment,  had earned it by surrendering himself to the current of curiosity and desire they’d found themselves adrift in;  had won it by treating one of the most handsome young men he had ever seen as though he were ordinary,  despite the so very extraordinary features which suggested otherwise.

if fate had favored such a fool then,  could he not hope that it might favor him once more?  they were older now,  more experienced and made weary with time.  it did not seem so preposterous to him that a myth made man trapped in a den of vipers with vultures circling close overhead might want a reprieve from his role in the unfolding story that was his life,  even if only for a moment;  and while harlon was no warrior,  no wife to be,  and no one of any particular importance,  he did believe that this  —  the invisibility of his existence,  the freedom on offer in such undiscovered darkness  —  could be something of value,  if the king so wished it to be.

having already bet his life and whatever dignity the greyjoy name could still lay claim to,  harlon sauntered forward undeterred by convention and planted himself before his host.  he was too close for a man of his station,  too far when compared to their first meeting,  and so just right for whatever undetermined space they would occupy now.  quickly,  quietly,  and with a curious glint in his eye,  a warm wash of brown flitted about his grace’s face,  wanting to take note of everything he’d missed.  stationed so high above them all,  it was always so difficult to get a good look at the man who was to lead them.  a small voice at the back of his mind wondered if it was intentional.

“would it humor your grace to know that i almost gave your men a false name?”  he asked,  gaze caught on the scar running through the king’s lips.  that’s new,  he mused,  mind plagued by the thought of what it might feel like against his own — intrusive, irrelevant, and yet entirely compelling.  “alas,  i feared they would not think highly of such a stunt, understandably so.” harlon canted his head then, audibly jostling his dangling pearl cluster earrings as he did so, and smiled — dimpled, true, and undoubtedly kittenish. when his eyes flitted back up and landed on a rare violet bloom, they held a plea, the same one that echoed in his words: i mean you no harm. "a pity that such mischievous trickery cannot suit me as well as it once did you."

[saltbcrne]

ha! harlon snorted and pulled a face, equal parts indignant and incredulous, as if to say: make you? when have i ever made you do anything? there were still some nicknames he'd yet to shake off, ones so stupid they couldn't help but stick. no, if harlon could manage the great feat of forcing his cousin's hand, then he would've ordered him to stay home all those months ago, where it was safe and sound, instead of marching off to fight in another man's war, leaving him to worry and wait.

perhaps he would've told him to wear something else, too, now that he'd gotten a better look at him. harlon sighed, theatrical as ever, and closed the distance between them with ease, reaching beneath the deep v of his doublet to pull out a golden handkerchief. gently, he dabbed at quenton's temple, a smirk on his lips.

"yes, well. it appears there's very little one can do to improve upon perfection. meanwhile, you're sweatier than i remember you being." he raised a brow and refolded the handkerchief before tucking it away. then, because he so hated the air of apprehension about them, and he simply could not help himself — ever the lone giggle at a funeral, he was — came a jest he only dared make in the company of his dear cousin. "i didn't do it," it being the murder of an ailed princess, "if that's what has you all out of sorts."

closed starter : on the first day, during the midday meal, but escaping to the gardens in order to find his cousin. / @saltbcrne , harlon greyjoy .

though heat and sun alike were not unusual for the greyjoy heir to face down in his travels, the additional pressure illuminating the news and matters at the red keep served to make the sweat bead upon his brow. pressing soft, embroidered handkerchief to forehead and neck, excusing himself from feast and abandon to scout through the garden, where he suspected he might find a familiar form, only to happen upon him as he nearly had given up and made to return into the conversational fray. "by the gods. you came out of that door like a ghost. don't make me give you another nickname, not here." what nickname he might give him remained a mystery for the time behind. dark of brown gaze observing his cousin, traipsing up and down. "you've not changed a lick since the last time i saw you. rose in your ear and all." however, he did not remark this as particularly anything insulting.

