GODFELLER

𝐝𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐬  ─  :  spring,  486  a.c.  in  the  assigned  northern  quarters,  the  eyrie. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠  ─  :  @godfeller​.

the  meaty  curve  of  her  calves  were  throbbing  with  a  vicious  ache  that  was  a  testament  to  the  incomparable  number  of  steep  and  wide  steps  that  were  commonly  attributed  to  the  eyrie  and  it  took  a  measured  minute  for  the  lady  dayne  to  regulate  her  breathing  as  the  last  few  steps  to  the  bolton - north  quarters  were  scaled  beneath  the  guidance  of  an  obliging  knight,  charged  with  the  esteemed  task  of  guarding  and  escorting  guests  to  their  desired  rooms.  there  certainly  was  something  to  be  commended  in  the  decision  and  dedication  to  keep  the  northern  factions  as  separate  from  each  other  as  humanely  possible,  placing  one  court  in  the  easternmost  tower  and  the  other  in  the  westernmost  so  as  to  minimize  any  unsupervised  encounters  between  the  two  conflicting  sides,  especially  with  an  increase  in  the  celebrations.  clad  in  painted  armour,  the  knights  of  the  vale  had  glowered  suspiciously  at  gülnihal  when  she  had  approached  to  ask  for  their  assistance  in  locating  the  bolton  courtiers  ─  it  had  taken  a  calculated  drop  of  her  family  name  before  their  gazes  brightened  in  recognition  and  she  had  been  forced  to  stamp  down  on  the  flaring  realization  that  her  presence  had  not  been  marked  as  one  of  utmost  importance  to  those  serving  house  bolton  in  her  stead.  those  that  recalled  the  former  castellan  of  the  dreadfort  had  been  quick  to  point  her  in  the  direction  where  her  kin  had  been  seen  last  and  those  that  had  not  been  in  service  when  she  roamed  the  shadowed  halls  seemed  cowed  into  silence  as  she  breached  the  thresholds  of  the  appointed  council  room,  lips  parting  to  utter  a  biting  remark  to  her  cousin  and  king.  

yet  it  was  not  his  visage  that  greeted  her  narrowed  gaze  but  one  that  was  equally,  achingly  familiar  in  his  looming  height  that  the  viciousness  formerly  found  on  her  features  slackened  into  a  soft  huff  of  many  emotions  that  would  have  alerted  him  to  her  intrusion  ─  disbelief  at  his  unchanged  appearance,  relief  at  what  his  presence  here  could  mean  and  gratitude  at  having  the  one  person  she  trusted  most  of  all  in  arms  reach  once  more.  ❝  yadgar.  ❞  exhaled  in  a  breathy  whisper,  spirited  march  and  conflicting  sentiments  tightening  within  the  throat,  gülnihal  felt  an  absurd  urge  to  weep  as  she  breaks  the  silence.  her  hands  form  into  fists  around  the  material  of  her  skirts  in  anticipation  of  a  run,  a  tackle,  uncaring  that  the  composure  of  ruling  lady  had  slowly  slipped  to  expose  the  sister,  always  seeking  the  reassuring  shadow  of  the  brother  irregardless  of  her  age.

❝  how  is  it  possible  that  you’ve  gotten  so  old  in  such  a  short  period  of  time,  brother  ?  ❞  still,  it  is  the  nature  of  the  younger  to  tease  the  elder,  lips  parting  into  a  half - smile  as  a  brow  raises,  gaze  trailing  over  his  profile  greedily,  wondering  how  he  had  changed  and  if  he  had  greyed  as  much  as  their  father  had  at  his  age.

the room feels cold in the absence of so many whispers, a barren cave less its brood of conspirators. yadgar fingers the curled edges of discarded correspondences, plucks an errant pinion feather no doubt the gift of its messenger. as anywhere, he is out of step here. where is he without the thawing ice of white harbor, its looming glaciers and ephemeral deep? who is he without the threat of blue fingertips, his layers of pelt and hide and stinging paws thundering on the faulted earth? the wind whistling through the eyrie calls him traitor, too, and he can’t hear the old gods where the weirwoods won’t grow. how can reason be spun out of this godless earth? where does a greystark belong in a broken north where shadow metastasizes, lurches up and reaches for all in its path— let alone here. displaced. an outlander.

frustration knits his dark brows together and he twirls his captive feather over open flame. it is gone so quickly, engulfed, the rachis scorched and brittle. zehra, gone just as quickly. 

a gasp sounds at his back and the blackened bit is abandoned to the clutter on the table. when he spins to greet the intruder, his mood as severe as the axe he carries, the known world stops in its tracks. time bends like fog around the mountain peaks, sound disperses like a flock of birds — the cacophony of processing, of understanding, of recognizing her followed by a stillness his heart had forgotten. when she speaks his name, he closes his eyes and lets the sound of it sink in him like he is a well and it is a stone. how long has it been since he’s been regarded? seen through the veil of shadow? no one could simply murmur his name and offer him ablution of all his trespasses — none, but his sister.

her chides are momentarily dismissed as he crosses the long room to meet her ( his strides deliberate and purposeful for the first time since he’s stepped foot in these halls ) and embrace her in spite of all propriety. she is lighter than the raven’s feather he’d doomed to the fire, and her nearness transports him to a youth unfettered by the chains of lordship and the flaying bonds forged in centuries past. yadgar breathes her in, his great arms nearly doubling around her middle. so long she’s been away, so filtered by the scrawl in their letters, coveted by the great spans of mountain and plain between them. 

when he allows her independence, sets her feet back on the haggard stone, he still does not let her go. his hands find her cheeks, then settle, heavy like bear paws, at her shoulders. gülnihal is as he remembered her, and the warg knows peace in the eyrie.

