northern loyalty.

As much as a fool as Theon may have been in the past, he was not one now. He knew well enough what would become of him should he attempt to take the king’s life, but he did not fear the punishment, finding more shame in a lack of action when he was capable of making a move to relieve the realms, and the Starks, of Viserys. He’d thought on it briefly when toggling through options to find Robb his freedom, and now, seeing him in pain, feeling his weight as he struggled to keep pace–it made Theon all the more certain a swift death to the king would save many from future suffering.

“You would be free of me then.” He replied, focusing on the winding staircase before them as he eased Robb up one step at a time. “After all I’ve done, it would be a punishment long overdue…” He knew at one time Robb had cursed his name, vowed to take vengeance and issue the justice by the swing of his own sword. He still felt in his heart that had not changed, even though the two of them walked together now, side by side with an arm around each other like old companions. His life should have been forfeit despite what good deeds he’d done since escaping Ramsay, and if it would be payment in exchange for seeing Robb return to being king in the north, he would gladly give it. Why is was being disagreed upon when it was so willingly offered, confused him.

Regardless, Robb was telling him to do nothing and so he would obey, though the heavy set frown and the steel look to his eyes made it clear he was far from happy about it. Given some time, he might just go against that order anyway, especially if he caught sight of another wound, be it a cut, stab, or even a bruise.

Half way up the second set of stairs, Theon paused, forcing Robb to stop with him. “Rest a moment, it’s a long way up.” He peeled his hand away from the site of the injury, grimacing at the continued blood flow before reapplying the pressure. “When we reach your quarters, please allow me to fetch you some proper help. It’s deep. A mere dressing is not going to mend this.” Infection…permanent damage…blood loss–there were plenty enough risks to drive Theon to go against Robb’s wishes for his own good. He’d already betrayed him once, there was little else he could do that was worse than that. “For once I need you to attempt to be less stubborn.”

                   he  hates  feeling  vulnerable,  especially  in  hands  he  no  longer  trusts.  yet,  even  a  lack  of  wanting  to  put  his  comfort  in  theon,  he  knows  the  man  would  not  betray  him  again,  as  he  once  did.  robb  would  sooner  have  his  head  than  let  anything  of  that  nature  repeat.  his  siblings  had  brought  the  man  with  them  to  king’s  landing  and  that  enough  gave  the  eldest  stark  a  bit  of  faith  in  the  other.  it  would  take  time  to  share  a  bond  as  they  once  did,  if  they  ever  did  again.  still,  even  now,  even  with  blood  dripping  from  his  wounds  and  his  balance  held  by  the  ironborn,  he  would  allow  him  to  protect  him  with  his  life.  did  that  make  him  a  fool  ?  yes,  he  figures,  it  does.  in  his  circumstances,  though,  he  would  rather  be  an  alive  fool  than  a  dead  one.

                    ❝    enough.    ❞    he  hisses,  uninterested  in  hearing  anymore  of  the  hypothetical  situation.  if  it  had  been  offered  during  the  war,  after  theon’s  betrayal  and  before  his  current  position,  there’s  a  part  of  him  that  knows  he  would  demand  nothing  less  than  to  have  that  vengeance.  even  now,  he  wonders  how  valuable  the  other’s  life  is  to  him  and  for  that,  he  feels  guilty.  theon  has  made  his  mistakes,  his  own  choices,  but  robb  will  not  bend  his  will  and  honor  to  stoop  to  what  the  greyjoy  believes  he  deserves.  rodrik  cassel  would  not  want  that,  he  thinks  and  robb  doesn’t  either.  with  the  protection  of  his  siblings,  of  his  house  and  what  theon  can  offer  him  alive,  he  won’t  have  him  killed.  not  when  he  catches  glimpses  of  who  he  used  to  be.    ❝    your  punishment  is  to  stay  alive  and  atone  for  your  past.    ❞    house  stark  needs  you,  he  thinks  but  doesn’t  dare  to  add.

                    robb  knows  to  keep  his  own  punishments  under  wraps,  hidden  from  wandering  eyes  and  those  who  would  wish  to  see  him  well.  what  they  aren’t  aware  of  keeps  both  parties  safe.  for  theon  to  know  enough  of  what  is  being  done  to  him  in  the  capital  has  already  put  them  both  at  risk.  with  his  jaw  clenched,  refusing  to  look  the  other’s  way,  all  he  knows  is  he  doesn’t  want  any  harm  to  come  to  the  man  for  this.  they’ve  both  suffered  enough.

House Greyjoy would not align themselves with the likes of the newest Mad King. They had been through it before, they need not go through it again. It would only end in blood, in death, in tears. Asha would continue fighting for her house, as she always had. For her father. This would be her first time meeting Robb Stark, she had every intention of meeting him while she was in King’s Landing. There was no part of her that wanted to pledge fealty to the Targaryens, and she had a feeling that the Starks would have that in common with her, as the Starks were dealing with the dragon family firsthand. “Lord Stark…” She turns to him, a smile creeping up on her features. This was the man her brother admired so, the man Theon saw as a brother. If Theon saw reason to like him, so would she. “You have my thanks, my lord. I do. My father has entrusted me to lead them in his place.” It was a wise decision on Balon Greyjoy’s part. She was smart, she knew what to do with her forces. They were mainly here to protect her, to keep her company, and because they frequently accompanied her. “It’s nice to finally meet the man my brother speaks so highly of.”

                      in  the  eyes  of  the  crown,  appearances  were  everything.  the  bold  refusal  to  bend  the  knee  from  the  iron  islands  had  surprised  him,  but  a  pleasant  surprise  nonetheless.  regardless  of  house  stark’s  submit  to  the  king,  no  member  of  their  family  viewed  the  targaryens  as  allies.  the  north  still  sought  itself  to  be  an  independent  kingdom  and  robb  would  never  stop  seeking  opportunities  to  achieve  such  a  thing.  for  now,  though,  he  would  play  the  part  and  appear  as  a  trusted  hand  to  the  king.  he  would  not  have  the  same  fate  as  his  father.

She knew he would not be happy with her for being so forward, coming straight to his chambers without hesitation. Anyone could see her, she knew, but she didn’t care. Viserys would not hesitate to have her head, anything to make the Hand suffer. Yet, she ended up outside her brother’s chambers all the same. He was not well. Serving Viserys was making him unwell, as it would anyone. She wouldn’t blame him for his pessimism. It was hard to see a great future when Viserys Targaryen was to be crowned. She wondered if the Beggar King would be worse than his mad father. All she could think of lately was her own father, how Robb’s life was mirroring his. House Stark could pledge fealty to King Viserys as a whole, but she would not. She was just waiting to betray him in secret, she was sneaky like that. She rushes into his chambers, waiting to be scolded. However, she was no longer a young girl, she had to make her own decisions, especially now. They weren’t safe in King’s Landing. They needed to go home. He was destined to be the king in the north. “Not to do it.” She faces him, speaking stubbornly. She couldn’t stand to be a handmaiden. Sansa seemed to like Daenerys, with her pretty white hair and violet eyes. She was a proper lady, a dragon queen, of course Sansa liked her and cared for her. Sometimes Arya thought that Sansa was just as stupid as she had been when they were children, just as naive. She crosses her arms over her chest. “I know it’s dangerous. I can hold my own, I’m sure I fight better than any of Viserys’s guards.” And she might have been right. She had been training long enough, probably longer than the guards had. “I’m worried about you.”

                     he  worries  for  all  of  his  siblings  within  the  grasp  of  a  dragon.  his  sisters,  the  most.  as  pawns  of  marriage,  easier  ties  to  keep  them  to  king’s  landing,  a  larger  target  on  their  backs.  when  it  comes  to  sansa  and  arya,  however,  he  knows  the  youngest  has  had  her  own  bit  of  training.  she  was  always  better  in  the  courtyard  during  their  youth,  proving  to  her  brothers  she  could  be  every  bit  of  a  fighter  that  they  were.  it  comforts  him  to  know  she  has  those  skills,  but  her  hastiness  and  the  same  stubbornness  they  both  share  worries  him  far  worse.  with  viserys  as  king,  he  could  command  whatever  he  desired.  robb  was  one  of  his  least  favorite  within  the  court  and  it  terrifies  him  that  even  one  step  out  of  line  could  punish  not  himself,  but  his  siblings.  his  sisters,  already  trapped  within  the  capital.  he  was  doing  his  best  to  remind  them  to  behave,  even  if  he  hardly  could.

