#boystark

his face dips in and out of view, obscured in the molten flux of leaves and afternoon shadow. resplendent and unafraid. and she exhales a laugh, as if to excise this tension.

"well, the gods favor the bold," @boystark calls down to her, a branch higher than before.

. 𐙚 ⭒ incorrect quotes : @boystark ♡

the    band    takes    it’s    time    to    warm    against    the    flush    of    her    skin    *    as    if    the    frost    from    winterfell    was    embedded    into    the    metal    itself.    all    the    weight    of    its    history    burdened    in    the    minute    grooves    &    ancient    details    of    its    jeweled    bearings.    gwen    cradles    her    own    hand    to    stop    the    shaking,    to    better    her    admiration    of    the    artifact.    the    week    of    fighting    seemed    to    wholly    lift    away    *    what    had    she    been    so    upset    about    ?    what    could    have    ever    bothered    her    when    life    was    capable    of    moments    like    these,    where    chapters    seemed    to    open    so    neatly    ?    robb,    his    proximity,     the    ring    on    her    finger    —    details    so    clear    that    the    rest    of    the    world    all    but    fell    away    into    the    soft,    distant    thrum    of    life    before.                   ❛❛  . . . ❜❜                 words  catch  !    all    avenues   for    expression    are    blocked    by    the    mist    of    tears    gathering    at    lower    lashes.    gwen   moves    trembling    hands    to    besotted    visage,    unable    to    manifest    the    full    bloom    of    adoring    verbiage.                  ❛❛  yes  !  ❜❜

THE TWINE DANGLING BETWIXT HER FINGERS IS SOFT, a gentle but sturdy chord that sansa recognizes as personal handiwork. her own brother's craftsmanship, in this case. simple it may be, the pendant itself is not entirely of his meager skill: like a coin, one side is carved a lovely rose, and upon the other is the crouched form of a direwolf, the sigil of their house. the detail is fine enough to take her breath away, a brief wonderment of who amongst their trade workers has careful enough hands to mark metal so delicately. sansa brushes her thumb over the raised petals of the rose, feeling the grooves of the direwolf on the tip of her finger on the other side. a pretty thing, well enough for a lady to wear, and perhaps also --- to serve as a reminder. that however far across the seven kingdoms she goes, winterfell will always be in her blood. the act alone of having this made is a knowledge that carves a space for itself inside of her heart, and tully eyes are bright as a cloudless sky when they fall upon robb.

“ to pass onto my children, you mean? ” the smile arcing her lips lends its lightness to her words, though there is something it nearly hitches over --- a hesitation, like the stutter-skip of her heart. her and joffrey's children, one day. wolf and lion. she wants to take the low, sickly feeling in her stomach and bury it deep. “ if this is to be my parting gift, i fear i'd grow to like it too much and request it be buried with me in the crypts. ” the bow of her mouth bends, a teasing lilt in her voice that sighs away a moment later. the longer she looks at robb, as if trying to memorize a face she may not see for a very, very long time. she hates this ache in her chest.

it’s good, he thinks, to fight someone that does not know him.    as good as it is humiliating.    ( but they do know each other.    they have.    they did. )    woe!    indignity!    the young lord lets up and steps away, face fallen as though he'd been hit and sent reeling, his blunt sword bobbing as he adjusts his grip on the pommel ;    and a̳e̳m̳o̳n̳d̳ ̳w̳i̳s̳h̳e̳s̳, viciously, he’d changed more in the interim, like he himself has.    or that, at least, he wouldn’t treat him as though he were still the same. 

ser criston does not coddle him when they spar  —  not in any way 𝐚𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞.    doesn’t soften his blows or consciously account for the blind spot of his missing eye, because a murderer, an enemy would not.    𝚊𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚔 ;    works twice as hard to cover his flanks and compensate for the drunken vertigo that impairs him when he slips off balance.    but coIe, though he may not even know it to change anything about how he teaches, has danced around his injury for years. coIe is predictable and, crucially, bound by oath not to hurt him.    unlike robb.

it’s not your fault.    you didn’t see it coming.    as if robb should have pulled the strike, should have led his blade with mercy.    as if he could.    as if consideration factored into this  —  as if a̳e̳m̳o̳n̳d̳, no longer a whole and worthy opponent, relied on it to hold his own.    his teeth grit against the searing fury in him.    no pleasant, empty word could override the knowledge  —  intrinsic  —  that he should have seen it coming.    that the difference could mean his life, or worse yet, someone else’s triumph over him. 

it stings. barely noticeable at first, until it builds, builds, and builds. suddenly it feels like hot coal, and florence wants to toss herself into the deep snow. burying yourself in snow and ice must be better than facing embarrassment. 

“ that is your advice ? do not think, and to put one foot in front of the other ? ” her sword made an impressive indent in the snow. following robb’s advice, florence moves a foot and ruins the shape. “ i know how to swing a sword. ”