[saltbcrne]

it didn’t make sense,  he thought.  harlon knew hunger.  he’d lived his whole life like a dog in pursuit of a bone,  having contented himself with what scraps could be passed under the table and learning to trade tricks for treats.  he knew that;  had made peace with it,  even.  he did not know this:  the gaping bottomless pit of a maw nestled in his core that begged to be filled whenever the blond was concerned;  the sickness that sebastian had plagued him with. 

he had taken the young lord in his mouth and swallowed him down, feasting upon him with unabashed desire as he had many a time before.  if it were just hunger,  then harlon would have already had more than his fill.  so, what was it then,  if neither the sight nor taste of him could provide any true nourishment,  but a madness of the very worst kind?

even now,  his words elicited a most asinine physiological response:  a pink tinge to the tips of his ears,  and a smile made crooked from trying  ( and failing )  to fight it.  harlon ducked his head  —  not that it made much of a difference,  being the taller of the two.  the princess regent was dead,  everyone in attendance was to be treated like a suspect,  and sebastian had the gall to be cheeky despite it all.  he wanted to roll his eyes and huff,  feign being the more sensible of the two,  but all he could do was bask in the fondness that bloomed in his chest. damn him.

"exploration suggests unfamiliarity, and you were not so clumsy." a coy deflection; the smothering of a spark before it could catch fire and bring everything down. "i would sooner call it a reacquaintance, among other things."

it was stupid — beyond silly, even — but... having to share their whereabouts before the soon-to-be king himself made him nervous. it wasn't a far-fetched fib by any means, and it was bound to ring true to whichever councillor who would receive them, but harlon feared he may be more transparent to prince vaeles than he would have liked, and he quite wanted to keep sebastian to himself, especially now.

harlon swallowed. then, curious, and seeking refuge, he chanced a quick cursory glance at their surroundings before leaning closer into sebastian's space and gently cupping his elbow. his eyes flitted about his face, worry pinching at his brows. "do you really think they will question us?"

CLOSED STARTER ! HARLON GREYJOY ( @saltbcrne )

a semblance of relief settles between his brows . with the joust and the crowning of queens and champions have concluded , so will his sister's nagging about participating . he could not find it in himself to clamor at steeled duels and cheers , like the rest of the other lords and knights , nor did he judged any of them for it . his appetite simply had another face , one that not scratched armors and bloodied blades could keep at bay . on the contrary , nothing still or brimming with life could . he approaches the lord of pyke , with suspicious ease and familiarity , ❝ i heard curious whispers pertaining to the recent tragedy that has struck our good country , ❞ it is in tensed halls of fine silken tongues and velveteen trappings that this appetite thrives — where terror sneaks itself between breaths , greater effort slithers on shaking fingers to uphold faultlessness , and condolences , good - will spill from drying lips . ❝ should anyone ask what i have been doing the night of , or say , inquire about my whereabouts ... ❞ the ocean stirs in his eyes , a collection of low rumblings and blinding mist takes on a cloak of opulence , fine features , and a noble name . the real tourney has just began . ❝ shall i say we were discussing all the trade routes we have explored ? ❞ his hushed words were far from enticing , luring , and entrapping , yet the honey that dripped from each one tasted sweet and decorated with just the right amount of provocation . ❝ or would you rather i disclose that i have been exploring you ? ❞

[saltbcrne]

when he was younger,  harlon used to pray.  really,  it felt more like begging.  sometimes  —  no.  most of the time,  he couldn't tell the difference.  now that he was older,  he thought maybe there wasn't one.  whether he prayed to be washed away and made anew,  begged for a younger brother,  or pleaded for luck in securing thain's favor,  the answer was always the same:  a resounding,  ear-splitting silence to echo in the labyrinth of his shame. stung, with no quenton for him to hide behind, or a sister for him to busy himself with, harlon's heart thumped hard in his chest. whether they were on a training ground, a busy deck, or a royal court, it made no difference. they would always be this, and he would never escape that silence.

thus, there were two things he knew for certain:  first,  thain had kicked him simply because he knew he could,  having aimed right for his underbelly,  too;  and second,  he was a beast in the shape of a man who would have no issue eating him alive,  greyjoy or no.  spite,  pride,  and a sense of self-preservation all urged him to avoid thain’s eye,  but something deeper still,  unknowable and inexplicable,  without a lick of logic, compelled him to look anyway. 

he had been scanning the crowds before,  watching and waiting,  spying and speculating   —  absolutely not hoping to seek comfort from a particular dirty blond beauty  —  which was a much better use of his time than whatever kind of cock measuring thain wanted to get at,  but…  it was rather tempting,  wasn’t it?  this transgression.  the pressing of an age old bruise. an opportunity to see just how far they would go under the belief of no consequence.