Nothing? It’s no surprise that a Stark would look down at a stab wound and deem it nothing to reflect on, and perhaps that’s where Theon’s own stubbornness stemmed from. Irritability flashed across his features, and he reached for the wine in Robb’s grasp to place it on the ground and out of the way–easily prying it out of his fingers before adjusting his grip on him to better support him. His name on the other man’s lips, something that should have been a curse dripping with anger and hatred, left him as a weakened sound that made Theon’s chest lurch. 

Blue eyes lifted from the wound beneath his gloved hand, following the direction of Robb’s indication to the darkening marks on his throat. Being this close to him, he could see the damage left over time, the abuse of a tormentor that left him near wracked with hatred and grief. Robb’s pain, his suffering, it hit far too close to Theon’s hidden vulnerabilities, and even as he was ordered to do and say nothing, a flicker of light came to his eyes–a fury and defiance that made up the very man he’d been before Ramsay got his hands on him. The old Theon Greyjoy, a man of strength and pride, was very much alive behind those layers of trauma, and he would not stand idle given what he knew Robb was enduring.

Awaking the dragon was a warning he’d heard of on the tongues of the men in King’s Landing. Apparently it reflected Viserys’ violence when enticed into a rage–something Theon rolled his eyes at until now. He’d bent the knee in support of the Stark’s decision to aid their brother, and now traitorous and murderous intentions ran rampant through his head.

He ushered his arm around Robb’s frame and gently pulled him closer. “Lean against me if you need to, but we need to get you to a bed and find a maester to attend to this wound.” There was no room for argument as he said it, even if Robb despised the idea of his help. What ill feelings still held by the man he had betrayed would not change his lasting affections for him, and even if there was a struggle to push him away, Theon would still see to it he got the help he needed.

“One arrow.” He growled out as he guided their steps towards the first vacant room he could find. “I only need one clear shot to ensure he doesn’t harm you again. I can free you of him, Robb.”

                  the  wound  is  nothing  new.  he’s  learned  to  accept  the  consequences  for  his  words,  a  stubborn  man  who  refuses  to  submit  to  a  mad  king.  there  is  resistance  from  him  wherever  he  can  input,  unable  to  stand  by  and  watch  as  viserys  takes  hold  of  the  north  because  of  him.  he  would  die  before  allowing  any  change  to  his  home  at  the  cost  of  the  king.  it’s  something  he  gets  from  his  father.  honor  and  fairness  triumphs,  even  at  the  repercussion  that  robb  would  lose  his  head.  he’s  learning,  day  by  day,  that  the  games  he  must  play  to  survive  require  more  than  being  a  good  man  with  a  pure  heart.  it’s  unclear  if  he’s  willing  to  sacrifice  all  he’s  ever  known  to  be  able  to  stay  in  the  world.  with  his  siblings  at  his  side  and  theon  caring  for  him,  hands  on  his  wound,  he  figures  that’s  exactly  what  he  must  do.

                      his  heart  is  pounding  in  his  chest  and  despite  his  better  judgement,  he  nearly  asks  if  theon  knows  the  pain  he  had  endured.  if  going  to  war  and  leaving  the  boltons  in  winterfell  had  caused  theon  the  same  scars  he  now  earns  everyday.  he  promised  himself  he  wouldn’t  ask,  wouldn’t  bring  up  the  past  but  it’s  all  at  the  forefront  of  his  thoughts.  robb  has  spotted  the  missing  pinky  finger  on  the  other’s  hand  and  wonders  if  the  beggar  king  would  ever  take  such  a  thing  from  him.  it  would  be  in  his  best  interest  if  robb  lost  his  ability  to  wield  a  sword  or  if  he  was  in  a  similar  position  that  bran  was  in.  the  thought  makes  his  stomach  turn.

                      he  had  done  what  was  needed  to  keep  house  stark  alive.  the  only  solution  to  keeping  them  truly  safe  during  their  time  in  the  capital  meant  bending  the  knee.  while  robb  would  rather  curse  him  and  plunge  his  sword  into  the  man’s  gut,  he  knows  that’s  not  possible  if  to  keep  his  family  out  of  harm’s  way.  the  north’s  future  is  in  the  palm  of  his  hand  and  he  won’t  be  so  foolish  as  to  have  anything  bad  happen  to  them  for  his  own  choices.  not  again,  at  least.

                      ❝    take  me  to  the  tower,  i’ll...  i’ll  tend  to  my  wound  from  there.    ❞    as  always,  keeping  those  out  of  view.  with  a  painful  grunt,  he’s  wrapping  an  arm  around  theon’s  back  to  press  into  his  opposite  shoulder,  helping  his  balance.  if  he  could  make  it  back  to  his  chambers  on  his  own,  he  would  shove  theon  away  and  scold  him  for  being  away  from  the  festivities.  knowing  that’s  not  possible  in  his  state,  he  submits.    ❝    you  are  the  only  one  who  has  ever  seen  me  like  this  and  i  am  keeping  it  that  way.    ❞

Robb faced him, peeling away from the thickness of the shadows keeping him concealed and in return, Theon’s concern only grew. He’d been drinking far more than usual–something he would have inevitably teased him of in their earlier years at Winterfell, but there was a dreary reason behind it, and such a thing was very clear in both Robb’s eyes and expression. He’d grown up with this man, stuck by his side far more than any other’s, and he knew when something was amiss.

His eyes were drawn to the splash of crimson, the spot being so dark and damp, it could almost be overlooked in the Stark’s drunken state, but Theon’s attention to detail had him locking in, and in that moment, he forfeited the safety of distance. “You’re injured.” He hissed out, anger and fear entwining in his gut as he lunged forward and planted his hands on Robb’s shoulders to steady him. He was breaching a barrier by touching him, but he cared little for what repercussions it might bring as his first and foremost focus was getting him tended to. 

The blood was fresh, and as Theon peeled back the collar of Robb’s shirt he could see the dark line against the man’s paled skin. A clean jab of a blade…and the wine was doing little to aid in the bleeding. It burned his insides like wildfire to know someone had done this in his absence. A man once called brother, his king, feeling the cold steel of a knife without Theon’s promised protection there to intercede. 

“Who did this to you?” His voice was a harsh whisper with an ice-edged demand. “I’ll have their guts spilled across the fucking floor.” His hatred and rage was there in his grim words, a solemn vow of vengeance he indeed intended to act upon. He pressed a hand atop the wound, immediately lifting his head to seek out either the one responsible or someone that might offer aid–for as Theon was adept in injuring men, he was not so skilled at healing them. 

