#eisbllume

eisbllume started following you

fromthistower started following you

                  She crossed her arms as she stood by the door. "And may I know who let

Describe my blog in terms of "came for the _____, stayed for the _____"

BOO! {did that scare them away}

          The north is colder than any maester's tome could have described.  The bannermen who travel by his side quake and shiver in the soles of their boots      too thin, Rhaegar notes, than would be advised for such a trek.  I should have warned them, he thinks.  Oftentimes he forgets that not all men are as entranced by the written word as he.

          "The northmen would call it summer, still," the maester at King's Landing had told him, "and the white ravens have yet to fly.  Do not be deceived, my prince.  Dress your warmest, and thank the gods for their mercy."

          Is it mercy, that the dragon must tremble beneath his furs in the wake of the cold?  Rhaegar, however, never complains.  While his men whimper and curse, the Prince of Dragonstone trots onwards with his head held high, feigning indifference.  Perhaps they would follow his lead.  Perhaps not.

                                       Either way, it is best not to dwell on the old gods' will.

          He feels them here, in the air.  They reside in the weirwoods, he knows, but here in the north, it seems they have eyes everywhere.  The books had told him they wept blood across their ashen bark.  "Such things are evil," a southern man would complain.  "Trust not these gods who shed their blood so freely."

                                                "You are ignorant," Rhaegar would tell him.

                                    They are all ignorant.

          And yet, it is Rhaegar who feels small in knowledge and stature as he rides into Winterfell, home of the Starks and their stern, grey-eyed kin.  The Targaryen banner flies feebly here beneath the ancient stones of Bran the Builder      or so the myths would have it, that he had built this castle with his own calloused hands.  Coming upon it now, Rhaegar could believe such a tale.

          The northmen look on him as some precious thing from a far-off land.  His name has preceded his arrival by sevenfold speed, and even the manner with which the Lord Stark greets him is carefully respectful.  His two elder sons stand by his side, Brandon and Eddard, and they share greetings in quiet murmurs and clasps of the hand.  Rhaegar is offered food, but he declines in favour of rest.

          "If I may, however, look upon your fabled weirwood," he suggests, "I will find it easier to dream this night.  The south does not share in the north's gods, and there is only so little I can glean from my books."

          Rickard Stark promptly looks upon his daughter      Lyanna, if Rhaegar were to remember her name correctly.  "I will have my daughter accompany you, Ser.  She knows this castle well, and will lead you to your chambers once you have looked upon the old gods."

*falls at your feet* am so happy u don't even kNOW.

i aM JUST HAPPY THAT EVERYONE ELSE IS HAPPY FUCK YES

also stg i didn't know jamie was ur crush

   ( Ω ]--; He wanted to feel something. Something other than this great and terrible grief within his heart. It was as though it were a stake, that normally couldn't harm him, but this one did. Thoughts of her did. And as the rain cascaded upon him and clung to his features, raven tresses laden and saturated that weighed upon his back, but he wanted this. Wanted to feel something other than what resided inside. 

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