slowly, harlon’s lips formed a smile:  practiced and self-soothing,  but a touch amused,  too.  meanwhile,  his eyes were impassive as they bore into thain’s own.  a discordance that might’ve been unsettling were it not so familiar.  “this may come as a shock to you,  lord harlaw,  but i need not be thrust onto my back by a strapping young northman,  or anyone for that matter,  to make an impression.  there are,  in fact,  other ways,  i assure you.”  

he canted his head and furrowed his brows then.  “speaking of which…  if i were to reach out and squeeze your shoulder for a job well done,  would it make you mewl?  it looked like it hurt — getting knocked on your arse like that." tsk. "a pity."

when: day four - the feast where: the great hall of the red keep who: lord harlon greyjoy of pyke | @saltbcrne

the feast was in raucous good form. wine, food and music aplenty. abundant enough to distract many from the harsher realities set to descend a few days hence. perhaps by then the hangover many would have this evening would have passed by then, though he doubted clearer heads would prevail either way. his gaze hardened speculatively as he watched the high tables, scarred lips pursing before he pulled his attention away. it would do little good to get lost down that rabbit hole. instead he concerned himself with a distraction closer to home, be it born from both the figurative and the literal in this instance.

"i did not see your name in the lists," it was delivered like a jibe at harlon's expense, yet thain did not begrudge the other ironborn staying himself from contention. not when there was an ugly purple mass vaguely resembling what had once been his shoulder lurking beneath his tunic. yon wolf of the north was as fair with a lance as he was drab of nature. it would be many a week before the clicking in his shoulder yielded away to a full range of motion once more. how they called such an event a sport was beyond mortal ken. and somehow the people of the south called those of the iron islands bloodthirsty and reckless. with a will and a reluctant way, he smothered an agonised grunt in favour of taking another painful sip of wine, casting his gaze towards the young greyjoy. "i suppose it should not be said you lack for brains as well as heart, my lord."

he was treading dangerous ground being so free with his tongue, yet it was a ribbing he felt was needed. caution was a good quality in a prospective lord, fear was not. for while the former made men wise beyond their years, the latter made them weak. a quality few ironborn could afford, least of all the children of the reaper. instability was something to be enjoyed abroad, not at home. "still you would do well to leave your mark upon the minds of the lords and ladies assembled here before we leave. though, perhaps in a fashion better than what your dear cousin and i have ventured."

[saltbcrne]

it's funny, almost: how quickly things can fall apart. a wave of disquiet washes over him, and having been thrown overboard by the distinct feeling that he is not believed, harlon finds it difficult to keep his head above water. was it that no man could ever hope to hide before a reflection of himself? or was it the centuries of violence his compatriots had wreaked which stained him so? it shouldn't upset him, not anymore, and yet it does. it always does.

harlon's mask cracks. he looks at her from just behind it, eyes having grown impassive and ever so slightly narrowed, and watches himself be watched. all plays require a level of immersion from their audience, and he knows he must reel her back in, and soon. nervous, he twists the flower this way and that, rolling its stem along the pads of his fingertips as he thinks, thinks, thinks, before finally tucking it behind his ear. fine. he can pivot and rewrite this scene to meet her where she is: both emotionally and physically, as he finds himself nearing her position at the wall. a truth for a truth. how hard can it be?

to the surprise of none, it's too close for harlon's comfort. instead of facing her, he shifts his attention to the feline and reaches out slowly, not wanting to scare it, to pet its warm fur. it's only out of the corner of his eye that he can bear to look at her, and his voice, already so quiet, is only for their ears then, the precious strays of king's landing, as he recants a tale as old as he: "i don't know if you've noticed, my lady, but i am an anomaly. if the stench of being a squid, as they so love to say here, does not disturb them, then it is simply the rest of me that does. whether i am amongst them or sequestered wherever my curiosities have taken me, i will always be 'far away from the rest' and it is never by chance. or choice.

