shelbs
oswin

It is currently WINTER in WESTEROS during the year 303 AC. The new moon cycle marks a full twenty years since the Mad King was murdered, and his son King Rhaegar ascended the Iron Throne in his place. Though the year is fresh, war in the Narrow Sea has left the Free Cities of Volantis and Tyrosh in ashes, and the Long Night continues to beckon from the Northern fringes of the Seven Kingdoms. With the Queen Lyanna presumed dead, the citizens of the realms look only to each other for survival.
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 rose garden filled with thorns, euralia <3
FALIA FLOWERS
 Posted: Apr 24 2017, 03:04 PM
Quote
nica is Offline
18 years old
REACH
crow's eye
Hewett
Oakenshield
Bastard


T
he ocean breeze lifted copper strands, sending loose curls roiling as they caught the late afternoon light. Perhaps it was no longer afternoon, but early evening, as the sun had dipped close enough to caress the horizon, its light dimmed from the brightness of a clear winter's day, to the warm bronze spill of luminescence that dripped over the gray stones of the keep, tinting them orange, and gilding the cresting waves from silver to gold. The girl, too, leaning precariously over the crenelations, thin form twisted lithely over the cold stone, was painted all in shades of copper, gold, and bronze, a look of wonder carved upon girlish features. Her hazel eyes were wide, her lips parted in both a grin and a gasp of wonderment, her cheeks flushed from the cool air. Perhaps she wasn't quite dressed for the weather, as she was, wrapped in wisps of silk, draped in gems that sparkled, in gold that gleamed even brighter in the early evening sun. But the cold wind mattered not to Falia, and she was unencumbered by excess modesty. And why should she be? She was beautiful, and she knew it, and there was no shame in her bones.

Before, the ocean had seemed smothering; a wall, a barrier between her and the world. A moat. Now? Now each swell of blue-green water whispered of opportunity. Of freedom. The lapping waves against the red hull of the Silence were each sirens' songs, promising an end to drudgery. Falia had never felt so free; had never felt so alive. Her favorite place had become the ramparts that overlooked the sea, where the salt breeze ran fingers through her long hair, pricked at the gauze of her gowns. Where she'd met him, as she defiantly watched, defiantly awaited what might've been her doom. But it hadn't been. It had been her boon. Falia had gone from the literal red-headed step-child, maid to the trueborn Hewetts in ill-fitting shifts, hair caught in severe braids and tight twists to wearing the finest slips of silks and furs, hair a copper tumble, watching as her step-mother and sisters served the motley crew of the Silence.

She relished the shift.

Falia was ivy, climbing stones and ramparts to seek the sky, the high breeze. Before, she'd not been allowed up top, and only touched the clouds on the rare occasions she managed to slip from the watchful gaze of her 'superiors'. Now, she was allowed where she wished, when she wished. A whim caught hold of her fancy, and the lithe girl flipped her slippers from her feet, turning around to lean against the merlon, kicking her legs out to send the silk shoes flying across the stone. Just as swiftly, she flung a leg up, and climbed upon the merlon, stretching her arms out wide as the transparent fabric of her gown waved about her form, and she let loose a high, tumbling laugh. She turned, spinning upon one tip-toed foot, facing the next merlon, and lept, landing lightly upon the cold gray stone. The ground was a dizzying distance below, the bustling smallfolk, servants, and pirates appearing almost like insects from her great height.

They were all unimportant. Perhaps that was the real draw of the sky: from up there, everything, and everyone else was petty. A nobody. Like she used to be. But no longer; the light of the sun now graced her form. She heard his footsteps before she saw him; before she deigned to spin around. That gait was unmistakable, a slow, swaggering saunter upon booted feet; the boots not so new as to have a clipped sound, but something deeper and softer. As harsh as the salt waves against the shore. Years of sneaking around the keep had honed Falia's hearing to something preternatural; she'd an unrivaled ear for detail, and an unrivaled memory for particulars. Falia waited as he approached, feigning obliviousness. At the last moment before his approach would be entirely obvious to just anyone, Falia pirouetted to face Euron. The Crow's Eye. Her Lord. Her Captain. She curtsied from atop the crenellation, the motion not the practiced poise of her step-sisters, but slightly clumsy, a little too flouncy.

"M'Lord," she greeted.