❝ my sister, ❞ he begins, the rough thumb of his right hand spooling in dark tresses that match his own. ❝ i feel i haven’t been seen nor heard since you took your leave of wolf’s den. that sort of loneliness sets in on a man like a long winter, but it is you that brings the spring. ❞ the budding smile on his lips suffers, then, his dark eyes falling. ❝ my letters have been wanting in detail, i know, but the fracture in the north can be seen from across the narrow sea. my resolve is waning, ‘nihal. you are a light for me in the shadows. ❞ his hands relinquish her, but reluctantly so — as if she’s a wisp, a wraith, and will dissolve at the slightest suggestion.

milky eyes, slack hands, sharp and vicious winds. the heartless godswood is his protection:  a nest of woven boughs, a thicket of bramble and splintered bark to expel potential intruders. so long he’s sat that the morning dares break, that dead leaves settle in the palms of his hands, that dew begins to gather in the threads of his clothes. knife-shorn locks as black as coal are a stark contrast to the pure white of his eyes, and his dusty leathers make him seem a part of the gnarled tree that comforts his great bones. but these details are lost to him. yadgar does not see the white trees and the garnet leaves from beneath any longer. he cannot hear the trickling creek nor even feel the weight of his human form. rather, he feels the slice of the vale’s winds through his thick hide of dark rust, smells the dust of the highroad kicked up from rain and recent travelers, and he tastes the early mist as it hangs heavy in the air. the eyrie and its cosseted godswood are miles away from him now, lost in the gray bleakness of pre-dawn — but forgotten vestiges to the warg who runs with the untiring legs of his hound familiar.  when he sees with sharp, canine vision that bandits litter the eastern road he travels, he stops and lingers in the penumbral trees. the thieves skulk, all cloaked and sweeping along the highway’s bends in sinister phalanxes. they leave naught in their wake but polished bone and muddled pools of blood — their chaos wrought with stolen blades. in the hollow belly of a pillaged carriage, they wait for the next passersby. from the shadows, his white teeth gnashed, the hound prepares to strike. a taste for the hot blood of their throats prompting a salivating maw.

the requiem.  within the eyrie’s crypt.  late afternoon.  open ( 0/5 )

They  had  displayed  their  king’s  body  like  one  of  their  fancy  cakes.  He  had  been  decorated,  every  last  detail  finely  tended  to,  and  placed  in  the  center  of  the  room  for  all  those  gathered  in  the  Vale  to  politely  gawk  at.  There  was  no  pyre.  No  respect.  Only  this…  spectacle  of  his  death.  

Yet, they  still  found  the  nerve  to  call  her  people  the  savage ones. 

Sigyn  had  had  quite  enough  of  the  shallow  pleasantries  and  clandestine  sneering  in  the  days  following  the  funeral.  Her  patience  for  them  expired,  a  porcelain  snarl  and  the  giant  man  appointed  to  guard  her clear  her  course  from the  clutch  of  women  and  their  whispers  of  ‘wildlings  roaming  free’  and  of  The  Vale’s  succession.  She  finds  herself  wandered  to  where  once  a  king’s  corpse  lay,  and  her  fingers  dote  across  the  intricate  carved  stone,  newly  without  purpose.  A slight  form  such  as  her  own  is easily  lifted  to  sit  atop  it,  to  lay  back,  arms  outstretched  beyond  the  slab  —  to  get  a  feel  for  it.

If  the  red  god’s  followers  had  anything  right  at  all,  it  was  that  even  she  would  prefer  flames  to  this  brand  of  exhibition.  

Footsteps  interrupt  solitude,  then.  Her  man  standing  a  ways  off  is  stilled  by  a  gesture  of  her  hand  as  her  face  tilts  to  find  their  approach,  lips  curling  into  an  amused,  sideways  grin.   

“Were  you  hoping  to  have  a  turn  up  here?  It’s  not  nearly  as  fun  as  I thought  it’d  be.  It’s  just  cold.”

the crypt smells of death — a sweet rot of sorrows, ancient and new. it isn’t in his nature to brood, to let the fear of his end hobble him with the throes of mourning, so he lifts his head in defiance when others bow theirs for mercy. when others fall apart, his grip tightens around godfeller’s handle for a true warrior swings at death and doesn’t topple before him.

the old gods would never abide by crypts, he tells himself as his slow foot-falls advance through the underground labyrinth. it’s against nature, these limbos, where the dead linger in the walls, where earth and fire can’t do its work. he ducks his head to avoid cobwebs, scrunches up against the cold, damp stone to make room for shrouded and weeping visitors that float by. when he’s let loose from the congestion in the main corridor, he finds himself face-to-face with a wildling — and she’s sprawled out upon a tablet of stone. once formed to honor a man long-dead, now it cradles the sylphish bones of rogar’s betrothed.

“funerals are not known to be great sources of fun.” his great form is relieved against the archway of a crumbling threshold. “and the only hope one will find is that of a vain royal’s: that he won’t end up in the same dark hole at his end — or in the case of a foolish royal: that his end will never come.” his severe gaze levels on her, as sharp and gritty as his axe’s edge.

— 𝐘𝐀𝐆𝐃𝐀𝐑 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊, 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅'𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐍 // the menacing scrape of a great axe on the ice; howling winds through desolate guard towers; frostbitten earth crunching beneath ragged paws; a shame of ancient trespass staining his mantle the red of betrayer; recoiling from the spread of dense and blinding shadows as they overtake what he once fiercely loved; a hound’s teeth and wolf’s blood; the ache of winter deep in his bones that turns all softness to verglas; trees in the godswood calling his name.

                                    ( ᴀꜱ ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ʙʏ ɢʀᴇʏ / 21+ / ꜱʜᴇ & ʜᴇʀ / ᴄꜱᴛ. )

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