"so, no," he concludes, breathing out a mirthless, despondent chuckle. as if his life, as earnest and little as it was, is a joke he's tired of laughing at. "i would not call it a habit. i would instead call it a manner of being and its inescapable consequence." the lord scratches the cat's chin and considers this: the piece of himself he's laid bare before her, vulnerable and true. perhaps too true, he realizes. "though maybe that is just me being dramatic. now that is a habit of mine, but i can scarcely help it. i do so love the sound of my own voice — it's quite a nice one."

amethysts stay on the lord's features ⸻ the way he stands, the ruggedness of his hair, the clothes her wears on his body, the little bit of information he shares. there is not much that visenya knows from the world around ( except what she has read in books, whose accounts can never be as trustworthy as what her own eyes see ) but she knows then that the lord's blood before her either runs with salt or snow. ❝ such a habit would have many think you have something against such gardens. and others might believe you when you say you are admiring it closely. ❞ there is a sort of poetry to destroying something beautiful, visenya supposes ⸻ whether it's from the inside or the outside. ❝ where is it that you call home? ❞

his questions momentarily transform him into her brother, her fingers growing more and more busy with the thought of it ⸻ vanarr would see it as a crime, for her to choose the company of a stray cat over the many lords that he wishes to have her make an impression on. laeya would think it a waste of time, the young celtigar doesn't doubt it. now, visenya has to wonder just where the lord before her means to go with his questions. ❝ unfortunately for my family, it is a habit i cannot seem to break. ❞ head tilts, breath escaping through forced relaxation. ❝ is it a habit of yours as well or did you just find yourself far away from the rest by chance? ❞

[saltbcrne]

harlon greyjoy, and the few rocks he calls home.

[saltbcrne]

𝐠𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐝𝐞: 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 - 𝐰𝐚𝐫

[saltbcrne]

as he is wont to do in front of others, and in general really, harlon pretends not to notice. it's funnier that way. funnier and easier, even if entirely futile an effort towards the man before him, who knows him a little too well. a thousand taunts flit through his mind then, each more crass than the last, ( he did mention riding, after all ), but none leave his lips. no, it seems harlon has spared him this time — proof that he can be chivalrous, too. "oh? sounds almost like you speak from experience, ser varian. shall i count you among those to be sorely disappointed?"

highcrested  helm,  gleaming  beneath  the  summer  sun,  is  slid  off  and  held  under  an  arm,  as  a  free  hand  runs  through  slick  black  hair,  dampened  from  a  day's  worth  of  jousting,  with  men  whose  pride  dragged  him  into  contests  of  arms.  dark  gaze  follows  the  direction  pointed  at  by  petals.  he  looks,  but  he  should've  known  better.  a  gallant  bow  of  the  head  towards  their  onlookers,  but  the  eyes  that  meets  harlon's  again  carry  a  different  message,  you  embarrass  me.  “  i  have  now.  ”  and  then,  the  unspoken  but  ever  so  loud  as  it  is  wry:  thank  you.  “  perhaps  they're  looking  at  you,  looking  at  me.  wondering  when  you'll  get  on  a  horse  to  ask  them  for  their  favour,  or  if  they'll  be  receiving  a  flower  from  you  instead.  ” 

[saltbcrne]

warmth and affection flooded the halls of his heart, washing away all the tension and discomfort that this trip of theirs had brought forth. if harlon loved anyone in this world, anyone at all, it was his dear sister, madilyn — and not just because she flattered him so. he had rolled his eyes and shook his head as she spoke, but there was no malice in it. there couldn't be, for it was clear as could be that her sweetness had worked as intended, as evidenced by the way his smile eased into one more genuine, dimples and all.

"oh, madi," he cooed, tucking the flower behind her ear. he'd made sure to pick one that matched her dress, because of course he did. nothing but the best and prettiest for his best and prettiest. "you are no spectacle. you are a beautiful, sweet, intelligent young woman. you've more substance than the entire lot of them; and i should know, i've suffered the displeasure of speaking to the lot of them."

realizing what he'd just said, harlon paused and scrunched his nose. "well. i suppose that is rare enough that it would make you a spectacle, actually ... but i refuse to concede on the fact that you could be right, because you're my little sister, and little sisters are never right." except for the times when they were, which in madi's case, was always. but who was keeping count? not harlon, who only wanted to tease her and so reached over to lightly pinch her arm.