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EURON GREYJOY
 Posted: May 6 2017, 08:57 PM
Quote
SHELBS is Offline
37 years old
IRON ISLANDS [A]
CROW'S EYE
HOUSE GREYJOY
Pyke
Lord


Crow's Eye. Euron stared at his reflection, the piercing blue eye unencumbered by the leather patch absorbing every detail of his own face. Mean, some called his features. Hard and cruel, others always whispered. Black and corrupt, sodden and foul to the very core, one merely had to pry back his eye patch to see how obsidian the soul was beneath. Reaching up to his chin, Euron scratched his growing beard, tilting up his jaw to appraise the angles of his hairline, the length of the dark brown strands, how coarse they both looked and felt against his calloused fingers. Long ago had he learned how to shave without a mirror, using only the reflection in his own blade, but Crow's Eye had not shaven since first returning to Westeros. Other things on his mind, perhaps, than what the man staring back at him through Lord Humfrey's mirror looked like. Smirking at himself, as if enjoying watching his own ideas flicker through his one-eyed gaze, Euron reached next to him, retrieving a gleaming pair of silver scissors from the small tabletop. Once, twice, he opened and closed the handle, savoring the sound of the smooth steel blades against each other, grinning even as he angled them to his own face.

Snip. Snip. Snip. With every soft sheer of the scissors, the nearly-black tufts of hair floated to the floor at his feet. Snip. Snip. Snip. It took only minutes. Though he still sported a fairly grown swatch of facial hair by the time he was finished, no longer did his beard curl at the ends, no longer did the overgrown strands seem as dark now that his face could be seen beneath them. Setting aside the pair of barber's blades, Euron's single blue eye darted over the freshly groomed angles of his own face. There. He looked like a lord. Perhaps not like the fat, pompous lord whose room he currently inhabited, but a Lord Greyjoy. The Lord of Pyke. He would have his brothers, nephews and even his disobedient niece look upon him and see nothing less. Paying his reflection one last, lilted smirk, he turned away from the unblemished mirrors of Lord Humfrey and moved to arm himself with the weapons that remained laid out upon the bed behind him. His favored pair of shortswords that he wore sheathed across the back of his shoulders, a shining steel dirk that slipped comfortably into his boot, and lastly, an onyx-encrusted dagger he had picked up from the high city of Norvos; tucked preciously away at his waist.

His fleet would soon be ready, with Silence to lead them from the Shields and to the very islands waiting for them. Not for the first time he imagined the looks on his brothers' faces, and though he was unable to picture how old or how ugly Balon looked after his years of imprisonment, Euron could carve out his expression from memory. Surely Victarion looked the same. Did Aeron still resemble a moldy child? The thought made his dark blue lips twitch into a mirthful half-crescent, turning his head to glance out of the large open windows nearby. Coming near, he knew he would not miss this view. One could accuse Crow's Eye of exotic, if not opulent tastes, but the luxuries of Oakenshield, the reflective blue waters that glistened at its shores, the fat, gluttonous knights that he'd put to the sword made him feel almost sick to his stomach. It was not silk or satin he wished to wear, nor suckling pig or pigeon pie he wished to overfeed himself from, and even the castle itself seemed soft at its corners. Euron wanted Pyke, and all of its hard, dampened bricks. He wanted the cold grey seas of the Iron Islands that he'd been for so long exiled from. He wished to gorge himself on the plates of smoked fish and shelled crab in his own hall, and retire drunk to bed with Falia waiting for him. Falia.

A shadow flickered at the lower peripherals of his gaze. Far below on the ground, overlapping those that strolled past, was the stretched outline of a woman's silhouette swaying upon the gravel. He could see long locks of hair twittering about a pair of slender shoulders, and the fine long legs that were unhidden beneath a fabric so thin that it hardly created its own shadow. With Lord Humfrey's bedchambers being nestled at the uppermost level of the castle, Euron could see that the woman who cast her lovely figure below was standing but a simple flight of stairs above him. Like smoke he dissipated from the open window, leaving the finely furnished apartments without a word, ignoring the few servants that cowered in his wake. Surely they all continued to wonder where their lord was... but oh, what he had in store for them. For all of us. Ascending out of the castle and to the battlements above, Crow's Eye paused if only for a moment, a brief gust of cool ocean wind filtering through his loose black locks. He could smell her on the breeze, her skin, her hair, the finest motes of powder on her cheeks and shoulders... approaching her, looking up to meet her smiling face, Euron could not help but offer a sly grin in return.

