#ofsecondsons

[ofnymeros]

❝  if you  h u r t  my brother, I’LL KILL YOU.                                                                           I S W E A R i’ll kill you all.  ❞

–– rodrik + asher forrester ; brothers lost to war, lost to duty, lost to love. @ofsecondsons 

[gwynwhitehill]

closed starter for @ofsecondsons​ || the stark wedding celebration

Men, women, and children alike all danced and ate in celebration for the King in the North’s wedding to Mira Forrester, a name that slightly stung in Gwyn’s complicated history with the family. While none of House Whitehill was in attendance, as now the Lady of House Lake, she was all but required to be there. The only comfort she found is that she would have to retire early with her younger daughters, the older two who were running about with other children, and her infant wriggling in her arms. She made small talk with some other ladies and drank wine and plastered a smile on her face, but this night, and for so long before, it was all simply for show.

At the loud drop of a mug just behind her, little Rosie began to wail, and Gwyn quickly excused herself, slightly thankful for the escape, but not all too happy that her baby was frightened, even if by accident. Gwyn managed to find a quieter place outside one of the entrances, dark as well which made it easy for her to soothe and rock her young daughter. “Shhh, shh, little Rosie.” She murmured, humming as she swayed the baby, who quickly calmed. Gwyn gave a sigh of relief, enjoying the moment of peace, before she looked up and saw the shadow of a man that made her jump ever so slightly, luckily not enough to startle the little one she held. She squinted her eyes, still adjusting to the change in light, and her heart quickly sank into her stomach. Her face grew hot, tears pricked at her eyes. She almost didn’t want to say it out loud for fear it was a mistake, but she knew in her soul it wasn’t. “Asher? Is that you?”

[icekraken]

@ofsecondsons​

King’s Landing was a rightful shit city. Of all the places Theon had been forced to drag himself to on foot and horseback, this was by far the worst. What temporary alliance in place hardly mattered--to him the Lannisters were snakes, and he had no trust nor comfort in being within their walls awaiting the ships that would take them on. To make matters worse, he still wasn’t feeling well enough to fight. Euron had made his life hell as his captive, and while the bruises and cuts were fading, the damage further done to his hand and arm had yet to be mended to the point he could properly swing his sword or draw back an arrow. The best he could make do with, was a dagger. 

Already on his second glass of ale and making a point to ignore the number of people around him absentmindedly feasting and celebrating, Theon was considering heading back to the room he’d been given when he caught sight of Asher’s familiar form moving about the tables nearby. Last he’d seen him, he was struggling to come to Theon’s aid, very nearly losing his life in the process--though Theon had been convinced he had in the madness of the fray.

He rose from his place at the table, grabbed another full glass of ale near the massive keg, and approached the man to offer it. “I’d begun to worry. They told me you lived but not to what extent you were injured.” He said softly, offering a smile. “How are you?”

[ofhearths]

@ofsecondsons | beren + asher | in a dingy tavern

          in some ways, it was a godsend that smalljon was the golden son: their father hadn’t even noticed that beren had left the makeshift supper tables set in the northern camps. he had rolled his eyes a little too hard during the greatjon’s speech, excusing himself to go search for a decent tipple and conversation that didn’t make him set things on fire. so the busy tavern on the outskirts of king’s landing seemed like the ultimate gift - a welcome escape from his overachieving family and a future wife who seemed to have as much interest in him as he did her. and to its credit, the place was full of sellswords and cutthroats and probably the odd nobleman’s son too. this was definitely his lot. 

         dropping into a seat, he took a long swig from his horn of ale - then another, then another until the cup was empty and he was already reaching to pour himself a second. the barkeep had left him a jug all to himself ( beren thanked at least two of the old gods for that ), so he nursed his drink and made idle chat with any stranger he could find - laughing at their stories, and offering nothing in the way of his own. but he was reaching for the devastatingly empty jug, halfway between a crude joke and a roguish smile, when he noticed a man he swore he knew all too well. 

         “ asher forrester? ” beren started, walking over with all the surety of an unruly second son. they had been partners in crime until - well, until asher was punished for falling in love with the wrong person. that was the thing about the north, wasn’t it? it cared more for honour than love or life or anything else. “ i thought that was you - what in seven hells are you doin’ here? ”