all  by  her  herself  ,  madilyn  had  been  enjoying  the  bursts  of  color  and  sunshine  she  was  getting  in  king's  landing  .  there  was  no  comfort  of  pyke's  strong  winds  or  near  constant  waves  crashing  somewhere  in  the  distance  but  this  place  was  far  from  quiet  ,  the  buzzing  of  chatter  seemingly  never  ending  .  she  had  taken  to  the  garden  best  ,  a  beautiful  arrangement  of  flowers  and  plants  she'd  only  ever  read  about  ,  seen  gorgeous  drawings  of  .  a  maid  was  never  far  behind  but  she  didn't  mind  ,  as  she  didn't  bother  madi  much  .  startled  a  bit  by  her  brother's  presence  ,  she  whipped  her  head  to  face  him  as  he  began  to  tease  her  .  she  had  noticed  the  group  of  so  -  called  admirers  and  chalked  them  up  ,  instead  ,  as  southerners  ,  curious  to  see  a  greyjoy  dispelling  all  their  little  prejudices  of  barbarism  .  “  gawking  is  the  perfect  word  for  it  ,  har  ,  though  i  fear  you  give  them  more  credit  than  they  are  possibly  due  .  ”  madi  turned  her  head  to  look  directly  at  the  group  who  ,  in  turn  ,  nearly  broke  their  necks  to  look  away  .  she  fought  off  a  giggle  .  “  i  am  a  spectacle  .  plus  ,  you  are  the  one  everyone  desperately  wants  to  follow  around  ,  praying  that  you'll  drop  an  ounce  of  your  attention  their  way  .  ”

[saltbcrne]

harlon's lips twitched with the effort it took to conceal his shock, his eyes widening ever so slightly. that was … well, that was not the response he'd been expecting. true enough, yes, most certainly it was, but unexpected nonetheless. perhaps he was too used to lord loren's incessant nettling, and the way his ego never failed to pollute the air of every room he walked into. a walking curse, that man was. a curse that took over harlon's mind wherever the lions of casterly rock were concerned.

looking at the lord before him, he tried to find traces of loren in his voice, his words, and in whatever ruse he was surely playing at. finding none, harlon blinked once, then twice, before seemingly accepting this with a nod. a giggle, equal parts chuffed and thunderstruck, broke his silence then. perhaps this lord was no lion, but a common cat instead. he could work with that.

humming, harlon narrowed his eyes at him. "perhaps it would not be so intolerable to share the stage with a lannister as peculiar as yourself. i am rather generous, after all." no malice to be found in his velvety tone; only a subtle hint and tease to test the waters. "though, i must know, my lord: am i to expect the claws to come out now or later? i was hoping for a show."

There was a goblet of wine in Jarion's hand as he took a sip from it. He had been mostly watching the crowd, staying away from engaging in boring conversations with other lords. That was until someone approached him. Turning his head to look at the other, Jarion offered him a slight shrug of his shoulders. "I failed to notice that, but I'm not surprised." There was a small smirk on his face as he turned around to look at the group the other had mentioned. Jarion smiled at them for a moment, before turning to look at the other. "You know, they could be gawking at you as well, I believe they do that towards any attractive young lord that they see."

[saltbcrne]

harlon didn't have much experience with beasts. unruly and dastardly men, yes, but not ... actual beasts. he had made friends with a murder of crows on pyke and would give their furry little rat - catchers leftover morsels from dinner sometimes, sure, but those were small creatures. scout, who he eyed with no shortage of wonder, was no itty bitty thing. perhaps she was like her lady in that respect.

shifting his attention back to her keeper, he found himself chuckling at her words. "you could say that, my lady." she was smart, though that was no surprise. most people accepted or rebuffed his flattery without a second thought, and she had already more than proven that she was not like most. "does she allow others to pet her as you do?"

“they are admiring scout, or perhaps trying to discern whether i am a stark. i am told she gives me quite a northern appearance.” alarra’s mouth curved in amusement as she extended a hand to brush over the wolf’s gray-white fur. the animal responded by leaning more heavily against her leg, at ease even among the noise of the crowd waiting for the tournament to begin. “it’s silly, really. she’s not nearly as large as a direwolf.” 

she did not so much as glance at her so-called admirers, choosing instead to focus on the man who’d been brave enough to approach her despite the beast at her side. flower in hand, dark hair falling handsomely around his face, he seemed in good enough spirits that she allowed herself to tease him. “the question is, why did you notice them watching me, lord greyjoy? were you admiring my wolf as well?”