The man that had done this, would be dead by his hand before nightfall.

                   there’s  still  anger  in  his  heart  when  it  comes  to  theon.  though,  as  the  days  pass,  the  resentment  becomes  harder  and  harder  to  keep.  the  circumstances  are  different  now  and  he  can  use  all  the  help  he  get.  if  he’s  instructing  the  man  to  protect  his  family,  is  that  not  enough  to  forgive  him  ?  robb  finds  himself  conflicted.  when  will  it  be  time  that  the  other  has  atoned  for  the  mistakes  he’s  made  ?  when  can  the  eldest  stark  welcome  back  his  once  brother  into  his  arms  ?  he’s  unsure.  before,  he  never  thought  there’d  be  a  day.  now,  looking  at  the  other,  he  knows  there  will  be.  could  it  be  today  ?

                      at  the  contact,  he  emits  a  sharp  hiss.  his  body  sinks  back  from  the  pain,  wondering  if  he’ll  collapse.  it  seems  the  other  will  see  to  it  that  he  doesn’t.  with  his  own  time  in  a  mad  man’s  grasp,  he  hopes  theon  will  understand  what  he’s  done.  that  no  judgement  will  be  shown  in  his  eyes  when  he  inevitably  explains  that  what  has  happened  to  him  is  his  own  fault.  all  consequences  for  waking  the  dragon.    ❝    it’s  nothing,    ❞    robb  growls,  though  his  expression  shows  not  a  hint  of  anger.  if  anything,  his  features  are  etched  with  sadness,  with  embarrassment  for  not  hiding  his  wounds  well  enough.  though,  he  knows  if  he  ignores  the  deep  wound  that’s  nearly  touched  bone,  the  spot  will  become  infected.  what  a  pity  that  would  be,  to  have  his  shoulder  on  his  dominant  hand  permanently  unwell.

                      ❝    theon,    ❞    the  man  attempts  to  snarl,  yet  his  words  come  out  as  a  whimper.  if  he  was  able  to  pull  himself  out  of  the  other’s  grasp  and  flee  for  the  nearest  quarters,  he  would.  robb  has  never  felt  so  vulnerable,  so  weak,  so  ashamed.  the  revealing  of  his  cut  causes  him  to  wince  and  gaze  elsewhere.  a  stronger  man  would  push  the  ironborn  away  and  demand  he  keep  his  mouth  shut.  however,  he’s  a  wounded  wolf  whose  tail  is  between  his  legs.  as  much  as  he  hates  it,  as  much  as  he  wishes  he  could  ignore  this,  he  knows  how  stubborn  the  other  is.  he’ll  never  let  it  go.  maybe,  in  part,  robb  is  thankful  for  that.  maybe  he’ll  allow  someone  to  patch  his  wound.  how  he  wishes  it  was  jeyne.

@ofthenvrth

where: great hall, maegor’s holdfast

when: late-night

Myrcella’s deadening smile had not faltered all day, however, as each hour went on Myrcella felt more and more emotionally drained. Seeing Tommen safe and healthy was a delight, but knowing that he was now in the capital worried her. However, Tommen bending the knee and giving up his titles was surely the safest thing for him to do, and she knew that Robb had told he would do what he could to look out for both her and Tommen.  But, as hard as Myrcella tried, she could not find a reason to talk herself out of craving an end to this madness. 

Viserys’ announcement had shaken Myrcella to her core. Perhaps if she was not now one of four of his future brides, she wouldn’t have such a strong sense of disquietude that had been settled into her all day and night. Myrcella tried to interact, tried to speak among the other nobles but she was running out of motivation to do so. Perhaps it was the shocking news of finding out she’d be marrying Viserys, or that she’d be marrying anyone at all, but Myrcella felt dangerously anxious. In between conversations, any time her emerald eyes made contact with another person, it was almost as if she could see how they saw her. The bastard daughter of Cersei Lannister and the Kingslayer. It was not hard to put two and two together, and Myrcella only hoped that one of Robert’s bastards did not show up at court. But, in an odd way, she almost didn’t care- if a bastard of Robert Baratheon’s showed up at court and they wanted to execute her for her parent’s incest, so be it. 

After Myrcella finished what she had decided would be the last pleasantries of the night, Myrcella left the Great Hall. Her thoughts scared her, for they were not any near as grim as they were after Trystane had been murdered. She needed peace and quiet to change her mood, although she was overestimating the amount of control she had over her emotions. As the golden haired lady followed the long carpet that stretched from the great hall into the throne room, she couldn’t help but notice how the red keep was no longer her home. The hunting tapestries that King Robert had put up in place of the dragon skulls had been removed- and now the dragon skulls adorned the walls.

 The throne room was so quiet she could hear the sound of the guards breathing as she made her way past the Tower of the Hand and down the corridor towards  Maegor’s Holdfast. As she approached the entrance, she slowed down, waiting for the guard to acknowledge her. When Myrcella got closer to him, she exhaled a sigh of relief- for he was asleep and she wouldn’t have to be ridiculed by any guards on her way to her chambers. Not tonight, at least. But, she couldn’t help but wonder- would she be ridiculed by these guards for the rest of her life? By Viserys, her future husband, for the rest of her life? By everyone who believed the truth; that she was a bastard.. for the rest of her life? 

Before Myrcella even opened the doors to her chambers, she had finally allowed the tears to fall. She could feel her eyes begin to itch, and as she shut the door behind her, she couldn’t help but feel as if her chest was caving into her body. Myrcella leaned against her door, breathing heavily as her thoughts raced. Myrcella had felt as if being alone would calm her thoughts, but it seemed as if her being alone was only making things worse. She placed her hands on top of her chest, then her neck as she tried her best to catch her breath. Myrcella had spent the whole time night trying to act as if nothing had daunted her, but on the inside, her mind was deteriorating with stress. She thought of all of the events leading up to her going to Sunspear and then coming back to King’s Landing, allowing grief and anger to wash over her. Her trembling hands yanked at the lion pendant necklace her mother had given her, and she threw it onto the ground, unable to even hear the sound of it hitting the floor as she sobbed.

She had never had a panic like this. Myrcella pulled at the bodice of her dress, trying to get the tight dress off of her in order to breathe easier. Myrcella’s long golden hair got tangled in her hands as she took her dress off and pulled at the strings of her corset in an effort to let herself breathe. Although she was unsuccessful in removing the corset, she loosened the strings enough to get some sort of comfort. Myrcella wiped the sweat off her forehead and walked across her chambers to the window, still breathing heavy. She opened it slowly, almost as if she was afraid the sound of the window opening would draw in someone’s attention. She took a shaky breath as she pushed the window open. Myrcella stuck her head out of the window and looked down, unable to see what was beneath. From what she could remember, there was nothing but a dry moat and spikes below her. 

Suddenly, she couldn’t help but ponder leaping out of the window. Her thoughts about jumping from the window didn’t shock her. She remembered reading about Helaena Targaryen and how shocked she was to know that she jumped to her death only to be impaled on the spikes below. Myrcella hadn’t understood why anyone would do such a thing, but as she put one foot up on the window sill and used her hands to balance herself as she brought her other foot to stand on it, she understood. It didn’t matter what lied below, what mattered was that she would escape everything. I could be free of all of this right now, she thought to herself as she felt the bottoms of her feet begin to sweat. No wedding, not ever being a pariah again.. Maybe, just maybe, she would see Trystane. It was odd, but thinking about throwing herself out of Maegor’s Holdfast and never having to deal with the mistakes her family had made had left her breathing calmly. 