"Sweet lady," he crooned, bowing almost dramatically, making a jest out of the customs that so strongly ruled the Reach with its dead, chivalrous clutch. His one-eyed gaze raked over her thinly-veiled bodice, drinking in every curve like he would from the chalice of his shade of the evening. Except where that special, mysterious brew left his lips a tinge of navy, Falia left him feeling almost flushed with crimson. "Looking out upon your kingdom, are you?" A smirk painted his mouth, stepping closer. "Do not grow so accustomed to the sight, my girl. Soon you will trade these battlements for the even higher cliffs of Pyke... if you are to accidentally splatter yourself on any rocks below," Euron extended a coarse palm up to her, not an offering, but a silent command. "I prefer it be there. A mess I wouldn't have to clean."
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FALIA FLOWERS
 Posted: May 7 2017, 11:56 PM
Quote
nica is Offline
18 years old
REACH
crow's eye
Hewett
Oakenshield
Bastard


Perhaps, when they grew old, they'd look back upon this moment as one of the first. Her in her pale gown, staring at the setting sun, cheeks flushed by the wind and cold, lips tinted with rouge. Falia was certain she was quite the vision, perched upon the parapet as she was, the ocean a blaze of coppers and golds behind her. She'd spent too long in the shadows, wilting, her petals falling one by one. This was her time in the sun, and she shone. There were none left to dim her shine. None who would, none who could. Her Lord had made certain of that when he trussed up her father dearest like a suckling pig, made her step-sisters and mother to serve his men clad only in what the Gods had graced them with. Of course, that last had been her idea. She smiled at the memory, the expression predatory upon her girlish features. She'd caught his eye upon these very parapets, but she'd latched her claws into his weathered skin with that suggestion. Hazel eyes glittered.

"Sweet lady."

A high-pitched laugh was startled out of the girl as she grinned broadly, watching Euron's mockery of everything she'd once idolized and held dear. Perhaps, if anyone else had made that mockery, she might've been offended. Recent were the days when she'd dreamed of some knight from faraway lands to scoop her atop his white stallion, and take her far away from here, far away from everything she'd known. The knights in her dreams were always beautiful, young, chivalrous to a fault, all courtly bows, 'my lady's', begging for a token of her esteem, and gifts of wildflowers, plucked from the roadside, presented with a flourish and a bow. Falia was increasingly finding that idealized image of her mind a boring one. Suddenly growing serious, Falia posed, arms akimbo, hips to the side, chin up, gazing off at some distant point beyond the horizon. She felt as the wind plucked at her curls, sending them tumbling about her face, and at her dress, tearing at the thin gauze, and alternatively molding it to her figure, or fluttering away from her trim form. She held this stance for a moment before the grin that crawled over rosy lips threatened to overtake her and she broke the pose, turning once more to face the Crow's Eye, giggling girlishly.

"They never let me up here, before," the girl said wistfully, turning her head once more to gaze out upon the sea. She stretched her arms out like wings, feeling the wind wrapping about them. "I'm making up for lost time." she replied, matter-of-factly, with a small nod, as if to reinforce her point. 'Soon you will trade these battlements for the even higher cliffs of Pyke.' That ocean that for so long seemed to be a moat to hem her in, isolating her in this castle, trapped within what most would have dubbed 'paradise', once more seemed like a wide-open road. She'd see the world. Or, at the very least, she'd see someplace that wasn't Oakenshield. Another girlish giggle escaped her lips at the Crow's Eye's next words, and she took his hand, her delicate fingers overtaken by his rough, callused hand. With catlike grace, the girl lept from the crenellations, landing lightly before the Ironborn, gown fluttering about her.

"Would you not catch me?" she asked, a sudden vulnerability about her wide, eyes, her naivete and youth suddenly painfully obvious. Upon the ground, she didn't feel quite so invincible, looking up upon Lord Greyjoy, as opposed to down. She felt fragile beside his relative bulk. Breakable, like a trinket laid upon a mantle to be seen, but not touched, lest it fall and shatter. She raised a hand to caress his jawline, lightly running her fingers along the growth that remained there, though it was no longer long enough to tangle the slender digits in. "The other look made you look wild," she crooned, voice husky, as she stepped toward him, tiptoeing upon bare feet. "But this way, you look regal." Her other hand tangled through his long black locks, silky and coarse; they too caught the copper light spilled by the setting sun, sparks of fire amongst coals. "When are we going to Pyke?" she asked, tiptoeing in order to murmur the words right against his own lips, barely a breath between them. Falia did not know much of the politics involved, only that her Captain was going to claim what was rightfully his. And she would be his salt wife, standing by his side. "I long to see what's beyond these shores," she whispered, voice sultry, implying far more than mere travel.
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EURON GREYJOY
 Posted: Jun 7 2017, 08:47 PM
Quote
SHELBS is Offline
37 years old
IRON ISLANDS [A]
CROW'S EYE
HOUSE GREYJOY
Pyke
Lord


