𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐟

　𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 ( … ) 𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐔𝐅𝐅𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐔𝐒𝐊, 𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐁𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒, 𝐃𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃. for a long moment, the woodland ceases its perpetual chanting. the pines and the birches and the yews hold their breath, wooden limbs heavy and quivering 'neath the burden of snow that only thaws at midday ; the rare flowers thriving in this harsh climate are frightened, their wet petals furl inwardly as if to exorcise the pungent scent of death. of death defied, of an ominous rebirth that does not smell of spring. in the silence, her itched breath is almost too loud ... too real, ill - suited for a moment that feels no different from one of the countless dreams in which she desperately yearned for him. her tongue has become woolen in her maw, her throat has clenched with such fervor that no sound is capable of escaping its wet trap: she can feel it, she can feel how her sentiments surge from the profundity of her ribcage only to get tangled in the midst of her throat.

he speaks, and unconsciously her clawed hand reaches out to him. her palm comes to press against his cheek, its sharpness a perfect fit for the softness of her palm. a quivering breath is exhaled past barely parted tiers, a soundless prayer that carries the echo of his name in its docile reverence. finally, as if suddenly roused from this agony - induced slumber, she touches him. languidly her thumb traces the familiar lineaments of his visage, her fingers brush against his snow - kissed flesh and the promise of a stubble, and soon enough, she is guiding him closer to her until her own face may be gently pressed against his own. she has to shift her weight onto her toes to properly reach him but it matters not ( ... ) her forehead is against his own, wet lashes cast below half - mast, her petite physique shedding the heavy mantle of the mourner.

and there, amidst quiet sobs embroidered by both relief and anticipation, the nymph allows herself to smile. through the haze of tears, beyond the confines of the heart - shaped grave that she had dug for herself. ❝ you are alive ... you are really here with me ... you came back. ❞ because in that moment, still in time, it matters not how or why he has managed to escape the embrace of death. all that matters is the warmth of his body against her own, the entangling of their misty breaths, the thunderous beats of her own heart. albeit reluctantly, the vulpes takes a step back ; still, her gaze lingers. adoringly, frightened. her hand has found his own and now she is hastily tugging him towards her, into the comfort of the little cottage where he may finally rest. ❝ you must be freezing ... come, i will prepare something for you to eat. ❞ a pause, as brief as the flutter of a butterfly's wings. she turns to him, brows knitted and shoulders slumped downwards. it is arduous to speak, it is arduous to convince herself that all this is real and that she has not succumbed to the madness of her grief. ❝ i do not believe that this is a dream, but⸻ even if it was, would you keep on dreaming with me ? i don't want to lose you again. ❞

