#fidelisursa

*should’ve stayed in that cell*

@fidelisursa

FIRST THREE IN MY INBOX GET KISSES.

If it was one man that Bryndenknew couldn’t contain himself around women, it was Jorah fucking Mormont. Notin the usual way, mind you, where men stared at all the wrong places – thoughhe had caught him doing that a few times – and got caught, or were too overlyfriendly with their hands. It was more that the poor bastard didn’t know how toquit while he was ahead, cut ties, and never look back. He’d been caughtembezzling and stealing several years ago, been outright thrown from The Northby Eddard Stark himself. Worst part was it was for no other reason than awoman…

But he was still in Westeros,working strange jobs that Brynden had a feeling he knew the nature of, thebusiness of killing a very lucrative one. The Blackfish had some measure ofrespect for him though, hard headed and stubborn, being body guard over hiredthug. Though it was probably his women troubles that kept him coming, knockingback tumblers, and keeping to himself in a shady back corner. He watched himsometimes, when he had the mind to, or when he spied him taking Northern Vodkaas the antidote for his heart. What better poison than the one that made youforget your troubles?

That night, however, was a bitdifferent. Brynden usually kicked everyone out by one o’clock, the A.M. tellinghim of his responsibility to keep the place together, at least enough tofunction for a few more days. Some tables were broken, a few chairs as well,but most of them were still in condition to serve for the coming weekend. Allin all, nothing unusually for a Thursday evening, winding up for the inevitablemadness and violence that would take place.

It was while he was clearing outthe back, tossing shards of broken furniture into a bin that he spotted a body,half sprawled under a dislodged table. The Blackfish knelt to grab the sod byhis collar, roughly rolling him over, more annoyed that he’d have to call theguard if the cunt was dead, but –

At first, he was more relievedthat he was breathing, shallow, labored inhales from his slightly open lips.Brynden frowned, closing his eyes, and released him to rub at his brow. Didn’tmuch care that his head hit the floor, though he should have, considering therewere still a few shards of amber glittering across the floor. Resigned andtired, knuckles throbbing softly, from some fool he had to belt across themouth.

He wrapped his arms around hiswaist, hauling his limp form up, and over his shoulder. His knees ached, one ofthem popping under the strain as he stood, and walked with heavy strides to hisoffice in back. The door slammed shut behind him, the bar was closed, but itwas more a habit by now. The lamp was dim, casting strange shadows this way andthat, the flicker of the orange glow warm against the brick walls.

Brynden lowered him rather gently,all things considered he should have called The Guard to take him to a cell forthe night, but… He sighed, sitting on the edge of the cot, and pinched thebridge of his nose to fend off the coming ache in his head. He’d have to ordermore Dornish Dry Ale in the morning, get two more tables for the entrance, andat least five chairs for both the bar and a few for the –

“Blackfish…” Half a question, morea realization by the end, and Brynden looked over his shoulder to see brightblue orbs staring at him. Reminded him of ice in winter, the soft downy snowall around, and the crystals that hung jagged from roof and branch. This wasthe kind that was thick and hard, strong as steel, and twice as deadly. Hefrowned, half turning his body to face the other man.

“Aye, ya either got knocked offyer arse, or I should’ve cut you off long ago.” Though he doubted it was reallyeither reason, and though Mormont had not had the best of luck financially, heknew better than to think he had no place to stay for the night. “You going tatell me what possessed you to sleep in my pub?” Hardly the safest place to restone’s head either…

Jorah watched him, vision stillglassy, drink melting the ice of his orbs into something warm. But Brynden knewwhen a man was drunk. He’d grown up knowing all the subtle signs, able to pickthem out of the flush of one’s cheeks, and the flicker of the pupils. Perhapshe was close, but those that wore the bear were hardier than most, as thosefrom the North tended to be. Still, that was no reason for his common sense tohave fled him entirely. He shook his head, opening his mouth, and the Blackfishcould practically smell the Vodka on his breath.

He sighed, irritated, and shookhis head, hand rising to scrub the course, ash curls at his nape. “Right bloodyfool, aren’t you?” Brynden rasped, the rough roll of words from his lipsharsher than he meant, but the lingering adrenaline in his system stirred hisirritation easily.

“Men who have known any form of awoman’s love tend to be…” Jorah let out a weak, harsh laugh that ended in wet,lingering coughs. Brynden rolled his eyes, so hard he might as well have seenhis own brain, twisting back around to face forward.

“Aye, and look at where it’sgotten you.” Cutting, worse than before, even if he tried to reign himself in.

“And what has it given you,Blackfish?” Tipsy as he was, he’d sensed the bitterness in Brynden’s tone…

“Keep talking ya disgraced bear,”he sneered, “and I’ll smother ya.” He meant to rise, to stand and finish withthe pun, but he lingered. Why, he didn’t know, listening to the other’s deep breathsfor a few blessed moments. It calmed him, at least the throb that echoed up hisspine and through his skull.