Like a sweet song from the plush lands of Yi Ti, her girlish, if not childish laugh sprung out from between her rosy lips and washed through his ears as if the soothing Jade Sea itself. Euron did not smile up at her at first, his single eye of striking cerulean merely waiting for her obedience, watching for any sign of her long legs lilting towards him, her slender hips angling out from the edge if only in search of his embrace. An eyebrow twitched upwards when she spread her arms, like a young foolish bird ready to take its first flight into the fiery orange sky… yet he finally smirked when he realized it would certainly be her last, should she attempt it now. “For good reason,” he chided gently, taking a step closer, as if expecting her to lose balance and fall from the ledge any moment. He wondered how fast her dress would rip, if it was the only thing he could grab… would he even try? “And how do you suppose I feel,” his coarse palm enclosed around hers, his fingers still unrelenting even as she leapt down before him. “Making up for all the years you were not at my side?” Euron’s blue-tinged lips curved with another smile, a smile that seemed to know things he would not share with Falia, things that only made the smile grow even further towards his half-concealed gaze. “You rob me of my own sunset, when you are up here, and not in my bed below…”

And what a crude awakening she would have, he thought humorously, when she learned the skies above the Iron Islands were eternal shades of grey; light to dark, then light again. The gold and orange hues of what she saw now would be but a distant memory soon enough, smothered by what would be her kingdom of Pyke itself. The day could not come faster for him. “Catch you?” He asked, almost incredulous, exhaling a trickling laugh that came from between his mouth like fog over water. Freeing his hand from hers, Euron lifted it to the side of her freckled face, cradling the angular cheek as if she were made of the most breakable of glass. How he adored the girl. “You have so much to learn, my sweet,” he crooned, leaning forth to put a soft, whisper-like kiss to her mouth, almost like a father would his own daughter. The hunger that flashed in his eye, though, after stealing that tentative taste, was unlike anything a man should have for his child, and the way her fingers ran through his newly-cropped beard made his gut churn with its unsated appetite. For a brief moment he relaxed fully under her touch, rumbling quietly in approval as she praised him. Her flattery would all be repaid in kind, he knew all too well.

“They will know me as king soon enough,” he promised her, enjoying the way the shortened strands felt on his face and against her fingertips. Regal, she’d said. He enjoyed the sound of that. Especially on her lips, and the way they felt as they hovered close, teasing him with her curiosity, her desire for Pyke, as if she longed for his home as much as he himself did. Drowned God, Euron could take her upon these very battlements, and let her moans and her screams of passion echo for all those of Oakenshield to hear. Never mind the bell that was rung atop the barracks… all they needed was Falia as Crow’s Eye parted her legs and forced his way inside of her. Perhaps he could make Pyke itself hear her cries once he pushed her to climax. “There is still much to do,” he sighed, his words breathing upon the soft mouth that lingered at the very corners of his own. “Many ships of your father’s fleet suffered hull damage when I arrived,” he reminded her, “I expect repairs to finish within the next fortnight… I will not arrive on Pyke with tattered men on broken decks.” A taste of venom seeped into his syllables, but as he ran a lock of Falia’s hair between his thumb and index finger, Euron seemed to compose himself.

“I long to see it, as well, my dear. And I long to see my brothers thrown from its ramparts.” His nephews would follow them, if Euron found their demise necessary, but for now he hoped he might rule the Iron Islands with his appointed kin at his side. Rodrik, he knew, would likely have to join his father, but Donel and Theon? Crow’s Eye always held a soft spot for them, those most unlike Balon and Victarion, and perhaps even Asha might find a place in Falia’s service. In all of Euron’s travels, having unearthed the known world’s treasures and excavated its most sacred of places, he had never seen such a finer image than his intended future. “Just a small while longer, beloved,” leaning away from her, he took her hand, turning to guide her back inside the castle. “We cannot abandon Oakenshield too soon, of course. We must decide what to do with your dear father…” his leather boots made a sound with each step upon the stone stairs, followed by the much softer padding of Falia's own bare soles. How he could not wait to hear it upon the rocks that made the halls of Pyke. "And what of your lady stepmother?"