▐║  ❆  ┊  𝐇𝐄𝐑  𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇  𝐈𝐒  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓  𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐒𝐄  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐓𝐇  𝐇𝐄  𝐇𝐀𝐒  𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐓  𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄  𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒  𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃  𝐈𝐍  𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇.  He  could  have  believed  his  flesh  was  made  of  ice  from  the  way  her  hand  melts  him,  thaws  him,  brings  him  back  into  accord  with  his  own  body.  It  has  felt  so  distant  from  himself  these  last  several  weeks;  a  distant  thing,  a  possession,  a  suit  of  skin,  but  not  himself.  Not  until  now.  In  that  moment,  he  feels  tethered  at  last,  no  longer  drifting  between  Ghost's  consciousness  and  his  own  battered  form.  Now  he  has  a  reason  to  stay.  To  feel.  For  a  while,  he  simply  lets  her touch him,  content  merely  with  the  soft  pads  of  her  fingers  drawing  life  back  into  his  flesh.  When  she  pulls  him  in,  brow  against  brow,  Jon  cannot  help  but  exhale  with  a  shudder,  like  the  casting  off  of  stiffened  muscles  and  the  ache  of  bones  left  in  the  cold  for  too  long.  He  follows  her  down,  down  to  where  she  does  not  struggle  to  reach,  letting  himself  rest  there  against  the  pillar  of  her  body.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤDark  eyes  flutter  near-closed,  at  last  peaceful  as  he  merely  stops  and  breaths  and  drinks  in  the  smell  of  her,  the  warmth  of  her  presence.  Only  then,  as  he  notices  her  brimming  tears,  does  he  dare  touch  back  ──  to  reach  for  her  with  a  careful,  callused  thumb  and  brush  away  what  dares  spill  beyond  her  lashes.  Even  after  its  purpose  has  been  served,  it  lingers  still,  tracing  the  curve  of  her  cheek  down  to  drag  against  the  crescent  of  her  jaw.  He's  never  heard  her  heart  beat  so  loudly  before;  at  least  not  when  his  senses  were  purely  his  own.  He  notices,  too,  how  much  stronger  her  scent  is,  so  much  that  he  had  smelled  it  from  far  off and followed it to her doorstep when memory alone failed him.  Or  was  it  Ghost  that  smelled  her,  or  him  as  Ghost,  perhaps,  who  brought  them  there?  This,  at  least,  he  can  appreciate,  how  she  floods  his  strengthened  senses,  how  his  entire  world  so  easily  becomes  focused  upon  her  and  her  alone.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤJon  makes  no  protest  as  she  urges  him  towards  her  cottage,  letting  her  guide  him  by  hand  from  the  frost  of  winter  into  the  shelter  of  her  habitat.  It  was  here  she  brought  him  so  long  ago,  he  remembers.  Back  when  they  first  met,  when  she  had  saved  him  from  bleeding  out  in  the  snow.  Perhaps  this  is  the  closest  he  will  ever  feel  to  coming  home  again  with  Winterfell  so  far  away.  ❝  If  this  is  a  dream,  I  pray  I  never  wake,  ❞  Jon  answers  quietly,  his  voice  soft  in  spite  of  the  hoarseness  that  bristles  in  his  dry  throat.  Gods,  had  he  worried  her  this  much?  Had  his  death  truly  caused  her  this  much  pain?  It's  a  different  kind  of  ache,  to  see  the  aftermath  of  what  his  death  had  wrought  upon  her,  someone  he  had  hoped  to  never  hurt.  Not  that  it  was  his  choice;  still,  he  feels  an  abstract  guilt,  a  wish  that  he  could  have  come  back  to  her  in  a  better  state.  She  speaks  of  food,  and  he  feels  his  stomach  respond  with  a  declaration  of  hunger  that  he  had  not  noticed  about  himself.  ❝  Food  would  be  welcome.  I'm  starving,  ❞  he  confesses,  though  he  questions  why;  his  path  here  was  riddled  with  devoured  prey,  shared  by  wolf  and  man  alike.  He  shouldn't  still  be  hungry,  yet  the  prospect  before  him  causes  him  to  bring  his  hand  to  his  stomach,  as  if  he  has  not  eaten  in  days.  One  might  think  that  dying  would  lessen  your  appetite,  not  grow  it.

Myrcella   had   listened   in   silence,   her   fingers   still   resting   beneath   his   hand,   slender   and   unmoving,   though   her   thumb   had   begun   the   softest   motion—small,   slow   circles   against   the   back   of   his   knuckles.   She   had   learned,   early   in   their   marriage,   how   to   read   the   weight   of   Jon’s   words   not   just   by   what   he   said,   but   what   he   dared   not   say.   The   fear   in   his   voice   was   never   loud;   it   lingered   in   the   pauses,   in   the   way   his   eyes   sought   the   trees   as   if   they   might   offer   the   truths   the   court   never   would.

She   followed   his   gaze   to   the   oak   heart   tree.   It   was   ugly,   she   thought—not   in   shape,   but   in   spirit.   Foreign.   An   imposter   in   a   city   that   prided   itself   on   falsehoods,   as   if   even   the   gods   had   learned   to   lie.   Her   voice   came   gently,   but   not   without   strength.   “Then   perhaps   we   give   them   something   they   cannot   so   easily   sever.”   There   is   a   short   pause,   grandsire's   spirit   sometimes   does   creep   into   her   as   she   spoke   of   matters   that   are   delicate   in   a   matter   of   fact.   “If   they   mean   to   undo   us—my   mother   or   your   king,”   she   continued,   her   chin   tilting   upward   as   if   to   make   up   for   the   tremble   she   swallowed,   “then   let   us   make   ourselves   indivisible.   If   they   would   see   you   sent   away,   or   made   quiet,   then   let   us   give   them   cause   to   hesitate.   A   union   that   binds   more   than   names   and   treaties.   A   child.”   She   said   it   softly,   as   though   the   gods   themselves   might   be   listening   from   the   wrong   bark   of   the   tree.   “A   babe   born   of   Stark   and   Baratheon.   Let   them   try   and   unravel   that.”