Myrcella took one foot off of the ledge of the window sill and allowed it to dangle in the air. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, deciding that she wanted to think about her favorite place in Westeros before she left this world. Myrcella tried to imagine the heat on her face. She thought of the Water Gardens, and she could even hear Obella and Dorea splashing each other in the water. Flickers of the cyvasse board came into her mind, and she could remember the calming way Trystane smiled at her every time she had beat him. Despite standing on the edge of a window sill hundreds of feet in the air, the mental imagine of Trystane smiling at her calmed her nerves. She shook her foot, allowing her shoe to fall off of her foot and hundreds of feet onto the ground. Myrcella took another deep breath before she moved further out of the window, pressing her hands on both sides of the window to keep herself steady. Her heart started to race as she decided that she would count down from five before jumping..

Five, four, three.. Myrcella was so focused on what she was about to do, and the winds were so loud that she wasn’t able to hear the sound of someone entering her chambers. 

                     the  day  seemed  never ending.  from  sun  up  to  sun  down,  robb  wished  to  be  elsewhere.  in  the  gardens,  standing  on  the  docks,  or  anywhere  else  in  westeros  ---  anywhere  but  the  red  keep.  stomaching  niceties  from  strangers  lasted  barely  anytime  at  all.  during  a  short  part  of  the  coronation,  maybe,  but  after  that  he’d  had  his  fill.  now  the  eldest  stark  could  go  days,  a  fortnight  without  any  social  duties  or  a  simple  conversation.  if  the  gods  would  bless  him,  they  would  give  him  that  peace.

                        except,  he  knows  better.  after  everything  he  has  been  through,  the  gods  will  not  grant  him  this  favor...  if  there  are  any  at  all.  he’s  wondered  that  in  his  time  away  from  home,  if  the  gods  are  listening,  if  they  even  exist.  yet,  he  still  prays.  he  prays  because  he’s  unsure  of  what  else  to  do.  on  the  off  chance  his  begging  to  spare  his  siblings  lives  means  anything  at  all,  then  he’ll  never  stop.  he  would  do  anything  to  keep  them  safe  and  have  them  return  home  when  those  in  the  capitol  inevitably  left.  when  his  allies,  friends  and  loved  ones  inevitably  left  him  to  rot  in  a  pit  of  hell.  he  did  not  blame  them,  no,  he  didn’t  blame  anyone.  if  they  could  do  something,  anything,  robb  had  confidence  they  would.  the  only  one  he  was  furious  at  was  the  king  himself  for  lying,  for  being  a  dishonorable  man.  if  he  had  his  way,  some  day  the  man  would  pay  for  everything  he’s  ever  done.

                        he  would  pay  for  what  he’s  announced.  over  an  unsuspecting  crowd,  himself  included,  viserys  pledged  to  marry  multiple  women.  the  very  idea  itself  was  far  fetched,  one  that  many  houses  would  disagree  with.  it  gave  the  king  far  too  much  power  and  a  man  of  his  mind  was  dangerous  with  even  an  ounce.  as  selfish  as  it  is,  he  doesn’t  fret  at  the  names  ---  all  except  for  one.  sansa  stark.  his  breath  hitches  at  the  news,  words  caught  in  his  throat  and  anger  bubbling  in  his  stomach.  at  her  marriage  to  ramsay  bolton,  he  had  been  outraged.  to  force  his  sister  to  marry  anyone  was  beyond  his  belief,  but  a  traitorous  bastard  who  had  taken  everything  from  them  ?  it  was  a  wonder  the  man  was  already  dead,  or  robb  would  have  marched  north  himself  and  claimed  his  head  just  as  he  had  walder  frey.  now  another  demanded  sansa’s  hand  in  marriage,  a  man  whose  head  he  couldn’t  take.  there  was  nothing  he  could  do  if  the  king  himself  would  demand  her  as  one  of  his  wives.  yet,  he  would  do  whatever  he  could  to  prevent  such  a  thing.

                        so  he  had  requested  a  moment  of  king  viserys’  time.  everything  he’s  ever  held  himself  back  from  was  unleashed,  spitting  at  the  man  in  anger  and  even  going  so  far  as  to  grip  the  blood  red  clothing  on  his  pale  skin.  robb  had  wanted  that  blood  to  spill,  for  him  to  grab  his  sword  and  show  the  other  who  the  true  coward  was.  in  battle,  the  dragon  wouldn’t  stand  a  chance.  he  would  lose  his  head  so  quickly  it  would  go  down  in  the  history  books  as  the  fastest  man  to  beg  for  his  life.  it  would  certainly  be  a  sight  to  see.  instead,  he’d  been  thrown  into  a  cell  and  reminded  his  life  could  be  taken  with  the  snap  of  the  targaryen’s  fingers.  a  knife  to  his  shoulder,  deeper  than  before  and  ghosting  on  the  tip  of  bone.  light  bruising  could  be  seen  around  the  cusp  of  his  shirt,  surely  a  deep  purple  in  the  morning.  he  would  have  to  wear  the  higher  neck  blouses.  his  skin  was  a  portrait  for  the  king,  but  robb  was  intent  on  keeping  his  consequences  hidden.  if  not  for  his  weak  appearance,  then  the  shame  it  would  bring  him  if  word  got  out.  he’s  never  been  one  to  care  about  his  ego,  but  he  is  if  it  comes  at  the  cost  of  uplifting  the  dragon.

                        the  exhaustion  he  feels  and  the  wine  in  his  belly  threatens  to  put  him  to  sleep.  as  the  feast  and  dancing  begins  to  unwind  for  the  night,  finally,  robb  takes  his  leave.  he’s  able  to  slip  out  quite  easily,  thankfully  unnoticed.  there’s  a  bright  smile  upon  his  features,  as  if  it  hasn’t  been  one  of  the  worst  days  of  his  life.  all  that’s  left  to  do  now  is  return  to  his  chambers  and  sleep.  oh,  if  he  could  only  stay  there  the  rest  of  his  days.  some  nights  he  awoke  with  a  fright,  sweat  beading  on  his  forehead  as  his  heart  raced.  visions  of  his  dead  wife  and  those  he  had  lost.  other  nights  he  never  stirred,  but  saw  through  the  eyes  of  what  appeared  to  be  his  direwolf,  safe  at  home  in  winterfell.  those  dreams  he  craved  more  than  anything,  but  he  was  never  lucky  enough  to  have  more  than  a  few.  even  in  his  hazy  state,  wishing  for  a  peaceful  night  with  images  of  home,  he  thinks  of  those  at  court  who  don’t  share  the  hope  he  does.  he  has  the  desire  to  return  home,  to  a  home  with  his  family  and  people,  but  tommen  and  myrcella  baratheon  do  not  share  the  same  fate.  they  are  home,  but  with  a  mad  man  on  the  throne  where  one  of  them  once  was.  robb  finds  himself  lucky,  although  the  thought  selfish,  that  he  does  not  share  that  misfortune.

