Chapter I: The Silence.

Asha Greyjoy.

The ship came silently, like a muted spectre lurching from the dying storm battering Pyke. Pyke itself, the seat of House Greyjoy, was a straggly mass of castles left standing on three barren islands and a dozen small stacks of rock, surrounded by the turbid tempest waters of the Iron Islands. Cut from the same grey-black stone of its coevals, the keeps and towers, connected by swaying rope bridges, blended into the achromatic hue of its watery home. Over the thousands of years since the castle was built, it had become over run by green lichen clinging to cliff and stone.

The Gate house was reposed on the mainland, just before the crags of Pyke's castle, only separated from the Great Keep by the high bridge. The walls of Pyke ran around in a crescent moon, from cliff to cliff, the only entry further in from the gatehouse fortified by a monolithic iron portcullis. The walls were dotted with three towers on either side, the southernmost tower new, crafted from a paler grey stone after the old southern tower had been destroyed during Greyjoy's rebellion, when King Robert Baratheon had breached the wall.

The Great Keep was massive, capped on the largest islet. The mainland of Pyke sloped towards it by the great stone bridge, it too covered in lichen. Beside it, further out to sea, stood the Bloody Keep, so named because of its sordid past, when the sons of the river king were slaughtered within its depths and their pieces, so many pieces, were shipped back to their father on the greenland. It was connected to the Great Keep by a covered stone walkway. The Bloody Keep was one of the largest sections of the castle after the Great Keep, where Balon made his chambers, laying on its own island, better furnished, with high gloomy ceilings. Within those slanting towers stood the long, smoky Great Hall, housing the Seastone Chair.

The Kitchen keep was next, it too sitting on its own islet. It was a squat little tower, fat and stout, slanting to the left. Fish stews, black bread, spiceless goat and onion pie, along with barrels of ale and mead were commonly being carted over its rope bridge by flustered thralls and kitchen servants.

The Sea Tower rose from the outermost stack, sheer and crooked, circular and lofty. The base of the lank tower was crusted white from centuries of salt spray, the upper stories moss green with lichen, and its head black with soot from the night fires guards would light. It took three bridges from the Kitchen Keep to make the journey to the Sea Tower, the last nothing but knotted roped, sodden. Its door was mouldy grey with rusted iron studs. Twisting stairs led to the damp and drafty solar of Lord Greyjoy, only warmed by the sparse lit bronze braziers.

It was in this moist and airy solar that Asha Greyjoy, daughter of The Lord Reaper of Pyke, Balon Greyjoy, captain of the Black Wind, sat at the long table, downing a tankard of honeyed mead. Her father Balon sat at the head of the table, finishing off his pot of peppercrab stew. Her father had always been lean, but now he was gaunt with a hard face and even harder black eyes. His hair was a curtain of slate, reaching the small of his back, streaked with white salt from age. As was regular for her father, he was dressed in his sombre seal skins, nearly merging into the arid grey of his surroundings.

On his left sat her uncle, Victarion, nursing his own drink. Asha's uncle was a large man, the largest she had ever seen, powerful too, with a bull's broad chest and a boys flat stomach. His hair was shorter than his older brothers, clipped at the shoulder and held back with a leather throng, as black as a raven's wing and flecked with silver at his temples. The Lord Captain was lacking his normally heavy iron chain mail, his notorious lobstered plate and kraken helm, only dressed in his boiled black leathers that night. Yet, even relaxing, he kept his longsword strapped to his waist, next to his dirk, with an axe balancing at his hip.

Over by the arching, narrow windows was Asha's other uncle, the youngest of all surviving brothers, Aeron Greyjoy, better known as Damphair. He was a tall and thin man, with fierce black eyes and a beak of a nose. As usual, he was garbed in rough spun wool robes dyed in green, grey and blues, mottled and evocative of the Drowned God. His face was sour that night, acidic as he peered bottomlessly out of the window and into the fading light of the storm. His hair was long, past his bladed waist, inky as it was weaved with seaweed. At his own hip stood no axe, nor sword or dirk, but a waterskin filled with seawater, which Asha had witnessed him use to bless those around him.

Aeron was once an amiable man, fond of songs, ale and women. Asha remembered that much. A whole world apart from this dour, humourless being he was now. He used to ride horses to and from Harlow, juggling, singing and drinking his way to Ten Towers and back. He was her favourite uncle, once upon a time, chasing her across the high bridge, teaching her how to throw an axe, how to swim, how to dance. Of course, all good things came to an end, and her once cheerful uncle did too.