The   words   hung   in   the   air,   bolder   than   she   had   intended,   and   immediately   she   flushed—not   from   shame,   but   from   the   knowledge   of   what   she   had   done.   What   she   had   made   of   this   walk   through   a   godswood   that   was   not   his,   under   the   eyes   of   gods   that   were   not   hers.   A   sigh   escaped   her,   and   she   shook   her   head,   reaching   to   touch   his   jaw   with   the   backs   of   her   fingers.   “Forgive   me,”   she   said,   quieter   now,   a   small   smile   ghosting   her   lips.   “I   did   not   mean   to   turn   talk   of   our   future   into   something   so...   political.   I   only   meant—”   she   hesitated,   her   voice   dipping   with   earnestness,   “—that   I   will   not   let   them   take   you   from   me,   Jon.   I   have   grown.   .   .fond   of   you.   More   so   than   my   Septa   would   say   it's   allowed.”   But   her   Septa   had   also   said   that   a   woman's   role   in   bed   was   to   lay   and   take,   and   experience   had   said   otherwise.

▐║  ❆  ┊  𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐒  𝐀  𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓  𝐎𝐅  𝐇𝐈𝐌  𝐇𝐀𝐃  𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍  𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐒𝐇𝐄  𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃  𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐒𝐓,  for  the  words  do  not  surprise  him  as  they  should.  Or  perhaps  it  is  because  he,  too,  had  considered  the  same  thing  more  than  once,  and  he  and  his  wife  are  more  aligned  in  some  matters  than  might  be  obvious,  even  to  themselves.  What  a  pair  they  make,  truly.  He  gives  her  hand  the  lightest  squeeze,  mulling  over  her  proposition.  It  would  be  expected  of  them  at  some  point  to  have  children,  but  he'd  never  wanted  to  put  Myrcella  in  a  position  that  forced  her  into  it  too  soon.  It  does  set  him  at  ease  a  bit,  knowing  this  is  her  own  suggestion,  yet  something  remains  unsettled  within  him.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ❝  Maybe  you're  right.  There's  proof  enough  that  our  marriage  is  valid  in  the  eyes  of  gods  and  men,  though  the  king  could  find  a  way  to  break  even  the  strongest  covenant  if  he  wished  to.  But  joined  blood  is  another  matter.  ❞  Such  is  the  intended  purpose  of  a  marriage  such  as  theirs,  united  for  the  sake  of  joining  bloodlines  and  tethering  one  house  and  its  loyalties  to  another.  Is  that  what  worries  the  Targaryen  king?  That  loyalties  are  fickle,  and  Robert's  recent  death  may  not  have  put  to  rest  the  lingering  talk  of  his  old  rebellion?  Jon's  furrowed  brows  deepen,  etched  with  too  many  worries  to  speak  them  all  aloud.  But  she  is  his  wife,  his  confidante,  and  so  he  extends  the  trust  that  is  rightfully  hers,  slowly  looking  back  to  Myrcella  as  he  continues, ❝  But  I  worry,  Cella.  We're  only  guessing  at  what  they  want  from  us  and  what  we  should  do  to  appease  them.  What  if  we  were  to  have  a  babe,  but  they  still  wish  to  be  rid  of  me  anyway?  I  fear  what  would  happen.  ❞

ㅤㅤㅤㅤJon  lifts  his  hand  from  hers,  bringing  it  to  softly  cup  her  cheek  as  he  draws  their  gazes  together.  ❝  Ever  since  I  was  only  a  bastard  boy,  I've  been  afraid  of  what  would  happen  if  I  brought  a  child  into  this  world.  It  never  felt  like  a  real  possibility  until  they  gave  me  my  father's  name;  a  name  worthy  to  pass  on  to  another.  But  if  I  should  perish,  and  leave  you  to  care  for  a  child  alone  .  .  .  ❞  He  halts,  as  if  he  must  gather  the  right  words  to  speak,  to  let  her  feel  the  weight  of  what  haunts  him  and  understand  that  he,  as  much  as  he  would  rather  pretend  not  to  be,  is  afraid.  Jon  turns  towards  her,  no  longer  looking  down  at  her  from  aside,  but  face  to  face,  pulling  her  close  so  that  only  a  few  breaths  of  air  remain  between  them  amidst  such  a  confession.  ❝  I  know  what  it's  like  to  have  a  void  where  a  parent  should  be.  I  would  not  want  them  to  suffer  that,  nor  for  you  to  be  left  alone,  spending  the  rest  of  your  life  protecting  a  fatherless  child  from  the  vultures  who  would  gather  in  my  absence.  ❞