                           robb  figures  that  myrcella  knows  of  her  brother’s  arrival  in  king’s  landing,  though  he  wishes  to  speak  to  her  about  it.  though  their  presence  together  could  certainly  draw  talk,  their  meeting  is  safer  than  robb  requesting  tommen’s  company.  perhaps  she’ll  know  where  her  brother’s  thoughts  lie  and  could  even  help  in  a  potential  alliance.  they  were  helping  each  other,  weren’t  they  ?  or,  at  least  he  had  pledged  to  keep  both  the  lannister  bastards  out  of  harms  way.  some  were  still  allies  of  both  house  lannister  and  house  baratheon,  some  who  may  even  oppose  a  targaryen  on  the  throne.  he  has  no  desire  to  ride  into  war  but  must  face  the  possibilities  on  the  horizon.  it’ll  be  his  last  stop  for  the  evening,  hoping  that  lady  myrcella  has  not  yet  retired  to  bed.  he  remembers  where  her  chambers  are  in  maegor’s   holdfast  and  his  steps  quicken,  as  if  to  hide  where  he’s  going.  his  heart  picks  up  in  rhythm  as  he  passes  the  small  entrance  to  the  tower  of  the  hand,  his  tower,  though  he  hopes  one  day  he’ll  be  able  to  dissociate  himself  with  the  building.

                          with  the  absence  of  guards,  no  less  drunk  or  patrolling  elsewhere,  he’s  free  to  give  a  quiet  knock  on  her  chambers.  moments  pass  as  robb  leans  against  the  door,  patiently  waiting  for  the  woman  to  answer.  he’s  almost  walked  off,  figured  she’s  fast  asleep,  until  he  hears  movement.  another  ignored  knock.    ❝    lady  myrcella,  are  you  decent  ?    ❞    he  calls,  a  faint  whisper  hopefully  heard.  finally,  growing  restless  and  letting  his  curiosity  control  his  movements,  the  stark  pushes  his way  into  her  quarters.  his  eyes  are  immediately  fixated  upon  the  lioness  in  the  window,  blonde  hair  flowing  in  the  wind.  a  sharp  gasp  escapes  him  as  he  carefully  steps  forward,  taking  account  of  how  she  stands.  another  moment  and  she’ll  be  out  the  window.  robb  must  act  fast,  so  he  does,  launching  himself  forward  to  wrap  both  arms  around  the  front  of  her  waist,  pulling  her  back  on  top  of  him.  he  lets  out  a  sharp  hiss,  wounds  from  earlier  still  fresh  but  his  pain  the  least  of  his  problems.

{  @ofthenvrth }

in  truth,   king’s  landing  had  proved  to  be  a  lot  more  tedious  than  anticipated.  posing  as  allyria’s  lady  had  been  the  perfect  mask  to  hide  beneath,  but  now  she  wasn’t  entirely  sure  how  to  proceed.  the  starks,  much  like  all  the  northerners  she’d  encountered  proved  to  be  as  cold  as  the  place  they  fared  from.  this  observation  was  troublesome  given  how  badly  she  wanted  to  know  more  of  them,  of  her  father  brandon.  the  task  proved  to  be  almost  impossible.

she  wouldn’t  have  dreamt  of  attending  viserys’  coronation,  not  in  a  million  years.  the  king  proved  to  be  a  brat,  annoying  at  best.  dangerous. someone  she  would  very  much  like  to  stay  away  from,  but  this  would  be  the  perfect  chance  to  get  close  to  the  starks.  her  eyes  had  been  scanning  her  surroundings  as  the  feast  continued,  the  men  only  got  drunker  and  their  ladies  slowly  began  retiring  to  their  chambers.  she  figured  she’d  do  the  same  if  it  were  her  who  were  married  to  them.  for  a moment  she  wondered  if  ashara  and  brandon  had  lived  if  this  would  have  been their  fate.  she  shrugged  the  thought  off,  leaving  a  horrible  taste  behind  as  it  left.

“  my lord  hand.  ”  she  spotted  him  out  of  the  corner  of   her  eye  and  before  she  knew  it,  she’d  made  her  way  to  him.  “  i  hope  you  don’t  mind  my  interrupting  you.  i’ve  been  meaning  to  speak  to  you.  er,  introduce  myself. ”

                      there  are  many  faces  in  the  capital  that  he  does  not  recognize.  it  troubles  him,  surrounded  by  so  many  potential  enemies.  or  allies,  if  he  saw  his  position  differently.  though,  with  guards  lurking  nearby  and  viserys’  habit  of  approaching  him  at  unknown  times,  robb  would  never  be  so  bold  in  the  openness  of  the  red  keep  halls.  his  own  tower  is  available  for  any  connections  he  desires  to  make.  however,  with  one  betrayal  after  another,  his  extending  of  trust  has  nearly  run  dry.  house  stark  comes  first,  the  north  will  always  come  first.  if  an  allegiance  cannot  be  proven,  it’s  of  no  use  to  him.  he  doesn’t  desire  to  make  a  foolish  mistake,  one  like  being  bound  to  king’s  landing  for  the  rest  of  his  days,  ever  again.

                          he  wishes  he  could  escape  from  the  day’s  events  and  hide  away  in  his  quarters.  all  robb  truly  wants,  if  he  cannot  be  home  or  in  the  company  of  his  loved  ones,  is  to  be  alone.  why  would  he  waste  his  breath  with  small  talk  ?  it  all  seems  so  trivial  now.  except,  that’s  what’s  expected  of  him  and  that’s  what  he  must  do.  even  if  he  would  rather  endure  a  knife  to  the  cheek.

it is not lost on tommen who he is speaking to. the king of the north       now hand of the king       robb stark. perhaps that is the most startling change between the kingdom that he grew up knowing and the one they live in now. the irony of his position is a connection he makes instantly, and he figures he is not the first one to make it. lord eddard stark had been an honorable man. his mother used to proclaim that sentiment with such disdain; as if having honor was a sin the seven gods looked down upon. he did not know lord stark well despite living within the same castle as long as they did. most of the time, tommen was kept in his chambers, learning the names of lords and ladies and their homelands at his grandfather’s request. he never wished anything ill upon the stark family, making it safe to say he hopes this overlap from history turns out differently than the past. 

a moment passes before he acknowledges the tilt of head. with hesitance, tommen returns the gesture. after all his family has done, there is no reason for the hand of the king to offer him anything but a passing glance. instead he offers kindness. a welcomed surprise, to be sure. a small, passing smile flashes across his lips before promptly disappearing. his return to king’s landing was no easy feat. standing in this room struck at every nerve within his body. he lost count of the days that he spent separated from his sister, though he was assured she was safe in the court. or, at least as safe as one could be in the presence of a dragon ( and he isn’t thinking about the ones flying overhead ). 

❝ i was born in king’s landing, ❞ the blond begins, eyes momentarily drifting to the doors that led back outside before his attention returns to robb himself. ❝ for most of my life, i knew nothing else. this place was my home. ❞ if he were walking through the halls of the castle, he could pinpoint a dozen spots that held memories to him. he used to count every building that his eyes could see from the window of his room, wondering if he was doing better for the people inside than his brother before him. much had changed, indeed. ❝ and yet i feel like an intruder. i don’t quite recognize much anymore. ❞ tommen knows admitting this in the wrong company could mean life or death but he did not fear the man before him. 