The rebellion, to Asha, was a far off memory, almost hazy, like a dream. She had been a child, nothing but ten-and-one, but the loses they had faced, her family, had forever changed each and everyone of them, her uncle Aeron the most, and it was those changes after their defeat that sat poignantly putrid on her tongue. Rodrik and Maron, her two eldest brothers, were the first of many loses. Theon, her younger brother, had quickly followed, being taken as hostage by the Starks to ensure her fathers continued compliance to the stag's crown. Lily, Aeron's rockwife, had fell between the two.

Asha was never sure, not quite, if it was Aeron's defeat and drowning, during the battle of Fair Isle, having been lost at sea for months before he washed up on shore, unharmed and hearty, or the lose of Lily on the very same defeat that had turned him to a pious man, a fanatic most would say, but when he wrangled himself up from those pebbles and shells, laurelled in seaweed, he had never been the same.

Perhaps it was because, from the memories of her that Asha had, of the thickening of Lily's stomach when she had been lost, plumping out, fat with growing child. To lose a rockwife and unborn child was never an easy blow. Contrary to what greenlanders liked to believe, Greyjoys cared greatly for the sea, more for a good fight, and the most for their family.

What was it they were going to call the babe again? Ah, yes. Nymphaea for a girl and Nymphon for a boy. Sometimes Asha wondered what they would look like, how they would act, if they would have took to the sea as fast as any other Greyjoy, but she, more often than not, pushed those thoughts away swiftly.

What is dead my never die.

Or perhaps Aeron had transformed before that loss. Asha remembered once, upon the many misadventures of her youth, overhearing her own father and Aeron arguing in hushed, clipped tones. Aeron had never been a violent fellow. Oh, he fought as good as the rest of them before he became the holy man he was today, but he was never out right vicious unlike some of Asha's uncles, unlike her own father some nights. Yet, that night, pinning Balon to the wall, half drunk, dirk out and gleaming in the brazier fire, snarling a demand to know where Euron was, Asha's last surviving uncle, his own brother, Aeron was inherently barbarous and brutal, more terrifying than anything else Asha had seen before and since.

Asha hadn't picked up much before her father had spotted her, her uncle too, and she was promptly ushered back to her room stiffly and ordered to sleep by her haggard and tear struck mother. She remembered Balon's reply, no brother of mine will commit kinslaying under my house! And she remembered clearly, almost too clearly, Aeron's desperate slurred words, broken bits of glass, jumbled by ale and rage, just snippets of feelings. Euron… Milk… Poppy… took… My wife… My wife!… My right…

After that night, Lily had grown fat, ripened, and now, as a grown woman herself, Asha thought she knew what it all meant, the implications of such a dank memory, but, well, after Lily's death at sea, her disappearance, no one ever spoke about her again. It was like her name was cursed. Still, the child would have likely been Aeron's, for they, he and Lily, had been married and overtly blissful, their bed in frequent use, and Asha, rightly, didn't know exactly what that unsavoury memory meant.

Aeron had never denounced Lily, not once, not even after that night that Asha didn't fully know of, could not grasp, and had not remarried since, unlike her uncle Victarion who had gone through three saltwives. Neither had Aeron denounced the child, from the little that Asha recalled, he had seemed to become more protective, more sure, as he proclaimed to anyone who would listen that it was his babe and his wife who had been lost to waves and salt. But Asha remembered. She remembered it all.

Asha didn't know where Lily had came from, perhaps some greenlander place rich with flowers and fucking fancy poetry, she had been too young to care. Asha did remember Lily though, for she had been soft and gentle, even her name was so fucking soft, so unlike an Ironborn, when she first appeared, washed up on their own shores looking like a half drowned vermilion snapper. Asha's grandfather had taken pity, or perhaps had taken ambition once he witnessed what the strange woman could do with just words, thought and a spindly stick, when Lily had helped cure an illness spreading through the Iron Islands like wildfire. Quellon took her in, allowed to her stay in the Bloody Keep, and a year later, Asha had been robed and presented at her uncle Aeron and Lily's wedding.

As a child, Asha had not paid much attention to the small goings on, had not saw the need to, most happy to just ride the wave and enjoy the highs as most children did. Now, however, she wished she had paid more attention. Those had been their glory years, full of laughter, drink, raiding and riches. Yet, ambition bred plans, and plans bred darker deeds. All too soon, Quellon, Asha's grandfather, had rebelled against Robert Baratheon, seeking to recarve the kingdom of the Iron Islands under the Grey King once more, pulling her own father and his brothers into the fight.