ㅤㅤㅤㅤBut  his  fear  does  not  change  reality.  It  does  not  change  the  truth  of  their  situation.  And  this,  too,  is  not  a  thing  taken  lightly,  when  she  speaks  of  fondness  and  her  own  fears.  Who  else  can  they  speak  their  fears  to  if  not  each  other?  ❝  I  do  not  think  he  would  harm  his  own  children,  at  least,  no  matter  your  mother's  influence.  If  anything,  putting  Elia  aside  has  angered  Dorne  enough  already;  were  something  to  befall  either  of  her  children,  it  would  come  to  war.  ❞  The  hand  upon  her  cheek  ventures  further,  brushing  through  golden  strands  at  her  temple,  and  the  other  presses  to  the  small  of  her  back,  as  if  he  could  pull  her  into  safety  there  in  his  arms,  shielded  from  all  of  the  sorrows  and  worries  and  dangers  that  surround  them  in  this  city.

are you a jedi?

he doesn't want to go with you.

he wants your permission.

go on. that's who you belong with.

i'll see you again. i promise.

may the force be with you.

you gotta be kidding me.

you're a disgrace to your armor.

this armor belonged to my father.

i've heard your voice thousands of times.

i thought you were dead.

i am so glad to see you.

i had heard many rumors.

i think we all know, after a valiant stand, everyone in this room will be dead but me.

great. we're saved.

don't be afraid.

we don't need these two.

let's get out of here.

i didn't know sidekicks were allowed to talk.

easy there, little one.

mesmerizing, isn't it?

a friendly piece of advice: assume that i know everything.

where is this going?

i'm not there.

i imagine they've killed everyone on the bridge.

they are beginning to panic.

do you know why?

you keep it.

you will leave my ship immediately and we will go our separate ways.

drop your weapon.

no no, you listen to me.

you wanna know what else i saw?

you think you're funny?

drop your blaster.

last chance.

why don't you kill him now and take it?

it belongs to you.

it must be won in battle.

it doesn't work that way.

come on, just take it.

it's time to go. don't be afraid.

copy that.

get the hell out of there.

i'll put on a good show.

don't worry about me.

just be careful out there.

we will help you.

fair enough.

help me, and you can have whatever you want.

you're sparing my life? well, this should be interesting.

i need your help.

are you sure you don't need any help?

i think that did it.

why did they stop?

open the doors.

we split into two parties.

we'll meet at the bridge.

we're being boarded.

what's going on? who are they?

enough! both of you!

all clear.

i need him alive.

oh great. an objective opinion.

let him speak.

i don't have a death wish, do you?

Writing / roleplay prompts collected from the second half of the POV chapters of Jon Snow in A Dance with Dragons , the fifth book of the ASOIAF saga. Feel free to adjust pronouns / etc. as needed.

