ARCHIVE

part of her was ready to hit him for his flippant attitude regarding a dangerous job.   but there is another part that appreciates the bitter brand of humor that ramsay brings.    her eyes drop to hide the amusement glittering in them behind dark lashes,  &  she moves to make sure her gun is loaded.   the signal is scheduled to come any minute now.   the excitement begins to burn its way through her veins as asha readies herself.

❝  oh yeah,  you know me.  ❞   she replies with sarcasm thick in her voice as she shoots him a sidelong glance.  ❝  i just lie awake just worrying about you all night long.  ❞

     Maybe the only reason he doesn’t prod further is some mostly-dormant last reserve of caution--not for his own safety, of course, but because all things considered he’d rather they live to do it again. Ramsay smirks, checking his own pistol before slipping it into its holster. He doesn’t particularly care for guns, but he’ll admit they’re more effective. Better to be prepared. 

     “Stop it,” he makes no attempt to hide his own amusement, nor the mockery in his voice. “You’re making me blush.” If he had nerves to settle, nothing would settle them more than slipping into this familiar banter, at once tense and easy. He spares a backward glance, waiting for the signal as much as she is. 

                                   daenerys’ life has been defined by her unwillingness to become her father. the mad king’s daughter with bannerman waving crimson, furious dragons, and the words to follow: fire and blood. everything inside of her screams in protest to this, her rage. but she’s out of options. kindness will not bring daenerys her birthright. it will not win this war.

her patience has worn thin. as has her gentle heart.

amethyst gaze burns bright in the dim of this great hall, housing the last of the true, feral northron men. which is why she’s here. he’s, what she needs. a tactician, a cruel king. 

“i don’t know how to win the throne without killing those in my way.” an abrupt start to a conversation that’ll require a great deal of finesse, but she can’t seem to stop the frustration from bubbling up, boiling over.

“and there isn’t a man better learned in killing, than you.” not a compliment, a statement of fact. she takes the seat beside him, and steals his goblet of wine. she’s going to need it, to get through this. sleeping with him, and seeking out his council (and potentially his kingship) are very, very different territories and yet she’s now treading in both with abandon.

what does a dragon have to fear?

“name your price.” 

     “It would be naive, your grace, to imagine your enemies would give up without bloodshed.” There’s something more than council that she wants, he can see it in the burn of her eyes, and he’s never quite certain with her, never quite sure where they stand. Things are exciting that way.

     And there it is. He’ll admit the directness of it surprises him--no diplomacy, no subtlety, nothing hidden beneath either command or suggestion. Ramsay smiles, his eyes alight with pale fire, inclines his head to accept the compliment--he’ll take it as one, such as it is. 

     “I’m flattered, but you do have dragons. Surely they’re more effective than I.” He throws a cursory glance around the hall--though he’s ever been anything but cautious, he did learn something from his father--and finds that they’re quite alone. 

     “I’ve only ever wanted the North.” Ghostly eyes settle on her face, questioning, curious. “More important than my price is what you’re willing to pay.” 

there is a part of her that feels  irritation  rise at ramsay’s lack of reverence for the danger they are about to encounter.   this is a serious business,  &  to treat it as anything less is to risk life  &  limb alike.   but in spite of herself,  asha feels the corner of her mouth twitch ;   perhaps the stirrings of a return smile.  at least going out on jobs with ramsay was never  boring.

❝  it’s only fun if we  live  through it.  ❞   she reminds him,  shooting a sidelong glance.   ❝ you might have a death wish,   but i very much intend to survive the night.   ❞ 

     She’s irritated, or maybe irritated that she can’t entirely suppress her answering smile, and that only tempts Ramsay to prod more. He likes her best when she’s provoked, when everything bubbles over and anger and excitement and want all bleed together. But despite his teasing--despite his recklessness, too--he has no intention of dying tonight. At least he doesn’t think so. 

❝  well now,  this could be the last of all the rides we take.  ❞

▌✧*:･ﾟlyric starters  |  @eversoblack the kids from yesterday / my chemical romance

     “Could be.” Ramsay grins, looking over at her sideways, something mischievous glittering in his pale eyes. A hunger for death or adventure--in the end, were they really that different? There might be something wistful, but only just, beneath the irritatingly cocky smile.

                           snow begets steam on a dragon’s hide — more than just the HEATof it, it’s like the north refused to touch her. rejection of a targaryen entrenched in the holy earth of a godswood. 

“lord bolton,” dark tipped teeth. resentment as present as enchantment. ever was theirs a dance on the edge of a blade; both are leaders bred of different stock. she’s a dragon and he’s a leech, man flayed on blood in one way or another. 

they faced ugliness in their own ways.

@eversoblack  / starter call.

     “My queen.” It’s ever so polite, teeth sheathed behind a genial smile, though Ramsay remains wary, suspicion and cunning every bit a part of his nature as violence. His glacial blue eyes remain trained on her face as he dips his head, just enough of a nod to show respect. 

     She’s captivating, that much he’d be a fool to deny. And yet he’s loath to abandon his wits as he imagines most men--and women--faced with the Targaryen queen’s presence do. His smile sharpens, edged with malice and suggestion.