Despite Lily's initial protests against war, even after the three years she had spent with them, she always held that little bloom of greenlander softness, she too soon joined the fray of liberating their people from a crown that could not, and would not, try and understand them or their ways. Those who looked down on their very birth, who thought them nothing but vermin, and yet stripped them of their iron, resources and what little wealth they had.

Then they had the audacity to order them not to raid when they had no other fucking choice! What right did they have? Did the fat stag order the Starks to quit praying to their trees? Did he order the Tyrells to burn their gardens? Did the Tully bitch have to break down her sept? Oh, those greenlanders sure did like to forget that it was they, the Ironborn, just as with the Starks, who were here from the first men. They were here first, and they would be here, proud and tall, last.

And by the Drowned god himself, for a short time, they had showed how deep and strong their roots were. They had been winning! But then her older brothers had been slain by that godless cuck Stannis Baratheon, Lily had been pulled from the fight, due to her being with child, her abilities, what she called magic, had been hampered by her state and was not working as it should, Aeron had been transporting her back to Pyke to seek safety, and they both had fallen from a surprise strike. With her brothers, Aeron and Lily out, Victarion could not hold the line, not for long, and soon the Baratheon, Stark and Lannister forces had breached their sea brocade around Lannisport, assaulted their home, took her other brother, now heir to Pyke, only eight seasons old, and left their family in tatters for the dare of bidding for freedom.

Now, ten-and-six years later, at seven-and-twenty seasons old, Asha felt as if the Greyjoys, and in fact, the whole of the Iron Islands, had not been able to pick themselves up from the ruins the rebellion had wrought about their heads. Much like the storm settling outside, the damage, like thunder, could still be heard in the air. Of course, maybe Asha's trip down the rugged path of reminiscence was because, since the failed rebellion, their family had not been kept in the same room for more than a few turns of a helm.

Then again, her two brothers were dead, Theon was a ward in Winterfell, a hostage in all but name, playing son to the wolf Lord, Lily too, and her unborn child, had returned to the Drowned God's watery halls, and uncle Euron… Well, his remiss of the gathering was the only positive outcome. Still, it remained true that it had been a long while, too long in Asha's opinion, since her uncles and herself had gathered in one keep for any period of time. Yet again, she had the storm to thank for such a result.

The storm had hit them swift and punishingly, sweeping in from the east, a roaring beast of thunder and lightning. Victarion had barely managed to dock in Lordsport, returning from a raid of the Reach's trade routes, before the true anger of the storm was felt. Even Aeron, who in recent years had taken to camping out on the shores, rock pools and beaches, had come to seek shelter in her fathers halls. And so, they had taken to Balon's solar to refill on drink and food, her men and Victarion's crew taking rest in the Bloody Keep, to wait out the worst storm to crash down upon them in many a year. Nineteen exactly, according to Aeron, who seemed almost bewitched by the storm.

Nevertheless, after a spin or two of catching up on her raid across White Harbour, cornering vessels coming in from Essos, and Victarion's in the Reach's waters, they had fallen to silence as they finished their dinner. Oddly enough, it was Aeron who broke the silence, still staring out of that slit of a window.

"They must be brave to challenge the Drowned God so."

Asha used the back of her hand to roughly slop away the dregs of mead dribbling down her chin.

"Who nuncle?"

Aeron's head tilted just so, a fraction, out into the blistering waters.

"Those sailing that ship."

Asha scoffed, thinking he was in jest, before no more came from him. She slammed her tankard down on the table, mead spilling onto wood. The screech of her chair against damp stone rattled the air as she sauntered to a stand next to her tall uncle, shoulder to shoulder, or, well, shoulder to bottom ribcage, to gander out at the night sea. It was hard to spot in the dark, the Sea Tower fire only lighting so much, and the storm concealing even further, but, with a small flash of lightning followed by the bellow of angry thunder, Asha caught a glimpse of a bobbing silhouette.

It was definitely no longship, Asha could tell you that straight away. Neither was it a trading vessel, not like the ones normally docking into Lordsport. Nor was it of Westorosi design, those greenlanders preferred gilded monstrosities that chugged not glided. It was something else, three masted she thought from the quick flash, big but strong, and cutting, almost graceful even sailing in the atrocious storm. However, she only caught a flash, and much more than that she could not tell.