tw: dark & mature themes, death, violence, suggestive / sexual content

❝ It may be a moon’s turn before we have another chance as good. ❞

❝ Some might think it better if you stayed safe and warm south of the Wall. ❞

❝ Some had best not say so in my presence ❞

❝ I never did learn the knack of flying. ❞

❝ What we need is gold. ❞

❝ A clever wolf, him. ❞

❝ The old gods live in the wood. ❞

❝ I do not tell men which god to worship. ❞

❝ The old gods are not their gods. ❞

❝ THey chose the trees instead, with all the peril that entails. ❞

❝ The words matter, and so do these traditions. ❞

❝ They bind us all together. They make us brothers. ❞

❝ I promise you, we shall return. ❞

❝ I have something they did not. ❞

❝ A white wolf in a white wood, silent as shadow. ❞

❝ Men are men, vows are words, and words are wind. ❞

❝ What have I done to make you hate me so, my lord? ❞

❝ Have no fear, you won’t be alone. ❞

❝ He blames me for his father’s death, I fear. ❞

❝ He was bred and trained to give orders, not take them. ❞

❝ He was closer to a god to his people, and his son is cut from the same skin. ❞

❝ I do not require men to kneel, but they do need to obey. ❞

❝ Put away your steel. We will have no blood shed here tonight. ❞

❝ You and your god have much and more to answer for. ❞

❝ Give me the wisdom to know what must be done and the courage to do it. ❞

❝ See that no one provokes him. ❞

❝ I know where I must go. ❞

❝ I am no southern lady. ❞

❝ Do I have your word that you will keep our princess closely? ❞

❝ In the end, that must be worth more than one man’s honor. ❞

❝ It is too cold and dark to play, and the hour is too late. ❞

❝ For the boy, if for no other reason. ❞

❝ He is no kin to me. ❞

❝ I have heard you singing to him. ❞

❝ I was singing to myself. Am I to blame if he listens? ❞

❝ See that he stays safe and warm. ❞

❝ A word in the king’s ear would have been the end of it. ❞

❝ Why let it happen if she knew? ❞

❝ Fire is a fickle thing. No one knows which way a flame will go. ❞

❝ This is going to end badly. ❞

❝ And who is it who appointed you to speak for them? ❞

❝ My father used to tell me that a man must know his enemies. ❞

❝ We could all do with a bit more wisdom, I’m sure. ❞

❝ It’s an unholy place. Cursed. ❞

❝ Are you so blind, or is it that you do not wish to see? ❞

❝ I hope we shall not inconvenience you too greatly. ❞

❝ A queen should be mistress beneath her own roof. ❞

❝ This is the king’s true heir. ❞

❝ In the dark the dead are dancing. ❞

❝ You do not want to anger him. ❞

❝ My father used to say a man should never draw his sword unless he means to use it. ❞

❝ I do not know how you observe guest right where you’re from, but in the north, we hold it sacred. ❞

❝ Perhaps before you leave we might have a quiet word? ❞

❝ A dragon might warm things up a bit. ❞

❝ We do not jape of dragons. ❞

❝ If he is not a kinslayer, he is the next best thing. ❞

❝ What sort of man can stand by idly and watch his own brother being burned alive? ❞

❝ I’d like to see with mine own eyes. ❞

❝ She is not a horse to be paraded for inspection. ❞

❝ I’ll treat her with all the courtesy she is due. ❞

❝ That would be a pretty trick, even for a queen. ❞

❝ Perhaps we should just let her rest. ❞

❝ I am told you have been asking after me. ❞

❝ My house and yours are bound in blood and honor. ❞

❝ I was not sure you would remember. ❞

❝ My father thought we might make a match. ❞

❝ There was a feast. I danced with you and your brother both. ❞

❝ He was very courteous and said that I danced beautifully. ❞

❝ You were sullen. My father said that was to be expected in a bastard. ❞

❝ You’re still a little sullen. ❞

❝ Now they mean to make me call him husband. ❞

❝ But you and I are here, still living. ❞

❝ Is there blood feud between us? ❞

❝ You are my only hope. In your father’s name, I beg you, protect me. ❞

❝ Snow during a wedding means a cold marriage. My mother always said so. ❞

❝ She hates the cold but loves the flames. ❞

❝ What fire joins, none may put asunder. ❞

❝ You would do well to keep your wolf beside you. ❞

❝ A word from you could save their lives. ❞

❝ I should make his head a wedding gift. ❞

❝ You could dance with me, you know. It would only be courteous. ❞

❝ You should dance with your husband. ❞

❝ He is not one for dancing, I fear. ❞

❝ If you will not dance with me, at least pour me some of the mulled wine. ❞

❝ All you are lacking is a bride. ❞

❝ You mean to keep her for yourself, I see it now. ❞

❝ The bastard wants his father’s seat. ❞

❝ He should have killed you when he had the chance. ❞

❝ Whatever happened to that sweet lad I knew? ❞

❝ A fair bargain leaves both sides unhappy, I’ve heard it said. ❞

❝ They look as though they belong together. ❞

❝ Have you been trying to steal my wolf? ❞

❝ If every woman had a direwolf, men would be much sweeter. ❞

❝ She may not be a princess, but she would make a worthy wife for any lord. ❞

❝ I would choose freedom over comfort every time. ❞

❝ Freedom of the castle you shall have, but I regret to say you must remain a captive. ❞