“I always wondered…” Brynden’seyes lowered to half mast, hackles already itching to rise. “If it was truewhat they said about you…” He had an inkling of what the other was speaking of,gaze straying back just enough to watch him out of the corner of his eye. Ifanything, at least it would shut him up…

He moved, agile as a trout movingup stream, hands coming down on either side of the other man to crush him intothe mattress. Their noses brushed, ash and earthen stubble scraping, hissingloudly in the still air. Rivers met ice, a momentary clash of blizzard tohurricane, though the aftermath was little more than the crest of a wave.Brynden paused, not so much hesitating or questioning, curious – Jorah didn’tmove, just watched him, hands neatly folded on his chest. Then their lips met,teeth biting through enough that the Blackfish tasted iron, because the bearhad no patience. In an instant, he’d had him by his flannel, fingers tight inthe red and blue checkers, bringing him crashing down on top of him.

Lips course and hot, chapped andcatching on his own equally rough ones, every crack filled with the lingeringtang of bitter drink. A tongue lolled out, scorching along the cut in Brynden’slip, a soft growl rumbling forth from both of them. Him for the added surge ofpain, Jorah for the taste, and it gave him enough find to notice his handsmoved… Never leaving him as they traveled up, threading through his hair tofist it, letting him twist his head to deepen the assault. What else could hecall it? Damn bear was stroking along his molars and his own tongue, devouringhim like he might a hive of honey all to himself.

He inhaled sharply, taking in leatherand oil, some sort of spiced cologne, and the unique musk that reminded him offorests of cedar and oak. Brynden tilted his head a little further, mouthssliding, beard scraping to flush cheeks if the lack of air didn’t. TheBlackfish drew back, sharply, suddenly, mouth on fire… something ravenouslighting in his belly. Jorah panted beneath him, fingers barely relaxing, justenough to rub his scalp in some semblance of a pet. He shook his head,swallowing hard the undeniable sweetness left behind from him. Made him hungry,made him want to see if the rest of him was just as good. The look in the bear’seyes said the same, chest rising rapidly, brushing his own on every inhale.

But he tore himself free,breathing quick and sharp, denying the burn of his face and the tightness inhis lungs. “Where the hells are you going?” Deeper, raspier, hiss of icefalling from a glacier, landing in the frozen waters below. Brynden fought thedesire to nurse his bitten lip with his tongue, even as it tingled, even as hecould feel a droplet slowly working its way down through his beard.

“Yer drunk…” Lie, he knew itclearly. Jorah knew it too.

“Are you saying that because youwant me to be?” The Blackfish snarled, low and dangerous in his throat.

“I’m saying that because yer anidiot who got stuck in my pub fer the night. Now stay in here and be quiet, orI’ll tell The Guard ta come pick up your sorry arse.” He walked out, stridefast and vicious, slamming the office door behind him.

:))))))

Meme || No longer accepting || @thenothernwolf​

Protector / Protectee starters

“And you did.” She said, a watery smile dancing on her lips. “You’ve always been there, protecting me -from everything, even myself.”

It was a bubble of laughter that spilled from her lips then, a hand that reached out to wrap around his as the tears gathered.

“It’s not your job anymore Robb, not after today.”

They stood together, surrounded by delicate winterblooms, in their finest attire. He, in his suit, their fathers direwolf cufflinks glinting in the soft light, and she in her wedding dress of satin and silk.She was getting married today, to a man that made her happy, to man she loved and her brother would be the one to give her away.

Sansa squeezed his hand.

@fidelisursa

Sendme ¿ for my muse to hide with yours in a closet.

One moment he was standing in thecorridor, trying to find the right bloody office, and the next he was in thedark. A very cramped, narrow, low arched space, where the only thing he couldsee were the two pairs of boots, illuminated by the eerie blue slant beneaththe oaken door. He could feel his hair grazing the ceiling, hands on the wallsthat surrounded him, as to keep from touching his companion in all thisnonsense…

He could feel his breath, strangeand hot, curling beneath his nose as he took a trembling exhale from his mouth.The Blackfish was trying desperately to contain his rage, though that wasbecoming increasingly difficult, seeing as the source of the reason he was in this predicament, was buried facefirst into his chest. His fists tensed and relaxed, nails itching along hiscalloused palms as his pupils expanded, making out just the barest shape of thetop of the other’s head.

Despite it being the middle ofwinter, what with the sky an endless expanse of dreary grey, and the fat flakesthat spiraled from the sluggish moving clouds. The roads layered in slick icyblue, sidewalks bunkered by filth churned snow, packed hard and tight,protecting passerby from the onslaught of tires sloshing up sewage. Everythingwas cold, turning noses and fingers tips red within moments, biting througheven the thickest coats with the fury of nature’s deadliest kiss. He usuallyloved these times, where the warmth of drink and hearth was a siren call henever fought, staying in his pub till the summer months returned after a fewyears…