"What are they doing sailing so close to Pyke? The closest safe anchorage is in Lordsport."

From this close, Asha could feel Aeron hum, a long drawn out husky hymn, profound and nigh baleful.

"The bravery and foolery of youth, I fear, has given them too much courage. If they are not careful, they will beach against Pyke's many cliffs."

Asha stood watching as another flash of lightning flared the sky to white. The ship was closer now, bowsprit aimed right at them.

"If they are not careful, nuncle, they will beach against this very tower and take a part of the Sea Tower with them into their watery grave. They are not changing their course."

The clank of a spoon being dashed into a bowl made Asha jump. She heard Victarion snigger. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw her father pushing his plate away, waving a hand for the hunched thrall, who had been patiently waiting by his side, to take his meal back to the kitchens to do with as servants do. Taking a swig of his own mead, her father addressed her with a thin, tight mouth, his rolling, rough Ironborn brogue sinewy.

"How far?"

Darting her gaze back to the window, Asha tried to picture where she had last seen the ship, frowning.

"A few leagues out, enough time for a diversion if someone was to meet them on the open sea."

Victarion huffed as he pulled away from the table, but he did not come over to the window. Instead, he marched over to the closest brazier and reached his hands out, warming them by the crackling fire. His voice was almost as spiteful as those spluttering flames.

"It is likely some foolish greenlander trader, new to the sea and come to ply their trade. Leave them to crash, I say. It will set an example to not take the Sunset sea as jest."

Balon readily cut off his brother, as if he never even heard him.

"Are they flying a banner?"

And then Asha understood. The last thing they needed right now was some highborn noble, greenlander or not, getting wrecked upon their land. No doubt, by the seasons end, the greenlanders would find a way to place blame upon them, with some flippant conspiracy of a Greyjoy attack. Asha stood and watched, but as the next bout of lightning lit up the sky, as with the thunder and storm, it too was dying, weak and frail, nothing but a spark lighting up an undulating shadow.

"It is too dark to see, father."

Balon leant back in his ornate but tattered chair, finger tapping on worn armrest. Finally, with a firm nod, he addressed Asha for the last time.

"Take some men and head them off. I do not wish to spend the next week picking pieces of timber and flesh off our shores because of arrogance."

Victarion tutted, but kept close to the brazier. Her uncle was like that, often of his own mind, but never sturdy enough in it to argue his opinion against his brothers. A twiggy long hand clamped down upon her shoulder, as light as driftwood, as warm as corpse flesh.

"I will accompany you."

Asha frowned at Aeron, head cocking to the side, taken aback. Her uncle had not been on the sea for years, favouring to offer sermons and drownings on shore, where he was sure he could hear the Drowned God's voice clearest. But there was something there in those eyes, a ferocity, a fire, Asha had not seen since she was a child, as he swung her up into the air, smiling, as Lily tickled her feet and braided rock rush into her short hair, Aeron's arm wrapped around the red woman's shoulder. Asha's mouth opened, questions tickling the back of her teeth, but her father was waving his hand towards the solar door.

"Just be done with it."

Asha's mouth clamped shut as Aeron's hand slipped from her shoulder.

"As you wish, father."

Chapter I: The Silence Part II

Asha Greyjoy.

Asha's boots hit the deck with a soggy clunk. Holding up a dim torch, the light mist of rain nearly dousing the hapless flame, she had to squint in the darkness to see further than three hands in front of her face. Asha's small band of men flooded over the deck railing, clutching their own torches and axes, wearily eyeing the strange, so very fucking strange, ship around them. Aeron was the last to scale the ships broadside, his bare feet plodding on the sodden deck, as he slunk close to Asha's side to share the small light her torch gave them.

"Set anchor! Spread out and search!"

Asha ordered as her men, more cautiously than usual, took to her barked order like well trained ravens. Asha, really, could not blame them for the hesitancy. The storm was breaking, giving its last wrathful breathes, and the ride over to the careening ship had been easier than Asha had first thought it would be. Nevertheless, that was the only easy thing about it. The ship itself was ample, a whole two decks higher than the small ship she and a few men, along with her nuncle, had departed on to sail to its side, a war ship if Asha had ever saw one, and scaling the larger ship had proven to be a task all on its own. Even so, the worst, Asha thought, was the inescapable silence that encapsulated the brute of timber and gold. There was no frantic shouts of the crew, no captain orders yelled over rushing wind, no running footsteps or oars being dragged through choppy waves, just silence.