❝ If words drew blood, you might have cause to fear. ❞

❝ You are even lovelier than I was told. ❞

❝ Even ruins offer some shelter. ❞

❝ You need not trust a man to use him. ❞

❝ If I had asked that of him, it would have come to blood. ❞

❝ I am not the trusting fool you take me for. ❞

❝ He has agreed to this? ❞

❝ They are all gone. They have abandoned me. ❞

❝ That is a lesson I would sooner they never learned. ❞

❝ You are a black-hearted bastard. ❞

❝ Her song is sad and pretty. ❞

❝ Shadows never go away. Might be you don’t see them, but they’re always clinging to your heels. ❞

❝ This queen never fails to disappoint. ❞

❝ You will answer for this when the king returns. ❞

❝ I see that you are deaf to sense. ❞

❝ I will not ask my men to do what I would not do myself. ❞

❝ May you find happiness with your betrothed. ❞

❝ A word from you might have swayed the queen. ❞

❝ Shouldn’t you be inside, out of this wind? ❞

❝ I’ve never seen him like this. ❞

❝ Is that the only counsel you can offer? ❞

❝ You were right to come at once. ❞

❝ Your false king is dead. ❞

❝ When you have your answers, send to me. ❞

❝ What you propose is nothing less than treason. ❞

❝ Kill the boy and let the man be born. ❞

❝ So much for the calming power of comfortable benches. ❞

❝ Put away your steel, you’re scaring him. ❞

"I   dare   you   to   try."

"Do   you   always   get   close?"

"You’re   pushing   my   limits."

"Stop   looking   at   me   like   that."

"I’m   losing   control   here."

"You   have   no   idea,   do   you?"

"I   can’t   resist   you   anymore."

"Stay   back,   or   don’t."

"I   know   what   you   want."

"This   is   getting   dangerous   now."

"You’re   too   tempting   for   me."

"I   shouldn’t   want   this,   but…"

"I   don’t   play   fair,   remember?"

"Careful,   you’re   testing   me."

"You’re   just   making   it   worse."

"You’re   too   close   for   comfort."

"Do   you   always   push   buttons?"

"Stop   before   I   kiss   you."

"You’re   making   it   too   hard."

"I   can’t   stop   thinking   about   you."

"I   want   you   too   much."

"You   know   exactly   what   you’re   doing."

"I’m   not   playing   games   here."

"You’ve   crossed   the   line   now."

"Keep   pushing,   and   you’ll   regret   it."

"This   is   dangerous,   isn’t   it?"

"I’m   trying   not   to   care."

"Don’t   make   me   regret   this."

"You’re   playing   with   fire."

"You   don’t   know   what’s   coming."

"I   shouldn’t   be   this   close."

"We’re   getting   dangerously   close   now."

"I   can   feel   the   heat."

"Don’t   test   me   right   now."

"I   want   you   too   badly."

"Don’t   make   me   chase   you."

"You’re   distracting   me,   you   know."

"I   won’t   fall   for   this."

"I   want   you,   but…"

"What   do   you   want   from   me?"

"I’ll   never   give   in."

"I’m   trying   not   to   care."

"You’re   playing   with   my   patience."

"Don’t   make   this   harder,   please."

"I   can’t   stop   this   feeling."

"I’m   already   in   too   deep."

"You   won’t   walk   away   unscathed."

"You’re   walking   a   fine   line."

"I’m   trying   to   stay   calm."

　　　 𝐀 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐃𝐄, 𝐄𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐙𝐄𝐍 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐃𝐒, 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐍𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐊𝐄. her heart has felt agonizingly heavy, lately. as if it was made of lead, as if it had been painted over by charcoal blacks. she knows what it means to lose someone, to exist in the empty space created by their absence ( ... ) to crawl in there, head low and limbs quivering, desperately searching for what is no more. it is a hallowed yearning, a desire that darkens the contours of her nightmares at night and that leaves her aching in the long waking hours of the cruelest season ; she dreams of it, she dreams of his red red red blood across the pristine whites of the snow, she dreams of him returning from the endless darkness of precocious death.

and mayhap, there is power in longing. eyes wide and gleaming gold, rose - red tiers ajar in word - less vocalization, a heart - beat thunderous enough to quieten the mellifluent harmony of the dormant woodland. her gaze travels, searches, begs to find something that will break this illusion ( ... ) an illusion that her traitorous heart would happily indulge in. ❝ you⸻ ❞ it is but a feather - light murmur, the fleeting exhale of surprise that now drifts between them in a puffy cloud. ❝ you are alive. ❞

