#fateschnge

it has been a long, arduous journey to dragonstone, one years in the making. one that he and his father had fought hard to make, while taking every precaution, ensuring that news of their survival did not reach the wrong ears. or, in fact, any ears at all, outside of the few trusted men who had helped them. his father had protested his choice of destination, claiming that they should have boarded a ship to the free cities, perhaps sought sanctuary further north. somewhere that their would - be assassins wouldn't find them. but harwin had been adamant; he'd sworn an oath, to the princess, and it was one he intended to uphold, despite his new... limitations.

despite the intense recovery he had endured, harwin has never achieved a full range of motion on his right side again, after the damage the fire had caused, and his lungs never quite feel as full anymore, not after the thick smoke had nearly choked the life from him. his sword hand is almost useless now, unable to curl into a fist, or grip the hilt of a sword, and so he has trained himself to use his left, though he knows he will never match his previous skill. his father suffers more severely than he does, wheezes and splutters through most every breath now, and is unable to walk or sit a horse for extended periods of time. it has... delayed their travel.

but here he is at last, making the long trek up to the castle, the weight of anxiety settling heavy on his shoulders, making his feet drag even more than his now - perpetual weariness. it had not occurred to him, somehow, that his presence at rhaenyra's side may no longer be required, nor welcomed. she has her husband now, has brought more children into the world — what can he offer now, broken, and half the man he was? still, every step carries him closer, closer to the woman he loves, and time seems to distort as he makes it to the gate house, speeding up and slowing down in equal measure. a guard, pale in the face like he's just seen a ghost, scurries off to fetch someone — rhaenyra, he hopes, not daemon — while another escorts him to the great hall to wait.

rivalen stark, firstborn son to lady sansa stark and silvanus of old iridil. portrayed by eysteinn sigurdarson.

general appearance. curly, fluffy hair ala silvanus, but auburn in color just like sansa's. very much so a tall, bulky boy from the moment he was born, rivalen has always looked as though he was made for hearty winters and battle - just don't let his mother hear you saying as much. big soft boy eyes thanks to sansa, plus some very pouty lips, he really ended up with a very large mix of his parents' genetics in the fact that he just is an overall combination of them both; you can easily see both of them when looking at him, there's no doubts in his parentage whatsoever.

personality. relaxed, generally speaking, not altogether known for any hotheaded behavior, except . . . there are times wherein his mother's stubbornness and overall stark-ness bleeds through. certain topics do get him heated, and realistically, it's probably not a great idea to get the dude who's like, 6'5 and built like a god damn truck upset. but overall?? gentle giant, a lover, a defender of the good and kind, voted most likely to go to war because someone said his mom was being too extra.

special talents. hi, my boy here is the son of a dragon shifter and a girly pop with the blood of the first men, and there's some magical mystical shit going on inside of him. definitely has an affinity with nature, and is a shifter himself.

who they like better. riv loves both of his parents equally, because they in turn love him so dearly and fiercely.

who they take after more. it's a fifty - fifty split depending on the day and the mood, sometimes he is silvanus in a slightly smaller form, and other times he is sansa in a larger, more terrifying body and everyone should be scared of him.

She  could  not  remember  how  many  days  it  had  been  since  the  Freys  took  her  as  their  prisoner.  Not  with  how  they  made  sure  to  keep  her  in  her  dark  cell  which  she  only  got  to  leave  when  they  decided  to  punish  her.  Every  part  of  her  body  was  aching  and  she  knew  she  had  several  wounds  that  had  yet  to  heal  properly.  If  they  even  would.  The  only  thought  that  kept  her  sane  this  whole  time  was  knowing  that  her  son  was  free.  That  he  would  live.  Perhaps  she  wouldn't  be  alive  for  much  longer.

Catelyn  had  been  asleep  when  the  noises  echoed  through  the  castle.  She  awoke  quickly,  shivering  and  moving  towards  a  corner  of  her  room.  Whatever  was  going  on  outside,  she  knew  it  could  not  be  good.  She  had  her  eyes  closed,  waiting,  hoping  they  would  leave  her  alone  this  time,  but  when  the  door  opened,  she  feared  the  worst.  Refusing  to  open  her  eyes,  refusing  to  move,  Catelyn  couldn't  help  but  scream  when  the  hands  that  touched  her  were  gentle,  almost  caring.  This  was  new.

What  was  also  new  was  the  familiar  warm  voice  that  caused  her  to  open  her  eyes.  It  couldn't  be.  The  room  was  brightened  by  some  torches  and  she  could  make  out  the  features  of  the  man  in  front  of  her.  "Robb,"  she  asked,  voice  hoarse.  It  had  to  be  him,  because  who  else  could  it  be?  Her  son  had  come  to  rescue  her.  "You  came  for  me.  You  came  back."  With  a  shaking  hand,  she  reached  out  to  touch  his  face  but  gasped  when  she  felt  the  difference.  This  was  not  her  son's  face,  it  did  not  feel  like  her  son.  It  felt  like  her  husband.  "Ned?"

→ @fateschnge ; ned &. cat, ned your wife might need therapy now.

