#aeddard

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@shest4r and i haven't been following each other very long but she really is just so cool already. from what we've talked about in terms of worldbuilding behind the scenes and from what's available to know about nyraela im so stoked to know more and see how the character continues to take shape. the effort and meticulous detail employed in the lore is already so good. the character design is also so so pretty, i love the details on how she keeps her hair pink especially. the vibe is so fantastic. i love girlhood as a weapon

@aeddard

footfall brought them away from scrutinizing thoughts and great form straightened; an almost jaded expression toying with features that did not change despite realizing who was approaching. enur tugged the corner of their seal skin down over their shoulders as if a cape fastened beneath pauldrons. in part to block the cutting wind even if the cold bothered them little. the human skin crawled and the seal called for the sea, yet restless they had to remain.

❛ the stark lord. ❜ enur greeted, almost as if a statement describing the man approaching rather than the house he belonged to. perhaps this is what they were intending but such intentions were unclear as their expression remained unchanged. jorah had attempted to explain the concept etiquette but it was a weak willed attempt. they, after all, cared little for human customs but was curious enough to entertain them. ❛ for what do you seek me out ? surely the mormonts are more entertaining guests. ❜

'you know, brother, i am beginning to think that soon the day will come when i can best you with both the bow or the blade. perhaps both at the same time!' there is a wildness to the mirth that dances within dark eyes as the young woman raises her hand with a flourish to point at the well-pierced target across the courtyard. there are indications of several wayward arrows but on the whole, she's convinced that her performance is a commendable one and desire a commendation she does though it will only be begrudgingly admitted.

but northern superstition may run foul of him killing it outright , and so he has no will to sour the attitudes of those that are paying him. therefore the witcher has made his way back to the keep , nose bloodied where the creature had struck him in the face , a small cut across his brow , but otherwise there's been no harm. ' they're vastly territorial ... you may yet see another death should it stay where it is. ' @aeddard

he is her brother and he is not. lyanna stares at the man from across a bridge of broken bodies — felled from her swords and his, their blood hissing where it hit the snow. she blinks her grey eyes at him. his should be the same color, but where it had once been as familiar to her as her own, there are now twin pools of ice. a shudder skates the length of her spine and the she-wolf tries to fight it with no success. ned, her mind pleads, but no sound comes out of her mouth.

they are sizing up each other like two direwolves circling and sniffing for a scent. and then @aeddard speaks, and his voice is like grating boulders: you will forgive me if i am suspicious, but the times are troubled.

ha! lyanna cannot help but scoff. she twirls the short-sword she still has in one hand and deftly tucks it away within the sheathe on her back. and still she doesn't make a move, she simply watches. the day she arrived in king's landing is the day they severed his head. she watched it roll, watched sansa scream, frozen on the spot until the tide of people swept her out to the outskirts before she can even make her move. and even then, what could she have done?

the knight who vanished in harrenhal is at large again. this time, she is under no disguise and her armor is not made from scraps. this time, the laughing tree on her shield has a mouthful of sharp teeth. almost a decade and a half has passed since she last crossed the narrow sea, the ocean bearing her away from the only home she ever knew. it bore her back to the land of her youth with a strange calmness. the sort of quiet that pre-faces a raging monsoon. lyanna stark stepped off the blackwater with a single-minded purpose, only to watch as yet another brother of hers perished in the south. the sick, wet sound of the executioner’s sword bearing down on ned’s neck had turned her blood to ice. standing there, amidst the riotous crowd before baelor’s sept, the she-wolf thought she could feel the frost seeping into every inlet of her porous bones.

that was then. moons have passed. her body has chosen not to betray her, recovering quicker than her mind could. along the king’s road she searched for arya, slipping into gwyn each night to scour the surrounding woods. when that proved fruitless, she returned to king’s landing, infiltrated the red keep as a servant so sansa is watched over. a wolf in a lion’s den with thorned roses at each side. when news reached her of what happened at the twins, she rouses her niece in the middle of the night, and with a trail of dead bodies in her wake and the grinning weirwood sigil painted in blood on a chamber door, the knight of the laughing tree spirits sansa away to the cold shelter of the north.

home. she has not seen it in years, but it is hers nonetheless. it is theirs, no matter who has dared to usurp it. the she-wolf will see it reclaimed in the name of her house. for ned, for brandon, for their father, for every stark slaughtered and betrayed. there is a wild rumor of a man championing the stark cause with a direwolf by his side, and no one seems to know the reality of his identity. in her dreams, she sees blood on the snow, a splash of brilliant red against the white, and wolf eyes peering at her with recognition in its stare. lyanna can scarcely bring herself to hope, can barely settle on a guess. she will see this man’s face with her own eyes before she allows herself to think of him an ally.