▐║  ❆  ┊  𝐈𝐍  𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃,  𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄  𝐈𝐒  𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘  𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖.  The  endless  carrion  of  discarded  leaves  crunching  beneath  ice,  the  bones  of  other  dead  things,  as  dead  as  him.  Cold  and  frost  and  a  sun  too  blinding,  only  the  light  of  the  moon  a  proper  guidance,  to  carry  him  through  the  dark  towards  an  unknown  goal.  The  scents,  the  sounds,  it  is  instinct  that  carries  him  forward,  not  a  single  conscious  thought.  Go,  go,  he  must,  but  where?  He  doesn't  know  until  he  arrives.  In  his  mind,  he  is  still  the  wolf.  The  blood  that  seeps  between  his  teeth  is  his  own,  until  it  suddenly  isn't.  When  the  hunger  is  sated  and  his  journey  carries  on.  Is  he  the  dead  thing?  Do  dead  things  taste?  Do  they  smell  and  feel  as  he  does?  What  is  he,  then?  He  felt  the  knives.  He  felt  the  life  leaving  his  body,  clinging  to  white  fur,  begging  not  to  be  given  to  the  void  of  nothingness.  He  is  a  half-thing  now;  not  anything,  truly,  only  halves  of  what  he  could  be,  should  be.  Dead,  living,  man,  beast.  The  truth  means  nothing  now,  in  the  void  left  between  it  all.

It's  only  when  he  finds  her  that  he  dares  to  exist  again.  To  be  Jon  again.  Not  a  wolf,  not  a  dead  thing.  A  living  man.  Only  that  way  can  he  speak  to  her,  reach  for  her,  truly  take  in  her  presence.  ❝ Ahri  ──  ❞  he  whispers  clumsily,  more  akin  to  a  beast's  growl  or  whimper,  as  if  he  must  learn  to  speak  the  languages  of  humankind  again.  The  cloudy  haze  of  his  eyes  fades,  clarity  at  last  as  he  sinks  fully  into  his  own  body,  his  vision  no  longer  doubled  by  Ghost's  shared  mind.  How  long  had  he  been  hiding  within  the  direwolf?  How  long  have  they  been  one  being?  Too  long  to  ever  feel  entirely  human  again.  These  are  the  things  they  say  about  those  like  him,  how  they  risk  becoming  the  beast  they  inhabit  for  too  long.  But  he  forces  himself,  with  every  ounce  of  will  left  in  his  body,  to  stand  upright  in  his  confines  of  shredded  leather  and  black  fur  cloak  still  coated  in  his  own  dried  blood,  to  show  her  that  he  is  alive  .  .  .  though  not  necessarily  well.

@hvitrulv asked: ⛓ (but for Jon on his blog in our Rhaegar wins au) / Send “ ⛓ ” for an arranged marriage starter

The   godswood   of   the   Red   Keep   was   still,   save   for   the   rustling   of   leaves   and   the   soft   murmur   of   the   wind.   Myrcella   stood   beneath   the   great   weirwood,   her   hands   folded   neatly   before   her,   golden   hair   unbound   and   kissed   by   sunlight.   She   had   asked   for   this   meeting.   Not   for   ceremony,   not   for   duty—but   because   she   wanted   to   see   him.

Jon—no   longer   just   the   Stark   bastard,   but   now   a   legitimized   son   with   a   name   and   a   claim   and,   as   of   three   months   past,   her   husband.   He   approached   quietly,   boots   soft   against   the   grass,   his   dark   curls   tousled   from   the   wind   and   his   eyes   sharp   with   that   Northman’s   calm.   She   had   never   known   a   man   so   tall   to   look   so   uncomfortable   in   her   presence.   Even   when   he   had   seen   her   bare   and   lay   with   her.

Marriage   life   was   not   easy,   but   she   had   fallen   so   comfortable   back   in   the   North   that   being   there   at   the   Keep,   by   order   of   the   King,   and   her   mother,   who   made   no   secret   of   being   now   pregnant   with   Rhaegar's   children,   felt   uneasy   for   all   of   them.   "You   have   been   unease   since   we   arrived."   Her   hand   sneaks   through   his   arm,   pulling   him   close,   to   show   support   and   perhaps,   to   show   him   she   was   an   ear   to   listen   if   he   needed   to   speak.   "It   does   not   sit   well   with   me   either.   .   .do   you   wish   I   talk   to   my   mother?"   She   does   hate   how   this   feels.

