#( im gonna cry but also they need help asdfasfdsa )

[wcrfcres]

you loved a fiction . dalton greyjoy — the first born son of the reaper of pyke , heir to the salt throne , ironborn personified , drowned god's endowment , carved by piety , forced by the tides , falls into the ragged trenches of his mind . the lady gysella harlaw ... no , lannister , blood no longer of sea and salt , but mortal red gloved and gold armored , growling like the lioness she made herself . she speaks , her lips moving , rage so archaic swelling beneath her skin , tugging and pulling until it was scarlet . yet the lord heir hears not one word , not a fucking articulation of the unending atrocities she had suffered from his inaction . that thing does not exist . the foaming , the ringing , and the creaking growing louder in his head . itch spreading from his wrist , crawling to his elbows , sharp pain making his fingers twitch . it still does not . something within him falls , like lumber crashing upon the ground without a sound . the screams lingered , some his own in his terror - ridden slumber , clawing his way from the clutches of his sheets so he may find air . chest tightening as he finds himself face to face with the sheer reality that nothing was and is real . that the pain he had lived with , the grappling sorrow he endured , was all of his doing , all for naught . he was right to swing his sword . destroy the mantel bannered by the iron islands as their unyielding devotion . but under the weight of his blade , it shattered fairly quick for men who declare themselves loyal and faithful . wasted are the years spent in solitude and penance , washing his skin of the blood and brutality he dared not carry to their shore out of respect . for what? a bride forged to bring him under their control . she was right , he was right . he was not a god then , no deity will falter the way he had , and be tricked into licking at wounds driven by his own daggers . no god wallows in self - pity and regret for a mortal who wears a mask . the drowned god salvaged him from making such a mistake , from remaining to be such a man . he was right to put his life in the hands of such a being , instead of a woman . his desire almost became his undoing . he would have delivered the lady harlaw to the halls himself , after peeling her crafted skin and undressing her act . it would have unleashed the unthinkable , sank the iron islands to the pits of the sea bed . i never cared for our god. and the blasphemy that poured from her very lips he once dreamed of claiming , the final arrow shot to his darkened heart .

he may speak one tongue , and dream in another now . he may , truly , allow himself — heart , body , mind , and soul , to be consumed by dominion , to bathed in iron , black , and b l o o d . if he cannot be a proper son , a proper husband , then he can be a kraken who would drink and swallow a deity that came before time itself . he had no other choice now , he must become a god ... if he cannot have peace , he will demand fear . ❝ i will have you do nothing , my lady . i hold no authority over your pride , your contentment , or the joys of your choices . those are not your husband's , or your father's , those are yours , ❞ he will bear the burden of delight , hopes , and anguish , as others have always seen fit . the young boy that thrived within him had and lost nothing , only clung to nonexistent object of desire and cause of regret that he used for excuses for his hesitations . and now , he is rid of it . freedom tasted like blood and sea water , just like every emotion his mortal frame can conjure . ❝ as are mine . ❞ ❝ though i'm afraid i owe you an apology for something else entirely , ❞ his heart ached and quivered as he yet remained a man . goal unrealized , he is left to wade through the thickened , bloodied swamps of the realm until his time to leave knocks upon the vengeance' sails . ❝ i seem to have mistaken you for another , lady lannister . ❞ years had made him skillful at the art of being dismissive , embodying callousness to survive the moral shards . dalton did what he can to keep what little memory of his past he can to live of . and to know a portion of what keeps him humane is a lie , there is no war vicious and wounding enough to quell the agony he is sitting with . ❝ i spent years unable to forgive myself for choosing faith over love , for causing pain . but i realized there is no cause for regret , i owed an apology to one who does not exist , or so i've been told . ❞ he is desperate to find grace , even a drop of courtesy , amidst the frustration cutting his skin like the edges of broken glass . he walks past the lady , not an ounce of warmth to spare . his heart beating furiously in his chest as he pulls the dagger off the wall , a sense of ridicule slapping his face as he resumed his place before her . ❝ how foolish of me , to come offering my life and the truth only she deserved , bearing my soul to ... fiction . ❞ dalton , with utmost gentleness takes gysella's hand once again , places the dagger upon it . turning his back to supply himself with whatever liquor he could find . shaking hands pouring everywhere but the cup before he throws the bottle aside , glass and red shattered and spilled everywhere .

She  flinches  as  the  dagger  lands  in  the  wood,  shoulders  caving,  arms  wrapped  around  chest.  So  easily,  it  could  have  been  her,  and  yet  he  had  spared  her  this.  Spared  her  the  final  indignity  of  taking  her  life,  like  he  had  taken  her  future,  and  her  reputation.  Was  it  being  spared?  She  wasn't  sure  anymore.  Breath  is  little  more  than  a  ragged  gasp,  as  though  the  blade  had  sunk  into  her  heart,  because  it  might  as  well  have,  the  way  it  stilled  in  her  chest,  pain�� pouring  from  her  like  the  ocean  she  had  taken  such  lengths  to  run  from.  Run,  she  had,  far  and  high,  to  the  halls  of  Casterly  Rock  where  the  sea  was  a  distant  blue,  a  hushed  whisper,  where  she  could  forget  the  truth  of  her  blood.  She  buried  the  bodies  within  her.  The  babe  born  with  a  purpose.  The  girl  raised  to  be  perfect.  The  woman  scorned.  Each  one,  wrapped  with  cloth  and  buried  in  the  ground,  because  she  no  longer  saw  herself  as  worthy  of  the  Drowned  God's  halls.  That  was  for  warriors,  and  yet  when  a  fight  had  presented  itself,  she  had  fled,  a  coward  with  her  tail  between  her  legs.  Why  hadn't  she  fought  for  him?  Why  hadn't  she  arrived  on  Pyke  like  an  oncoming  storm,  a  tempest  wrapped  in  flesh,  and  demanded  answers?  Why  hadn't  she  demanded  he  put  her  aside,  and  fulfil  the  promise  made?  Why  hadn't  she  gone  to  him?