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FALIA FLOWERS
 Posted: Aug 12 2017, 11:06 PM
Quote
nica is Offline
18 years old
REACH
crow's eye
Hewett
Oakenshield
Bastard


It was so sweet to know he cared. Falia's lips twisted into a simpering smile; her hazel eyes glittered brightly. His rough hand gripped her own, much smaller one, the calluses born of rope and warfare rough against the softer calluses of her own hands, merely the evidence of laundering and mischief. Down from the precipice, she felt less like she could conquer the world, and more as if it was she herself getting conquered. His 'smiling eye' glittered at her, like a summer sea, blue, deep, and endless. She giggled again, the sound high-pitched and girlish. Good reason, perhaps. But even now, would she truly mind falling from these heights, to soar downwards? To feel the wind in her hair as the plummeted towards the earth? What greater freedom could there be than that last fall? "Bereft, I'd imagine," Falia replied, light, feminine voice utterly confident; any trace of her common-born heritage banished from her accent with purpose. She sounded every bit the lady her step-sisters were, and she knew she possessed twice the beauty; that the copper of her hair rivaled the spilled bronze of the sun that set over the Sunset Sea, the twists of her form rivaled the silvery pillow-maids of Lys. Falia ran delicate fingers from her Lord's collarbone, and down his chest, stepping even closer. "There is no time like the present to rectify that, my Lord," she crooned.

A soft gasp escaped rosy lips at his words. Was he not her Captain? Her Lord and Savior? Hazel eyes were wide in naive surprise, the expression echoing that of a doe chanced unawares upon a forest path; wide-eyed, with an air of innocence. Caught in her tracks, trapped in that single-eyed gaze; she was swirling in the undertow contained in the oceans of his gaze. But he was caressing her cheek, the rough pads of his fingers surprisingly gentle against her skin. The dread that had uncoiled somewhere deep within her guts calmed, and spiraled back into its resting place; like a serpent that lurked beneath the depths of the sea. Falia had spent too much of her life as a disposable distraction; sure, she caught the eyes of the knights that passed through Oakenshield, but never their hearts. But Euron...? She'd sunk her claws into his flesh, holding him to her, keeping that glittering eye affixed to her, and her alone. Her sisters were no longer capable of causing a man to stray from her, and who did she have to thank for that? Her Lord. Falia relaxed under his touch, melting, heart fluttering at the chaste brush of his lips against her own. She had nothing to fear. It was a jest. He would catch her, were she to tumble.

"King Euron," she murmured, lips a breath away from his own. "Your Grace," she said, rolling the words around her tongue, getting a taste for the unfamiliar syllables. "King of Salt and Stone." Falia drew back a bit, to get a better look at his face, at those handsome, angular features carved in sharp relief; the dark brows that knitted above a face that was equally cruel and beautiful; the contrast between light skin and ebony hair. "You already look the part, my Lord. Or should I start saying 'your Grace'?" The glitter in her eyes was not entirely pure; a darkness hid behind her sharp gaze. Falia had always been something of a mummer; acting was second nature to the girl. Hiding the violence in her nature was something she'd learned at a young age; disguising the venom upon her tongue with honey, tempering her sharp edges to a dull gleam. However, with Euron, she felt less of a need to brush that violence away, to hide the darkness within her gaze. As pretty as his words were (to her, at any rate), she saw the cruelty that flowed just beneath that veneer. Perhaps it was that shared shadow that drew the two together more than anything else. Falia nodded her head at his complaints; practicalities had never been her forte. She'd always preferred to sit aside and let others plan the technicalities; after all, what input would she be capable of adding?

Falia's lips widened into a smirk at Euron's comments about his brothers. Perhaps that was another reason they flowed so well together; hatred for their blood relations. "That would be satisfying, wouldn't it?" she replied, gaze somewhere far off. "Hearing their screams as they fall to the rocks below." She wasn't talking about Euron's brothers, not any more. Once more, strong fingers gripped her small hand, and Falia followed obediently, bare feet padding softly upon the cold stones below. Her slippers lay forgotten; abandoned like a child's toys after a new distraction caught her eye. "My dear father?" Falia giggled. "What of him?" she asked, tilting her head, birdlike, copper strands obscuring an eye. "You're Lord of Oakenshield now, are you not? That leaves him, what? As nothing." The acid that lined her tones was subtle, nearly obscured by the lightness in her voice. "As for the Lady Hewett, well..." Falia's smirk widened, even as her hazel eyes narrowed to dark slits. "Your men deserve a reward, do they not?" Falia's voice was as innocent as the driven snow; pure and clean. "After all, they worked hard to gain Oakenshield, did they not? And there is much more to go. I doubt Pyke will fall easily." She shrugged her slender shoulders. "She's not much of a prize, I daresay, but I suspect she struggles prettily."