▐║  ❆  ┊  𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄  𝐈𝐒  𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐘  𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓  𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄.  Southern  plants  and  southern  trees  and  southern  gods.  There  is  a  peace  about  it  nonetheless,  a  quiet  that  cannot  be  found  elsewhere.  It's  not  like  Winterfell,  though,  where  one  only  needed  to  step  foot  into  the  godswood  to  feel  as  if  they  had  stepped  into  what  might  as  well  be  a  different  world  altogether.  Even  the  heart  tree  is  wrong;  not  a  white  weirwood,  but  an  oak,  tall  and  brown  and  misplaced.  The  red  flowers  that  grow  below  ── dragon's  breath,  he  thinks  they're  called ──  are  the  only  thing  that  bear  any  resemblance  to  what  he  had  wished  to  find  here,  blotches  of  crimson  painting  the  ground,  though  they  are  blooms  rather  than  fallen  leaves.

Yet  he  finds  home  when  he  looks  into  the  carved  face.  The  tree  is  foreign,  the  wrong  type  and  color,  yet  there  is  familiarity  in  this  face,  and  for  the  first  time  since  he  left  Winterfell,  he  can  feel  the  eyes  of  his  own  gods  upon  him.  There  is  some  small  comfort  in  that,  at  least.  Whatever  might  befall  him  here  in  this  perilous  city,  at  least  his  gods  will  see  and  know.  Would  they  care more  now  that  he  is  a  Stark  in  the  eyes  of  the  law?  For  all  the  difference  a  name  is  supposed  to  make,  somehow  he  still  feels  the  same  as  he  did  when  he  bore  the  name  Snow.  Stark  is  the  name  he  wanted,  what  he  always  coveted  in  the  depths  of  his  heart,  yet  now  that  it  is  his,  it  feels  stolen.  It  is  not  the  reward  he  had  thought  it  would  be,  not  the  proof  of  his  father's  love  and  favor  he  had  thought  he  required.  The  latter  is,  as  always,  undoubtable  .  .  .  so  why,  then,  does  something  still  gnaw  at  him  from  within?

Not  that  it  matters  here.  Stark  or  Snow,  he  doubts  either  name  would  win  him  the  love  of  his  wife's  family.  Myrcella's  father  had  liked  him  well  enough,  but  now  the  man  is  dead,  and  her  mother  is soon  to  wed  to  the  king  himself.  If  he  had  displeased  Robert,  then  the  worst  the  man  could  have  done  was  yell  drunkenly  at  him  at  the  feast.  He'd  have  never  dared  turn  against  him  if  only  for  the  friendship  shared  with  his  father.  But  the  king  is  another  matter.  Rhaegar  Targaryen  .  .  .  a  stranger  with  a  fraught  history  with  his  family.  He  could  very  well  have  Jon's  head  if  he  displeases  him,  or  if  his  new  bride-to-be  should  decide  a  Northern  boy  is  not  good  enough  for  her  daughter  after  all.  Starks  never  fare  well  in  the  south,  or  so  they  say.

His  only  comfort  here  in  this  place  is  Myrcella.  Jon  knows  he  has  never  been  the  most  outgoing  or  talkative,  nor  is  he  necessarily  an  easy  person  to  get  to  know.  He's  frigid.  Untrusting.  And  yet,  she  has  borne  the  patience  to  withstand  his  frost,  to  work  her  way  through  the  distance  he  keeps.  If  anything,  she  has  warmed  him,  like  the  work  of  a  summer  sun  beating  down  upon  the  last  remnants  of  winter.  When  her  arm  slips  through  his  own,  he  does  not  pull  away,  his  other  hand  reaching  to  gently  clasp  over  hers.  ❝ Well,  with  you  here  to  protect  me,  what  do  I  have  to  fear?  ❞  he  bears  the  ghost  of  a  grin,  his  grey  eyes  softening  as  they  look  down  into  her  emeralds.  ❝ But  it  seems  we  share  the  same  concerns.  Something  is  wrong  here;  this  invitation  . . .  it  feels  as  if  there  was  a  different  motive  for  bringing  us  to King's Landing.  ❞