Silence.

Asha would not lie, Greyjoys were shit at it anyway, but her heart had leapt into her throat when they had settled close enough to the curious ships side. Though it sailed no flax of black, nor had a dark crimson hall, the timber of the ship was dark but shaded with lighter wood, golden in the firelight, and it wasn't lean enough or single masted to be The Silence, on first glance, hearing such eerie derelict of sound, Asha had thought it was her uncle, Euron, who was pulling into dock. Yet, just to make sure, Asha bent down, taking her torch with her, and looked at the deck itself. Black, not red to hide the blood.

Slowly edging about the main deck, that ominous feeling would not relinquish its hold of her spine. The rat lines were empty. The crows nests abandoned. The deck was clean and clear. There was no one here. Even if this ship had set sail from the closest Westerosi ports, Banefort or Seagard, they would have had to sail right through the eye of the storm. No ship, in a storm such as this, could have survived that journey. Perhaps the crew had felt the same, trapped by wind and hail, and had abandoned the beauty to the watery halls of the Drowned God. A grand tribute for sure. Then again, as Asha moved towards the quarter deck, where the helm would lay, she passed the three stacked longboats strapped to its side.

No one had fled. Then where were the bodies? This beast would take, if Asha had to luck a guess, at least sixty men to man. The sails and rigging were more intricate than Asha had ever seen, the sheer size of the ship, the storm itself, no less than sixty, she was sure of it. The creak of the stairs leading to the quarter deck rang out over the splash of tide on hull and misty rain. No. To man such a ship, in a storm such as this, was a feat of daring even Asha felt too humble to attempt. And Asha was not known to be anything remotely modest.

Coming to the helm, where the captain's wheel stood proudly, obscured by night, Asha caught the first and only hint of life. Crumbled against the helm wheel, one arm twisted through the struts and spokes, was a sprawled figure. Asha's arm shot out, over to Aeron, for him to take the torch, which he promptly did as Asha marched towards the hunched figure. Bending down on her haunches, she took as much note as she could.

It was too dark to get specifics, there were no stars or moonlight that night, and Aeron stood off by the distance, close enough for Asha to gain hints from the flickering torch, no colours or details, just mass and outlines, not much else. She doubted he had even spotted the figure, too long on land to have a night eye for the sea any more. The figure was lanky, long limbed and lithe, and unconscious. It was sagging by its arm, head lolling on chest, and around their tangled arm was rope, the thick kind, fastening it to helm. They were smart, whoever this was, to tie themselves to the ship wheel, so the rocky tides could not send them flying across deck, perhaps even overboard, but bold too, implausibly reckless. By their feet was a small barrel, lidded.

"I think I've found the captain!"

Asha yelled over to Aeron as her hand delved for her belt, plucking out a knife. Twisting it free, she set about cutting the rope from the persons arm, the long figure nearly falling completely to the deck as the last knot was cut loose. Asha managed to grab the figure just in time. Torso cradled to her own chest, lax head drooping on her shoulder, it was only then that Asha found it not to be just any person, but a woman. She felt frigid, as cold as the sea itself, drenched and soaked. Yet, there was a blossom of warmth where her shadowed face met Asha's shoulder. Asha's hand slicked up, felt the side of the face, over forehead where the warmth was coming from, and her fingers came away hot, wet and thick.

Blood.

The woman had likely smashed her face into the helm when the ship rolled in the storm, the rope around her wrist the only reason she was not at the bottom of the sea currently. It was also likely why the ship had not corrected its course upon seeing the Salt Towers fire. Almost blindly, Asha tried to heave her up to a stand, but the woman was tall, her feet dragging across the decks floorboards. By the Drowned God, the woman must have been at least six foot upright and awake, almost as tall as her uncles, as struck by madness too if she was manning this ship, through this storm, by herself. Groaning, Asha took a step backwards, towards Aeron and the light, when the woman's head jerked weakly.

"Sargon… Bucket… The bucket..."

The voice was deep, deeper than Asha had thought it would be, stuck somewhere between husky delirium and biting command, with a lilt to it that Asha could not recognize, even if it was as brash as the Northern and Iron tongue.

"Nuncle, grab the bucket!"

Aeron dashed passed then, nimble and swift, and with the flair of light, Asha caught the tones of sunset over Saltcliffe, rust on iron and blood dripping from an axehead. The light was gone before she could catch much more. From over her shoulder, to the men down on the main deck, Asha shouted.