The smile that followed these words was sugary sweet.
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EURON GREYJOY
 Posted: Sep 25 2017, 07:33 PM
Quote
SHELBS is Offline
37 years old
IRON ISLANDS [A]
CROW'S EYE
HOUSE GREYJOY
Pyke
Lord


His eye flashed, like lightning upon a tropical sea's surface. "Betrayed," he corrected her, his tongue stiff behind freshly groomed lips, tightening even the voice that came rumbling from the pits of his throat. As her palm came to trail over his collarbone, so, too, did one of his hands come to the small of her back, flattening just above the curve of her buttocks and forcing her closer against him. Almost as if to keep her there, away from any temptation to return to the castle’s edge. Only he would dictate if and when it was time for Falia to meet her end. Nothing, and certainly no one else would ever be given the power… much less the girl herself. Allowing her a simple, perhaps vaguely simpering smirk, Euron paused for a brief moment in silence, considering his paramour’s proposal. And who would stop him, if he decided to take her upon these very parapets? To flatten her against the cold stone behind her, and open her long legs for all to see? The small kiss he placed upon her lips, the way she called him king, filling his ears with his royal address only made his groin fill with a surge of desire that a slight swell even began to grow between them. It would be all too easy to claim her here and now. Capturing the sharp line of her jaw with his hand, he forced her face closer to his own, his rough mouth hovering over the supple planes of hers. A small grin framed the next kiss he planted. “Say it again,” he whispered, though the command was no less powerful, coated with the rising heat of his breath.

It was only the thought of his brothers, Balon and Victarion, perhaps even Aeron, crying out in vengeance as they plummeted to their deaths, that pulled him away from Falia’s embrace. Though his fingers left brief, white-hot imprints in the side of her jaw, he watched as they quickly refilled with blood, turning from a pressed pale to instead a flushed crimson. “It will be,” he corrected again, the cerulean depths of his smiling eye glittering with amusement. If one looked close enough, they could likely see the very image of his brothers scattered across the jagged rocks of Pyke, as if Euron himself was summoning their deaths into being. “I can only think of one sound just as sweet,” her lock of hair was like silk between the pads of his thumb and index finger, soothing his thoughts and softening even the mischievous smirk still upon his mouth. Desire flickered across his expression, a flash of light on an otherwise dark palette, but it was there it stopped.

Talk of her father and stepmother, however, only produced a new, vile sort of glimmer upon his face. “Aye, and my first act as lord..” he turned, taking her hand and leading her away from the crenellations. His calloused fingers gave hers a gentle squeeze. “Aside from claiming its favorite daughter, of course,” he brought her slender knuckles up to his lips, kissing them as they walked inside. “Will be to find some place suitable for my predecessor to hang from.” Perhaps Hewett would fare better stripped naked and thrown to his dogs. Perhaps he could be a gift to the Drowned God, and tossed from the side of the Silence with irons around his ankles. Perhaps he could allow Falia to discern her father’s fate, instead. After all, would it not be fitting? Crow’s Eye enjoyed such self-fulfilling ironies. “Dear girl,” he chided softly, making a particular tsk sound with his tongue. “If I show my men a lady like your stepmother will be theirs upon each pillage,” Euron shook his head, almost mocking the idea with the smirk that took its place across his darkened features. “We will never see Pyke.” The girl was right, Lady Hewett was hardly a reward, not something his men would fight for… much less see him all the way to Pyke. A toy, mayhaps. An outlet to quell the frustrations of his crew. But they would bore of her soon, he knew, and leave her either to drown in the waters surrounding Oakenshield or perhaps one might even find her useful enough to keep below deck. A warm hole for the cold journey to the Iron Islands.

“Your sisters, however…” quietly he began to descend the stairs, the cool stone beneath each boot echoing down with every step. Hand-in-hand with Falia, he turned his eye to espy her gliding beside him. “May yet have purpose.” By the time they reached the next level, Euron’s fingers had escaped the grip of hers instead for the soft rise of her rump, his palm resting over the ample swells as he led them towards their chambers. His chambers. Any sign of Lord Hewett had long since been erased from the tapestries, walls and portraits that once decorated the walls within, now nothing more than plunder for his men’s coffers. With each passing night, they even began to smell less and less like Falia’s stepmother and more and more like Falia herself, the older woman’s perfumes fading as if her very life force. Her stepdaughter’s, of course, only grew. “Come,” he beckoned, leading her through the bedchamber doors, ignoring the fearful servants still accompanying them. “I would look upon my sunset, before darkness comes.”
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FALIA FLOWERS
 Posted: Dec 16 2017, 02:37 AM
Quote
nica is Offline
18 years old
REACH
crow's eye
Hewett
Oakenshield
Bastard