"Robb,  please,"  she  had  begged,  trying  to  drag  him  out  of  this  mess.  She  had  to  protect  him,  she  had  to  make  sure  she'd  survive.  By  the  Gods,  she  would  give  her  own  life  just  so  that  her  son  could  live.  It  happened  in  a  rush  and  she  would  not  be  able  to  recall  the  details  but  thanks  to  the  loyal  Northmen,  they  made  it  out  alive.  Not  without  great  losses  and  injuries  of  their  own.

She  awoke  some  time  in  the  morning,  feeling  a  burning  in  her  chest.  It  was  then  that  she  remembered  the  arrow  and  she  knew  it  would  give  her  troubles  for  a  while.  Immediately,  she  sat  up,  however,  desperate  to  find  her  son.  It  didn't  take  long  for  her  to  find  him  in  the  tent  as  well.  "Robb..."  Carefully  and  with  a  groan,  Catelyn  got  out  of  the  makeshift  bed  to  walk  over  to  him,  needing  to  make  sure  he  was  alright.  That  he  was  alive.  "My  sweet  boy."

→ @fateschnge ; robb &. cat, time to plan the revenge.

» send me🕯️to hear my character's inner thoughts about your character

It  felt  strange  to  be  back  in  Winterfell,  to  be  back  home  when  half  her  family  was  not  with  her.  It  almost  felt  as  if  she  didn't  belong  there  anymore.  Sansa  was  home,  and  she  could  even  appreciate  Jon  being  around,  yet  she  felt  out  of  place.  Although  he  had  taken  the  place  as  the  Lord  of  Winterfell  for  the  time  being,  Catelyn  still  acted  as  the  Lady  -  she  had  to  keep  busy  somehow,  had  to  stop  her  mind  from  spinning.

She  was  instructing  a  group  of  women  when  she  heard  it.  A  voice  that  was  more  than  familiar  to  her.  Catelyn  dropped  everything,  turning  around  to  follow  the  voice.  Was  she  imagining  things  now?  Was  she  going  mad?  Her  heart  was  beating  fast  and  it  skipped  a  beat  the  moment  she  laid  eyes  on  a  young  woman.  Her  daughter.  She  would  recognize  her  anywhere,  even  as  grown  as  she  was  now.  "Arya."  Her  voice  was  merely  a  breath  and  she  didn't  even  know  if  she  had  been  heard.

She  waited  until  the  girl  spotted  her  before,  she  crossed  the  distance  between  them.  Just  like  she  had  done  with  Sansa  the  day  she  reunited  with  her,  she  pulled  Arya  into  her  arms,  holding  her  tight.  "My  daughter,  you're  alive."

→ @fateschnge ; arya &. cat, mother's hug will make it better.

"Do  you  know  how  hard  it  is  to  be  the  only  single  person  while  on  the  run  with  two  couples?"  Tally  didn't  usually  have  a  problem  with  it,  not  really.  Not  in  a  way  that  would  actually  bother  her.  But  every  now  and  then  she  was  reminded  of  how  single  she  actually  was  and  how  she  couldn't  exactly  change  anything  about  it.  It  was  even  harder  now  that  a  certain  someone  had  started  to  show  up  again.  A  certain  someone  that  made  Tally  feel  even  more  frustrated  about  this  whole  situation.

↪ @fateschnge : raelle &. tally, rae, your sister is a baby gay pining for a certain witch.

heartless,  a  funny  word,  that.  funny  in  a  way  that  was  not  at  all  amusing,  of  course.  a  bit  tiresome  and  nearly  worn  out  but  expected  above  all  else.  after  all,  was  that  not  a  common  tale  told  of  witchers?  who  else  were  they  supposed  to  be  but  the  monstrous,  heartless,  white-haired  killers,  who  were  scarcely  even  human?  he  heard  it  so  my  times  —  and  from  so  many  people  —  that  there  were  very  large  parts  of  geralt  that  accepted  these  prejudices  without  complaint.  he  knew  he  was  a  mutant,  a  freak  —  he  surrendered  his  humanity  without  the  slightest  hesitation  when  he  completed  the  trial  of  grasses  so  many  years  ago,  after  all.

yet  despite  all  of  his  knowledge  and  awareness  of  his  own  nature,  geralt  wanted  the  contradictory  to  be  true.  he  wanted  so  much  for  the  words  spoken  to  him  to  come  with  sincerity  rather  than  the  mockery  he  felt  along  with  them.  a  void  within  him  that  he  knew  would  never  be  filled.

❝       a  stereotype.       ❞     he  gave  it  the  proper  acknowledgment  while  neither  denying  or  admitting  it  to  be  true.  he  could  brood  about  it,  of  course.  he  could  always  drone  on  incessantly  about  the  offensiveness  of  such  a  stereotype,  but  he  decided  against  it  as  he  finished  wrapping  the  bandaging  around  her  forearm.  the  price  she  paid  was  already  heafty  enough.

heartless  or  not,  the  witcher  figured  that  it  was  the  least  he  could  do  for  her.  if  it  wasn’t  for  him  and  his  little  farce  with  the  handful  of  bandits  and  their  clumsy  and  reckless  swinging  of  swords  and  knocking  arrows,  then  she  wouldn’t  have  acted  as  collateral  damage,  earning  herself  a  fresh  cut  on  the  arm  —  nonlethal  and  scarcely  even  deep,  fortunately.