"Is the ship anchored?!"

A disembodied voice answered back from the gloom.

"Aye Captain!"

The woman's head was sagging again, awareness fleeing her. This close to Pyke's castle, the cliffs should offer enough protection for the ship to wait out the storm on sea, yet far enough out from the dangerous crags that would wreck it on their shores.

"Good, let's move out!"

Asha managed, barely, to drag the body of the woman down the quarter decks stairs. One of her men, A Botley boy if she guessed right from his jittery shadow, came to help her by lifting the long legs of the woman so they could cart her over the side with them. And wrangle her, their men, and the bucket over the deck and back to Asha's ship they did. As Aeron brought up the rear, once more, Asha slipped the body onto the deck of her ship, laying her spread on her back. Her men took their places, plucking up oars and rigging, eager to get away from the strange ship and back to land, and pulled away from the swaying beast behind them. Asha glanced to her uncle.

"What is in the bucket?"

Aeron, with a torch in one hand and the large bucket clutched in the other, glanced down to it. His words did nothing to settle her.

"I do not know, but it is… Squirming."

Asha held her hand out as Aeron handed her the torch, and back safely on her own ship, away from that ominous feeling, Asha tardily stepped towards the prone form and dared to take a glance at their newest visitor. Curving down, Asha pressed the fire close to the woman's face and finally got a good look at her. She was immediately hit with memories, ghosts and dead family.

Her skin was pale, half her face, the left, covered in ruddy blood from the shallow slash in her hairline, nearly shell white, with taupe freckles dusted handsomely across the map of her keen face. Her hair was the wink of sunset and rust Asha had seen earlier, short, cropped at shoulder, longer than her own, but wild in its rushing torrent of curls. Her nose was thin, noble sloping, set beneath two thick high arching brows, and her mouth was full, if tinged blue from the seawater and cold, or perhaps the loss of blood. That was Lily there, Asha knew. The same freckles, the same skin, the same nose and mouth, all Lily, right down to the thick swoop of burnt copper lashes against cheekbone.

But it was wrong too. The jaw was too square, cut harsh, proud, like Asha's own who she had inherited from her father and his brothers, and their father, and their fathers before them. Her cheekbones were a shade too sharp, her eyes too sleek, even shut, and laying between the lines of skin, muscle and tendon was a broad sort of strength, stony and strong, not Lily's narrow fragility, that only the Ironborn were known for.

"Lily?"

Aeron whispered as he tumbled forward like a crest of a wave, bucket dropping at his feet with a blaring thump, falling beside Asha on his knees. Asha had only heard him as awed as he was now when he was praying to the Drowned God in his hushed whispers. The girl's, for she was a girl, not woman, barely ten-and-six Asha would say, eyes shot open. Asha had forgotten, as time often made people do, how bright Lily's eyes had been, the glowing summer grass of them, wildfire trapped in glass, until the girls right eye settled on her with a snap. Asha, belatedly, had also forgotten Euron's own eye, normally covered by eyepatch, black with menace, pitched and wide, darker than any sea or stone or dragonglass, until she saw nestled, in the dip of the left of the girls face, surrounded by blood, it once again staring back at her.

She had Euron's Crows eye.

And then, in the split second from eyes cracking open to find Asha hovering above her, the girl was swinging and pain ruptured from Asha's temple like an exploding star.

What do we think so far?

Some notes on this chapter:

My own little fancast of the Greyjoys (completely ignore if you picture your own, this is just a bit of fun):

Balon: Mads Mikkelsen.

Victarion: Clive Standon. (Long hair)

Aeron: Zach Mcgowan. (Black hair)

Euron: Ben Barnes.

Asha: Krysten Ritter. (Cropped hair)

Theon: Gaspard Ulliel.

Lily: Rebecca Ferguson. (Red hair)

Nymphaea: Daria Milky.

Next update should be around Wednesday/Thursday next week as my final exam is on Tuesday and I'm going to spend this weekend cramming lol. I was going to publish this Sunday, but as I've already got it ready to go, I know if I don't publish it, I'll start procrastinating on the next chapter and never start it. So, here it is, two days early. I hope you enjoyed it.

A huge thank you to everyone! Silent readers, followers, favourite-ers, reviewers, if I could, I would give you all a hug, but I'm afraid my thanks will have to do.

As always, please drop a review if you have a moment, they keep the muses chattering.