The soft curves of her lithe form molded seamlessly against the sharp planes of Euron's body as he drew her closer, possessively. A moment of resistance stiffened her muscles before she succumbed; a token rebellion, a spark of that fire she'd held all her life. But she was safe here, in his arms. Here, she was loved. She melted into his rough embrace, hazel eyes glittering as she gazed up upon Euron's one smiling eye. "Never betrayed..." Falia murmured, tones soft, intimate. In many ways, the copper-haired waif was a contradiction; she desired the safety of being under control, and yet desired the freedom to feel the air tangle through her locks. A life of control had left her restless and wild, and yet, she craved the comfort of a lock and key. She slipped back into the present as lips were upon her own, light at first, and then again, more controlling, more commanding this time, rough fingers upon the soft, fair skin of her jaw. 'Say it again.' The harsh timbre of his whisper was as if a winter wind caught the trees; a rushing, cold sound. "King Euron," Falia repeated breathlessly, voice low and husky, more air than sound.

Will be. A simpering smirk curled upon Falia's rose-kissed lips, hazel eyes sparked; the expression somehow tip-toeing the line between sugary sweet, like peach melomel, and dark like a sailor's black rum. Perhaps he was talking about his own brothers, and that was all well and fine, but it wasn't their screams that echoed within Falia's mind's eye. A gasp escaped Falia's lips at his next words, so suggestive were they, his rough calluses drawing through her hair at the time. The expression was wide-eyed, lips open, ready, and willing. Falia knew what she was doing. She then giggled, a girlish noise, high-pitched and simpering, and swatted his chest playfully. "You naughty," she teased, winking. She followed readily, childlike, her hand small in his. While the Ironborn's stride was long, languid, hers was a quick, light pitter-patter, tip-toeing delicately beside him in her bare feet. Her slippers were long-forgotten bits of silk strewn across the crenelations. Though he'd kissed far more intimate parts of her, it felt as if her heart skipped a beat as he lifted her hand to kiss the white knuckles. Perhaps it was due to the chastity of the gesture. In many ways, Falia had always skipped those steps; due to her baseborn status, she'd never been seen as worthy of courtship, worth the effort of going slow. Of chaste touches, gifts of flowers, sidelong glances. In many ways, romance was far more forbidden to the girl than the baser desires of the flesh.

"Hanging is far too merciful," Falia replied, the words a lazy protest "he's so fat, it'd all be over in a moment." No. He didn't deserve the mercy of a swift end. If anything, she'd have been content with slow suffocation, watching the light slowly fade from his hazel gaze, a mirror of her own...but hanging would snap his neck instantly, and that light would be out like a candle in a breeze. "Roast him instead?" she jested, a mischievous grin crawling across her features. "That much suet would make him more than a treat for the kennels." Head tilted, birdlike, as she considered his next statement. She shrugged after a moment. "My sisters are prettier, I suppose, if only since they're too young for wrinkles." She didn't see the appeal, but Falia reasoned that she might not be the most objective source. Her feet were swift upon the cold stone floor as Falia recalled she'd abandoned her shoes up above. No matter, and it was too late to retrieve them now, as the Crow's Eye insistently pulled her down the stairs. His hand escaped her own grip soon enough, however, and drifted to her rear, guiding her along. A knowing smirk crossed Falia's lips, unfurling like a stretching cat.

'Come.' And she followed, but not before slamming the door behind her, kicking it shut with the pad of her foot. The sound reverberated in the room, and Falia thought she spied the startled look of a servant just on the other side of the threshold before the old oak obscured his face. She didn't care. Though her form was certainly upon display in the transparent 'gown' that graced her features, it was like seeing a scene through shifting water; obscured, unclear, ever-changing. Someone like him the man across that threshold, was not worthy of laying eyes upon her bare form. But Euron... oh, he was different. Turning away from the Crow's Eye, the young woman pulled the dress above her head, slipping the slight silk softly away, the fabric whispering as it fell to the floor. She spun back around with some flourish, one arm akimbo, the other hanging to her side, a lopsided smile gracing her features, brightening the look she wore. Hopefully, darkness won't be the only thing to come, she jested internally, but only her eyes laughed, glittering in the low copper light glinting from the sunset that shaded the room. She sauntered towards him, one foot before the other, and reached out to grasp his hips, pulling him the rest of the distance towards her, pelvis nearly brushing against her own, separated by merely a breath.