Cowardice.  It  was  a  mortal  sin  in  their  home,  a  worse  fate  than  death.  She  had  been  scared  of  what  she  would  find,  and  scared  that  he  would  send  her  away.  Worse,  scared  she  would  see  him,  happy  with  another  woman  on  his  arm,  and  have  to  live  with  the  image  forever.  To  be  his  friend  had  meant  to  wish  him  the  best,  but  not  at  the  cost  of  her  own  pride.  Surely,  he  could  never  have  asked  her  to  out  such  a  concern  to  the  side  for  his  own  gain.  In  her  mind,  she  had  seen  visions  of  him  laughing  to  his  bride  and  about  the  silly  Harlaw  girl  who  had  placed  the  wagon  before  the  horse  and  put  trust  into  him.  Chuckle  over  her  wounds  and  then  never  think  of  her  again,  when  her  entire  life  had  been  a  commitment  to  her  house,  and  to  the  Iron  Islands,  and  him.  Not  once,  had  she  considered  her  own  desires  in  this,  in  search  of  power  for  her  family.  For  the  good  of  her  people,  she  had  considered  her  future  worthy  sacrifice,  and  a  lifetime  spent  with  friend  had  not  seemed  so  bad.  Now  she  knew  what  true  devotion  looked  like,  quiet  moments  in  mornings  that  she  never  could  have  shared  with  Dalton,  and  yet  she  missed  a  future  that  had  never  been  hers  to  begin  with and  a  boy  who  no  longer  existed.

"You  loved  a  fiction.  A  creature  created  to  turn  your  eye,  a  girl  trussed  and  moulded  into  whatever  you  wanted.  That  thing  never  existed.  It  still  does  not."  What  was  she  now?  It  was  hard  to  understand,  even  when  looking  in  the  mirror  her  reflection  seemed  to  shift.  Lady  of  Casterly  Rock.  Girl  from  Ten  Towers.  Figurehead  at  the  bow  of  the  ship,  face  carved  into  perpetual  wrath.  He  captained  ships,  she  was  cursed  to  forever  be  chained  to  them  instead.  "I  never  cared  for  our  god.  He  can  keep  his  halls  and  his  guests  and  fight  against  storms,  for  I  have  no  interest  in  spending  an  eternity  surrounded  by  the  same  old  men  who  destroyed  us."  She  takes  a  step  back,  in  search  of  air  because  she  feels  as  though  he  has  ripped  it  all  from  the  room.  Tears  cooled  on  her  face,  visible  evidence  of  her  weakness.  Dalton  was  her  weakness,  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  because  it  took  every  fibre  of  her  being  not  to  go  to  him,  as  it  had  after  the  attack,  and  when  she  knew  him  to  be  in  King's  Landing,  and  every  other  time  before  it.  "I  believed  it  to  be  me.  Father  believed  it  to  be  me.  That  a  merchant  girl  had  somehow  ensnared  you  must  have  meant  that  I  was...  Failing,  in  some  way.  I  was  interrogated,  and  mocked,  and  then  just  expected  to  accept  blame  for  actions  not  my  own.  Not  my  own!  How  dare  you  call  me  desirable  in  the  privacy  of  this  room,  when  to  the  families  of  our  isles,  you  cast  me  as  damaged  lot?"

"I  needed  my  friend,  the  one  I  thought  I  could  count  on,  and  yet  you  were  the  cause  of  all  my  pain.  I  would  have  been  a  good  wife  to  you.  I  never  would  have  hurt  you,  the  way  you  have  mortally  wounded  me.  You  may  not  have  plunged  that  dagger  into  my  chest  tonight,  Dalton,  but  you  have  killed  me  just  the  same.  To  ease  your  own  conscience,  to  release  some  of  your  burden,  you  once  again  place  it  on  me.  How  can  I  ever  stand  by  your  side,  without  looking  weak?  Like  I  will  accept  any  humiliation  thrust  upon  me,  the  scapegoat,  or  the  doormat.  You  and  I  could  start  from  the  beginning.  From  the  beginning  of  time.  But  the  court,  our  families,  they  remember.  They  will  not  forget  so  easily.  What  would  you  bid  me  do,  my  liege?  Just  accept  it?  You  sound  like  my  father."  The  words  are  the  deepest  insult  she  thought  she  could  throw,  the  same  implication  from  Dalton's  plea  as  had  been  brought  to  her  doorstep  when  she  was  found  to  be  searching  mainlands  for  a  spouse.  To  forget.  To  be  placid  lake,  where  she  wanted  to  be  toiling  Northern  Sea,  monsters  hidden  within  it's  depths,  waiting  to  sink  the  unsuspecting.  Scythe  had  become  siren,  singing  songs  so  sweetly  that  she  could  not  be  ignored,  not  only  to  cement  her  own  position,  but  to  prove  that  she  could.  "What  would  you  have  me  do,  Dalton?  Would  you  have  me  give  up  the  last  scraps  of  my  pride  for  you?  I  am  glad  not  to  have  married  you,  for  my  husband  would  never  ask  such  a  thing  of  me."