closed.
who turncloak & wolveshowling.
where Anatole. (Duncan's and beyond.)
when ~27th November.
what drinking; an awkward, broken sort of bromance; Westeros politicking and canon-point confusion.
warnings Theon.
[ His business in Dismas was less than nothing, but it pleases him to keep Robb guessing, to seem mysterious and wise to the ways of the world. It has always been that way between them, Theon playing at being big brother, and when they talk the bitterness of years falls away. ]
[ Despite his choice of pub, Theon has brought his own wine. His basket he gave to the villagers: the rich fish stew made him as nauseous here as it did on Pike, and the spongy black bread is unpalatable now he's tasted the sweet dampers of the Anatolean markets. But the red: ah, it's vintage, straight from the cellars of Winterfell if he's not mistaken, and he wants to share it with Robb as their shared their first cups together, once upon a time. ]
[ So clad in black and smirking with boredom at the other customers, Theon is sprawled in a chair in the corner of Duncan's pub. His forefinger draws idle circles over a wooden table that hasn't seen the clean side of a washcloth in many years, and perhaps he would be anticipatory, sensing the potential of the evening, if life hadn't taught him better by now. ]
[ That doesn't stop him baling Robb like a brother the moment he walks in the door. ]
Well met, Robb Stark.
[ He holds up the bottle. ]
Wine.
[ Gestures to a poxy hag asleep in a puddle of beer two tables over. ]
Women. Truly, a time for giving thanks.
where Anatole. (Duncan's and beyond.)
when ~27th November.
what drinking; an awkward, broken sort of bromance; Westeros politicking and canon-point confusion.
warnings Theon.
[ His business in Dismas was less than nothing, but it pleases him to keep Robb guessing, to seem mysterious and wise to the ways of the world. It has always been that way between them, Theon playing at being big brother, and when they talk the bitterness of years falls away. ]
[ Despite his choice of pub, Theon has brought his own wine. His basket he gave to the villagers: the rich fish stew made him as nauseous here as it did on Pike, and the spongy black bread is unpalatable now he's tasted the sweet dampers of the Anatolean markets. But the red: ah, it's vintage, straight from the cellars of Winterfell if he's not mistaken, and he wants to share it with Robb as their shared their first cups together, once upon a time. ]
[ So clad in black and smirking with boredom at the other customers, Theon is sprawled in a chair in the corner of Duncan's pub. His forefinger draws idle circles over a wooden table that hasn't seen the clean side of a washcloth in many years, and perhaps he would be anticipatory, sensing the potential of the evening, if life hadn't taught him better by now. ]
[ That doesn't stop him baling Robb like a brother the moment he walks in the door. ]
Well met, Robb Stark.
[ He holds up the bottle. ]
Wine.
[ Gestures to a poxy hag asleep in a puddle of beer two tables over. ]
Women. Truly, a time for giving thanks.