❝ thank you, ❞ he replies just as genuinely as he hopes the words spoken to him are. ❝ it is not my place to lament about the past. if i were treated in a way i could not endure then i would not be here, my lord hand. ❞ a moment passes and it is second nature for him to do a quick observation of their surroundings. the last thing he wants to do is bring attention to himself. ❝ the south is an unusual place to be, isn’t it? far dissimilar from the north. as a boy, i didn’t realize how different two kingdoms could be. how are you adjusting? ❞  

                     there  are  days  when  he’s  full  of  hope,  and  there  are  days  where  he  accepts  his  fate  as  hand  to  the  king.  with  the  arrival  of  his  siblings,  his  bannermen  and  those  from  the  north,  the  motivation  to  go  home  again  raised  a  fire  in  him.  the  desire  to  return  to  his  rightful  place  in  the  north  outweighed  all  logic  and  politics.  he  wasn’t  sure  how,  or  when,  but  one  day...  one  day  he  would  take  his  lands  back  and  never  set  foot  in  the  capital  again.  however,  there  are  also  days  when  he  wakes  up  and  knows  he  will  never  again  see  the  snow.  he  will  never  feel  the  winter  winds  dance  across  his  skin  or  watch  his  siblings  in  awe  of  the  people  they  have  become  in  his  absence.  on  those  days,  he  grimly  accepts  that  his  time  in  the  north  has  come  to  a  close  and  he  must  make  the  best  of  his  situation.  today  is  a  day  void  of  hope,  of  determination.  even  with  the  burning  eagerness  to  return  to  winterfell,  his  duty  will  forever  be  bound  to  king’s  landing.

                        his  features  often  at  the  mutual  gesture.  most  of  what  he  knows,  or  thinks,  about  tommen  is  what  he’s  heard  from  others  around  him.  the  northerners  are  not  kind  to  outsiders  or  house  enemies,  marking  the  lannisters  as  their  biggest.  they  would  speak  harshly  about  cersei,  jaime,  their  children  included.  it’s  why  two  lannister  squires  had  been  murdered  in  the  night,  to  repay  what  their  family  had  done.  robb  had  been  so  against  it  that  he  had  beheaded  a  karstark  to  show  his  men  this  is  not  how  he  would  lead.  the  mistakes  of  parents,  of  grandparents  and  older,  should  not  fall  upon  their  future  generations.  a  child  should  not  reap  the  consequences  of  their  ancestors.  he  thinks  this  of  tommen,  of  a  boy  he’s  heard  has  been  commanded  by  his  mother  in  absence  of  leadership.  where  is  his  head  without  her  guidance  ?  he  hopes  to  learn.

                        he,  of  anyone,  knows  the  pain  of  being  ripped  from  their  home.  robb  cannot  imagine  being  somewhere  familiar,  surrounded  by  strangers  and  enemies.  it’s  a  blessing  he  wasn’t  in  winterfell  during  theon’s  betrayal  or  the  bolton’s  takeover.  too  many  of  his  people  know  the  same  feeling  that  tommen  does  and  it  pains  him.  his  expression  is  sympathetic,  one  of  understanding  and  sorrow.  men  he  knows  would  laugh  at  the  boy’s  words,  say  that’s  it’s  something  he  deserved.  robb  would  disagree.    ❝    there’s  been  much  change  in  your  absence,    ❞    his  head  drops,  making  a  disapproving  clicking  noise  with  his  tongue.  though  he’s  relieved  to  not  look  upon  lion  or  stag  banners,  though  he  will  not  share  this  with  the  other,  it  doesn’t  comfort  him  to  have  them  replaced  with  dragons.    ❝    i’m  sure  it’s  not  the  welcome  you  wanted.    ❞    though  he  refrains  from  saying  it  due  to  those  who  pass  them,  he’s  sorry  that  tommen  has  suffered  for  decisions  others  have  made.

@ofthenvrth

A morning spent at the range and Theon had gained the clarity and warm up he needed to get through the rest of the day. Tournaments, feasts, a ball…there was far too much on his mind bother taking enjoyment, especially when he’d heard his concerns on the lips of others, striking mere paranoia from the list. Music could be heard from the courtyard where lunch and early drinking was already on the rise before the first leg of the tournament, and while Theon planned to participate in the archery portion, he would likely forego the rest of it. 

He made his way down a solitary hall, a single lone figure drinking in a shadowed corner something he would bypass without a second thought, only he recognized the build, the hair, and the curve of Robb’s jaw as his head turned slightly in his direction. On a day such as this, the hand of the king was expected to stay close, likely overseeing much of what was going on, yet here he was looking to be doing everything in his power to avoid it all. 

The smell of wine was rather strong, and Theon wondered how much he might have had to drink since morning. He wondered if he should keep walking and allow the Stark the time to himself–seeming as what that looked to be what he wanted and Theon was likely the last person he wanted to see or be seen with. Concern dug at his chest however as he walked by, eyes catching a posture he did not recognize. Stress perhaps? He had plenty on his shoulders and he was so far from home, forced to serve a man he had no love for. Robb Stark had become akin to a caged animal…a feeling Theon could easily empathize with.

Shadows played heavily on the Stark’s features, making it hard to tell what he might be thinking, and though instinct urged Theon to keep moving to avoid being threatened again, it felt wrong to leave him here without first checking on him.

“Robb?” He came to a stop a good distance away, being sure to stay out of reach of another sudden swing to his head. A headache and further bruising would be best to avoid. “Shouldn’t you be with the king and not down here alone?”

                  they  were  giving  a  monster  the  iron  throne.  if  he  hadn’t  been  sure  of  that  the  morning  of,  he  was  sure  now.  he  had  heard  the  announcement  of  viserys’  marriage,  of  the  multiple  brides  he  would  take.  it  was  too  dangerous  for  one  man  to  have  that  many  ties  and  robb  had  a  feeling  plenty  would  not  be  pleased  with  the  decision.  so  he  did  what  he  had  been  condemned  to  the  south  to  do  ---  he  advised.  with  his  hands  behind  his  back,  his  tongue  held  from  snide  remarks,  he  had  implored  that  the  king  choose  one  wife...  two  if  he  must.  it  was  the  threats,  the  mention  of  his  eldest  sister,  the  consequences  for  going  against  his  own  judgement  that  had  him  realizing  his  position  truly  was  one  of  appearances.  what  good  had  he  done  as  hand  to  the  king  ??  nothing. 

                     in  his  own  rage,  he  snatches  a  bottle  of  southern  wine  from  the  events  and  retreats  to  solitary.  robb  had  done  best  to  hide  his  face,  red  with  fury,  not  needing  anyone  to  question  where  he  had  been  after  the  coronation.  later,  during  the  feast,  he  would  sober  himself  up  and  keep  an  eye  on  those  he  was  supposed  to  be  watching  at  that  very  moment.  with  the  sport  of  the  tournament,  his  absence  would  not  be  missed.  that’s  what  he  was  counting  on,  at  least.

                    with  a  couple  glasses  in  and  an  entire  pitcher  to  himself,  his  nerves  begin  to  settle  and  anger  fades  away.  numb,  that’s  what  he  desires,  especially  with  the  fresh  wounds  he’s  been  gifted.  there’s  no  doubt  he  smells,  appears  worse  than  usual.  no  one  will  find  him,  that’s  what  he  holds  onto.  with  everything  going  on,  he’s  not  a  thought  on  anyone’s  mind.  his  pity  is  with  the  young  women  promised  to  viserys,  to  the  common  people  who  will  not  see  a  bettering  to  their  society,  to  the  north...  his  home  in  which  he’s  been  dragged  away  from.  to  which  he’ll  never  return,  he  knows  that  now.  he  knows  he  will  never  be  free  of  this  hell.

