⠀⠀⠀⠀…⠀⠀⠀⠀@snowlord, memes.
⠀⠀⠀⠀there are red leaves in the snow, they seem to catch afire when lordling’s beacon erects shadows to the labyrinth of forestry. winter has eroded all color from the world, leaving only stark and snow, and robb trembles { the trees are whispering, laughing, ｐｒａｙｉｎｇ }, lost in the emeralds and firs, his copper head bowed to the wind - chill. ❛❛ JON, where are you ? ❜❜ torch’s light flickers and dances, AS HE SETS DEEPER INTO THE GODSWOOD, spindling limbs uncertain ‘mong the treacherous tree - roots and ice, he stalks after his bastard born brother’s tracks — SER RODRIK WOULD SAY : there is generosity in hunting, bones for tools and handles, buckskin for clothes and bedding, hair for stuffing and ropes, you must be patient for such rewards.
⠀⠀⠀⠀—— and the young wolf is rewarded, as he bursts from the evergreen, pouncing onto jon as if the two of them are packmates, the snow welcomes them in a flurry of blinding white and cushions the fall. FEARLESS, breathless, brushes of flakes cling to robb’s lashes, bright - cheeked and stirred from their brotherly embrace. ❛❛ are you sulking — ❜❜ a fist squeezes ‘round his lungs, he catches his breath with a grin, ❛❛ you are, aren’t you ? ❜❜ { ⁱ’ᵐ ᵖʳᵒᵇᵃᵇˡʸ ᵃ ᵇᵃᵈ ᵖᵉʳˢᵒⁿ, says the white wolf } and it sinks just as quickly as its rise. mirth has been replaced by a quiet solemnity, as he lays ‘side jon, rose - tipped numbness left to his now empty hands, the illuminant hasn’t burn’t out just yet, despite the spill. HE STANDS TO RETRIEVE IT ⠀⠀⠀⠀… ⠀⠀⠀⠀❛❛ what troubles you ? did father say something ? ❜❜
without stop, these oakwood corpses bleed tears — necrosed, a ensanguined forever sorrow. jon imagines his seeping melancholy to appear a ridiculous blight to these gaping timber sentinels yawning charcoal sap, trickling like a spring dew, still indomitable even in this numbingly pale assault. he’d desire the unconquerable nature in their surreal garden of carnal reds, (to stay silent in suffering— for a lifetime or a second, it would matter little) in his mind, the words are knife-edged shrapnel, splintered quiet with a deep sadness, striking his head. a bastard has nothing to inherit; and there’s enough snow to drown in, now. a ghastly purpled blotch, all bruise - like, on lord eddard’s honor would be his apocryphal end; a guillotine suspended over his limp neck in emotional catharsis. this time, he understood. everything stutters in tempo, white slurring together against the harsh vivisection of red petals smearing his abdomen, jon can see all that he is, all that he will ever be in the mottling pallid blanket, (winter is coming, and snow is a ill omen.)
he laughed a mistful cloud the color of knight’s steel, bleak sort of laughter. shreds of pride in his breast— flinting as they may be, kindled a liminal margin in his heart when he’d heard a familiar galloping herald... of fiery, wild hair blotted with the soft flakings of this forest in frost. jon swiveled, a crow whimpers in wooden limbs, and attempts to feign ignorance by absently sympathizing with the mosaic foundation of sleet, crashing into his trueborn brother, and presenting powdered angels in their wake. (for a time, nothing moves) ❛❛ i’m probably a bad person. ❜❜ he felt himself become sequentially unwound, as if through another pair of eyes. in the convulsing silence, robb’s hoarse utterance is met with a stunning decline of snowfall, jon could laugh again at how bright his brother would be in combat to his steep dark. (a man and his brother; it’s always the same story, just a different ending…) he’d wonder if the black dragon, or the bastards of blackfyre had ever felt the pull and tug of love, desire, and pride. ❛❛ winterfell will be yours, you’ll be a great lord, robb. ❜❜ jon stretches a pause between them, wings on a butterfly, rolls the words against his tongue like honeydew, and swallows hard. ❛❛ and i’ll... join the night’s watch, like uncle benjen. ❜❜
dededos
turnnoffyourmind
kianamaiart
snowghoul