"I am yours to command, my King."
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EURON GREYJOY
 Posted: Feb 21 2018, 10:31 PM
Quote
SHELBS is Offline
37 years old
IRON ISLANDS [A]
CROW'S EYE
HOUSE GREYJOY
Pyke
Lord


Like silk, or smoke or satin, like the serendipitous swaying of his ship or the soft song of the sea soothing his senses, Euron spied things in the summery slip of a girl that none else stood to support. Like the serene stockholds of his soul sleeping beneath the sultry glow of the stars, Falia was all that his near-complete world had been missing. A precious piece of a puzzle, a special key to a prized lock, he saw more things within her with his smiling eye than any other man had done with their own two. And at night when she slept, when he gazed upon her with his leathern patch peeled back, he saw other things. Things she could never know, and things he would never tell her, but things that no less kept her in his lap and in his bed; he would never allow her to go anywhere else, ever again. Especially now… now that she called him her king, and stirred within him such desire that he feared no other woman would be able to compete. Perhaps not even once she’d outlived her use to him would he be able to find another that made him feel the way he felt now. “And you,” he cooed, his voice hardly above that of a basso’s chime, swallowing the humid breath that seeped past her own lips. “My true queen. As soon as it is time,” he lowered a heavy palm to the flat of her stomach, drawing in a deep and most savory breath. “Our son will be named my heir.” Chasing her gentle laugh with a not-so gentle kiss, Euron groaned in hunger. “Above everyone else.”

The slow walk from the parapets and into the castle seemed as languid as it did long, wishing little more than for the privacy of the chambers he’d claimed as their own. He was not sure which sent his blood surging into his groin faster; the thought of burying himself again between Falia’s thighs, or the idea of her father and stepmother meeting the most gruesome fates they chose for them. Nevertheless, his eye glittered with the debacle of their destinies, wondering what would befit them best. “We’ve not the time time to starve him, I suppose,” he admitted, dismissing then the idea of Lord Hewett’s hanging. Too clean. Too swift. A most vile smile slipped across the span of his mouth, not for the first time appreciating Falia’s council in such things. Perhaps more than anyone, she deserved a spot at Euron’s table for this. At the idea of putting him to the flame, Crow’s Eye shook his head, holding back a sneer. “The scent is foul,” he interjected, descending the stone steps with heavy, deliberate footfalls that easily overshadowed the whispers of his lover’s bare soles. It was only the supple rise of her rear filling his palm did he find solace from the concept of Oakenshield filling with the smoke of burnt flesh. “I intend on letting the dogs loose upon the servants,” he went on, his hand tightening enough to squeeze the soft flesh of her rump. “When we leave, that is.” And Drowned God knew, Euron could not wait to leave. “It would be cruel to leave the beasts unfed.” He could be remembered for and accused of many things, the foulest of sadists, but cruelty to animals? He did not see the point.

A sudden, swift slam of the door severed him from his current reverie and plunged him straight into another. He turned to face her, his lover and newest obsession, the smirk toying across his lips little more than a sly crevice that parted his mouth. His eye danced upon her silvery form, watching with a dark hunger that only surged to new heights once she slipped out from the cover of her dress. Hardly twitching a single muscle, Euron stood there as she approached, a thousand and one things filling his mind, picturing the life he aimed to spin for her. For them. For Pyke. Reaching behind his head, Euron slid one of his twin blades from its sheath, letting it dangle from his fingers for only a sweet, single moment. Removing the other, it was this one he pointed towards her, stepping forth until the steel tip of the blade pressed against her pale and silken sternum. Not allowing her to come any closer, a smirk wrought seemingly by the Stranger itself swept across his freshly scissored mouth. “Slower,” he warned, watching the fine, white-hot line follow the pressure of his blade as he trailed it all the way to her navel. “It is not yet dark.” Ever so carefully he leaned into the hilt of his shortsword, forcing the steel tip against the hollow of her pelvis, eying the small dent it made against her womb as he pressed her back to the nearest wall.

“Tell me,” he spoke, barely above a whisper, lowering his mouth to the wing of her ear. His breath was as hot as the seven hells so many claimed to exist beneath them. “Tell me what it is my most beloved subject needs from her king.” Withdrawing the very moment before he opened her flesh, Euron smiled, discarding the blade as he did the other. He was quick to replace the weight of his weapon against her instead with the weight of his own body, finding that her pliable and naked form against the rough, clothed lines of his own made him surge with a desire unfamiliar even to him. He had known what it meant to be the hungry lion standing over an easy, defenseless prey, had known what it meant to feel the soft, milk-white flesh torn between his teeth and had seen what his fire could do to a willing and fertile land, but this? Reaching up to her neck, her most slender, beautiful neck, Euron’s hand clenched tightly around it. “I am feeling…” stealing her mouth with a severely toxic yet no less ravenous kiss, he could feel his manhood swelling at the sensation of her hammering pulse against his fingers. “All too generous.”
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