“Only what your loyal men who fill the walls of Castle Black have said.” Varamyr felt sorry for them, condemned to a life with nothing but a sword and the promise of a lonely death. That had never been his clan’s way; you fought for everything you could protect. “I’ve heard only the best, grey wolf.” He moved a little closer, leaning against one of statues that littered the gardens. They were away from the party, and Varamyr preferred it that way at least. It was away from the stares of all the southerners, as well as some northerners who still didn’t understand why the wildlings had to be saved.

The slight flush against Robb’s cheeks made him laugh, and he pushed himself off the statue. He enjoyed the cool air the evening had brought with it, despite what it all meant for every man and woman beneath this new king. “Well, consider the pleasure all mine.” Varamyr gave a mock bow, though his smile remained the same as he held out the jar of wine he’d snagged from one of the tables. “I suppose you could say that. We follow our king from beyond the wall, and the crow seems to be one of his favorites.” He only shrugged his shoulders, studying Robb for a few more moments. The stress would make anyone look like the Northerner, the wildling figured. “You can call me Varamyr, and we can agree that you are wearing far too many layers for this Southern city.”

                    off  the  top  of  his  head,  he  can  only  remember  family  members  who  have  been  sent  to  the  wall  --  jon  snow  and  benjen  stark.  he’s  heard  nothing  of  the  latter  while  his  brother  has  joined  him  in  the  capitol...  against  his  best  wishes.  if  anyone  could  escape  the  wrath  of  viserys,  claim  their  true  place  was  at  castle  black  for  the  rest  of  their  days,  it  was  jon.  still,  in  search  of  an  army  no  less,  he’s  arrived  for  the  coronation.  the  nickname  has  him  shifting  on  his  feet,  thinking  of  his  direwolf  and  better  days.    ❝    ah,  i  see,    ❞    is  all  he’s  able  to  muster,  a  hand  coming  to  his  mouth  to  hide  a  grin  as  he  nods.

time: early morning place: the dragon pit, on the hill of rhaenys.  accompanied by: it could be you! ( open to everyone )

as early as he could remember, his family held the power of the seven kingdoms. his father, his brother, himself; even his mother and grandfather had a hand in the cards that were dealt. growing up in king’s landing, tommen baratheon had experienced things of the grandest nature. he never expected just how differently his home could look under a different king. dragons were merely tales of a time well in the past; personified in a black and red sigil with three heads. he could not recall a moment where he was genuinely struck with awe. a single glance in the sky revealed a cluster of large shadows, shaped in the very creature he heard so many stories about. despite the amount of people gathered outside of the renovated structure, tommen ventured into the building (as if it were safer than the alternative); a trail of guards watching his every move following a step behind him.

the atmosphere was nearly enough to fool him. lords and ladies from each and every kingdom dressed in their finery. drinks and foods of all kind being passed around. it nearly fooled him into believing his life did not currently hang in the balance. he had heard of farmers who set their animals up comfortably before slaughtering them and wondered if this picture before him held any semblance to that thought. of course, tommen had made his intentions known prior to his arrival in king’s landing. declare yourself void of any titles and bend the knee. it is the one chance you have at saving your own life. 

as he takes a glass of wine that is handed to him, he thinks his mother would be filled with fury at the thought of his submission. her words could cut like glass and a part of him was fascinated by her; a bigger part frightened by her. still, he could not help but think he could use her guidance now. he inhales deeply, emerald eyes lifting from the floor at the same moment his shoulder bumps into another. 

“ forgive me, my lord/my lady/your grace. “ it was once his duty to be familiar with the faces of those who resided within the seven kingdoms or at least of clues that could hint to who stood before him. “       i did not expect to see you so soon. ” 

                  no  part  of  him  wants  to  take  place  in  the  festivities.  though,  knowing  his  position,  he  has  no  choice  if  he  wants  to  avoid  waking  the  dragon.  it  is  in  his  best  interest,  and  his  siblings,  that  he  behaves  himself  and  appears  as  the  proper  hand  of  the  king.  he  won’t  participate  in  the  tourney  or  the  competitions,  merely  watching  on  as  others  bet  for  their  hand  at  winning.  in  another  time,  another  place,  perhaps  he  would.  though,  with  him  desperate  to  be  elsewhere,  he  can’t  see  himself  indulging  in  any  activities  without  there  being  a  consequence.  instead,  he’ll  drink  fancy  southern  wine  and  watch  as  others  make  fools  of  themselves  or  speak  too  loudly  of  things  they  should  not  mention.  at  the  very  moment,  he  finds  himself  in  the  dragon  pit,  admiring  the  work  that  has  already  gone  back  into  the  building.  he  figures  the  dragons  will  be  housed  here,  though  he  wonders  if  they’ll  stay.  something  tells  him  they  won’t  be  chained  up  like  in  the  history  books.

                      even  in  the  unfamiliar  heat,  robb  finds  himself  adorning  northern  leather  and  his  house  sigil  on  his  sleeve.  with  every  piece  of  clothing  he  wears,  he  lets  it  represent  where  his  true  loyalty  lies...  despite  the  hand  of  the  king  pin  attached  to  the  leather  vest  he  wears.  the  only  thing  different  is  that  his  undergarments  are  a  brighter  color  than  usual,  a  pale  blue  that  reminds  him  of  winter.  it  reminds  him  of  their  words  ---  winter  is  coming.  aye,  the  harsh  winter  winds  would  come  again  and  hopefully,  by  that  point,  he  would  be  returned  home.

                      he’s  not  paying  attention  when  someone  bumps  into  him.  the  eldest  stark  expects  to  shake  off  the  stranger  and  go  about  his  way,  but  when  he  comes  face  to  face  with  the  previous  king  of  the  seven  kingdoms,  he  has  no  desire  to  flee.  it  almost  disgusts  him,  how  much  the  boy  compares  to  his  mother.  he  can  see  cersei  in  his  eyes  and  it  almost  angers  him.  then,  he  remembers  what  he  promised  myrcella.  how  could  he  forget  ?  if  she  is  a  woman  of  her  word,  then  tommen  is  nothing  like  his  parents,  like  cersei  and  jaime  lannister.  he’ll  see  of  that  for  himself.  the  both  of  them,  once  kings,  now  prisoners.  he  suspects  the  other  has  it  worse,  having  to  renounce  his  titles  and  bend  the  knee.  hopefully,  he  thinks,  viserys  won’t  punish  him  now  that  he’s  submitted.

@ofthenvrth.

I can be as strong as Robb, she had once thought. And she was. Being in King’s Landing again was weighing heavily on her, she does not belong here. This was where they killed father, she remembered, and she remembered how she was nearly run down by people in the city rushing to see what all the commotion was about. If one Hand could die, why not another? The thought ran on a loop in her mind. She felt like a child again, worried for her lord father, imprisoned by the Lannisters. Her father had been Hand of the King, and what good had that done him? All it did was kill him. And now Robb was the Hand of the King, a worse king, not a drunken fat man with a love for hunting. Her older brother would know that she hated being a lady in waiting. Being a lady at all was beyond her interest. Her hair was longer than before, and every day, she styled her hair in northern braids. That was the closest she could get to home, besides wearing the Stark colors, which she also did on a daily basis. She would not wear Targaryen colors or the braids of the southron ladies. At the moment, that was the most she could do against the crown. When the dragon princess was busy with her handmaidens and ladies in waiting, she snuck off into the night. She was good at going unnoticed, most didn’t bother to notice her anyways. She scurries to the Tower of the Hand, knowing Robb would be there. She knocks on the door, a bit quietly, three times, in a perfect rhythm. His guards were meant to be guarding him, yet they weren’t, perhaps they were with the Beggar King instead. “Robb, open the door.” She says, eyes wide as plates, worried a guard would walk past at any moment.

                       he  finds  himself  in  his  chambers,  as  usual.  the  tower  of  the  hand  is  used  as  his  own  source  of  freedom  in  a  place  where  he  feels  like  a  prisoner.  robb  finds  himself  lucky  when  viserys  isn’t  barging  in  to  lecture  him  on  something  he’s  done  or  something  he  must  do.  he  does  not  take  his  time  alone  for  granted,  no,  he  appreciates  every  second  of  silence  he  can  find.  since  the  arrival  of  his  men,  his  people  and  his  siblings,  he’s  been  out  in  the  red  keep  greeting  friends  and  foes  alike.  the  social  aspect  of  it  all  has  taken  a  toll  on  him,  worn  him  down  more  than  he  thought  able.  his  scars,  his  aging  and  a  pessimistic  personality  is  all  on  display  for  those  who  arrive  at  the  capital.  he’s  tired  of  having  people  see  what  the  war,  and  viserys,  has  done  to  him.

@ofthenvrth

“You must be the man I have heard so much about. Yet you are not the man who needs convincing, are you?” Varamyr didn’t know too much about the politics of the South, just that the Night King beyond the wall threatened his own way of life, and subsequently, every man, woman, and child that lived within the wall of ice. The Starks were mentioned in brief passing, a few times from the crows on the wall that gave Varamyr only a few names and no faces. 

The gardens of the Red Keep were supposedly off limits, but there were so few of him and so many who just didn’t pay attention that it had been easy enough to end up in a place where Varamyr most likely shouldn’t have been. He’d hear it from Tormund later, but for now, he was more than happy to wander through the place he was supposed to call a temporary home. After all, it housed dragons, and Varamyr was more than willing to see the beasts before anything else. “You’re much prettier than I would’ve thought for a would be king. Have you seen ours? Ugliest fucker I’ve ever laid eyes upon.”

                     he  nearly  jumps  at  the  sudden  company,  figuring  himself  alone  in  the  gardens.  robb  should  know  better  than  to  have  silence  when  anywhere  but  his  quarters.  even  there  he  suspects  he’s  being  watched...  one  can  never  be  too  sure.  his  brows  furrow  in  trying  to  assess  who  the  man  is.  by  their  apparel,  he  would  not  guess  anywhere  in  westeros.  his  first  guess  is  that  the  other  belongs  to  the  dothraki  riders,  the  ones  who  are  apparently  loyal  to  the  targaryen  princess.  would  she  have  mentioned  him  ?  no,  there  would  be  no  point.  it  would  not  make  sense  for  the  dothraki  to  have  heard  of  him.    ❝    you’ve  heard  much  about  me  ?  it  seems  i  do,  as  i’m  not  sure  what  you’ve  heard.    ❞    good  things...  or  bad  ?

Rickon understood that it would be a shock for any of his siblings to see him once again, after all he was all grown up now, a boy made man. He had been such a young and small boy the last time he saw any of his siblings and now, here he was, as tall as Robb and taller than Jon. So of course, it didn’t come as a surprise when Robb seemed to fail at recognizing him. A small appeared on his face at the look of his brother’s face and he couldn’t help but chuckle. 

Part of him was angry at his own family, none of them came back for him or Bran, none of them bothered to come look for them. He knew that they had gotten the news that both of them had died, burned and hanged at Winterfell but still, he had expected them to at least maintain the hope, that they could still be alive. Part of Rickon understood that they were fighting a war, that they couldn’t abandon their cause, but the other part of him believe that family was more important than anything. And that was why he came to King’s Landing, because he wasn’t going to let his family come to this hell without him being around. Rickon wasn’t the best fighter, that was true, but he was smart and he had the heart and drive to fight as hard as he could for his family. 

“It is me, brother. All of this political business is making you look old.” He smirked as he moved forward, enveloping his brother in a tight hug. “I’ve missed you brother.” 

                 until  days  ago,  he  thought  his  younger  brothers  dead.  burned  flesh  and  cast  up  on  the  walls  of  winterfell  for  all  to  see.  in  a  different  time,  he  would  have  killed  theon  greyjoy  for  what  he  had  done.  only,  until  he  discovered  the  truth  and  the  survival  of  his  brothers.  when  he  realized  he  was  not  being  played  for  a  fool,  it  filled  him  with  excitement  to  see  the  rest  of  his  family  again  ---  all  of  his  siblings  in  one  place...  even  if  he  was  aware  how  dangerous  it  was.

                    there  had  been  hope,  after  theon  took  winterfell.  he  assured  his  mother  they  would  be  fine,  that  the  ironborn  would  never  hurt  their  family  in  such  a  way.  it  turns  out,  he  had  been  right  all  along,  even  when  robb  ultimately  believed  catelyn  after  the  news.  now,  he  was  standing  face  to  face  with  his  youngest  sibling.  if  any  of  them  should  have  appeared  as  a  child,  it  was  rickon.  yet,  he  stood  tall,  his  features  mimicking  their  father  and  not  a  boyish  expression  in  sight.  a  true  stark  appearance  that  no  one  could  doubt  was  him.

“isn’t that what we are all here to do, my lord?” ser loras shot him a look, before checking their surroundings. viserys had loyalists, obviously, and as bold as the young knight was, it seemed stupid to outwardly critique him. the king in the north’s anger at his position was well known amongst the court, but ser loras? he was not in any realm of a place to be seen stirring discord. “rejoice for his coronation, and hope that our kingdom now sees peace.’

her gaze flickers up from the tome in hand, resting on the face of none other than robb stark. ( the king in the north, they called him. her father had rallied his bannerman, his armies and marched north for him. her father had fought for him, died for him. and that was all she knew, in a way. there were rumours, of course. whispers. talk of a honorable man meeting a honorable death; that stannis baratheon may not have had a winning army, but he did have honor. there was even talk of one person, one knight, killing him in the frozen forests. if asked, shireen didn’t know what the seven hells to believe. only that one day she had a father, a mother — and the next she didn’t. ) not even the bitch of the red faith was anywhere to be found, all her secrets and answers disappearing with her.

“it seems everywhere i go, people have heard much about me, my lord.” shireen remarked wryly. baratheon was a powerful name — and the seven kingdoms had a long memory. her head tilted, hair falling to expose more of the greyscale scars on her cheek and neck. “but you are correct — it is my house history. though at this age, i know most of the stories.”

                   if  not  for  his  own  title  as  king  in  the  north,  robb  would  have  pledged  his  allegiance  to  stannis  baratheon.  though,  the  squabbles  of  southerners  had  caused  his  men  to  grow  tired  and  demand  their  independence  with  their  own  king.  it’s  something  he  thinks  back  on  as  if  it  was  a  silly  dream.  if  it  had  not  been  for  fighting  battles  for  other  houses,  he  would  have  returned  home.  he  should  have  returned  home.  he  doesn’t  remember  much  of  who  supported  him  and  who  didn’t  ---  at  the  time,  it  seemed  as  if  everyone  with  their  hand  reaching  for  the  throne  thought  of  him  as  an  enemy.  if  only  they  would  have  known  where  he  ended  up.  now,  he’s  hand  to  the  beggar  king,  eyes  locked  on  stannis’  daughter  who  survived  the  wrath  of  the  war.