Meal times were always something of a trial, Jojen would’ve happily ate alone yet to get food he needed to head to a food space and usually it was just easier to remain there. Most of the time he wasn’t directly confronted but the stares (from hatred to fear and some in-between) grew tiresome. In this case the rumbling of his belly wouldn’t be denied so he took a minuscule amount of food (he’d never been able to eat great amounts) and took a seat where he could find one, across from a large man with a burn mark on his face.

Two other’s a little further down the table cast a look at him and furrowed their brows, he raised his head to meet their gaze and after a moment they both up and left, not wishing to share space with a ‘bog-devil’ as he heard them mutter. With a muted sigh he looked back at the first man, directly opposite him, who’d yet to move. Jojen continued to stare, his piercing green gaze boring into the man, waiting to see if he’d curse him too yet... it seemed no reaction at all was forthcoming.

Sandor Clegane and Ser Jorah Mormont are now reserved for 24 hours! If you require extra time, please message the main! We look forward to receiving your applications, Sula!

Meticulous and careful, Clara despises writing for the simple fact that she takes so long doing so. Most of her letters are transcribed by maesters with much more patience, discerning her words from the scratched and hurried lines she skewed across a piece of parchment. The only instances of her own writing can be found in her sister’s possession, where her words are careful drawn and constructed just for her.

Her signature: 

The quiet, healing depths of the White Knife or the frozen sea have been a sanctuary for Wylla since her childhood.

The waters are painful in the North, even more so when the freezing water touches bare flesh…but there is a peace beneath the water that cannot be matched above the currents.  She began swimming before her earliest memories, and swims now in any waters that offer the same peace she found at home.  There is rest and solace and silence to be had in the water, and Wylla will let it consume her to balance her own wildness with the water’s temperance.

Beth Cassel had a good childhood. She was raised in a good town surrounded by good people by a good father. The girl had encountered no suffering or pain that even slightly resembled the things she was witnessing in the current days up until Theon Greyjoy turned his back upon their people and held her hostage... But even then, Theon was hesitant and didn't honestly do anything to injure or harm any of them - she had seen suffering when Ned Stark was beheaded when Winterfell became a hell of a place to live in. But she had seen nothing, nothing like she was witnessing in the present day.

Delicate fingers shook as they wrapped around each other, breath coming in wavy little pants as her eyes raised up, up, up until she looked at the man who stood feet above her. A scary man, indeed, with a frightening history. But she did not fear him, because he had done all that he could to ensure the safety of Arya, a girl whom she had been friends with once, and still cared deeply for to this very day. If the Stark girl had died, part of Beth would have too. She had so much respect for this man, but she could not deny that he intimidated her. Especially when he was scowling down at her like this.

“Duels lead to plenty of respect.” Loras said, flashing the Hound a winning smile, well practiced but perhaps lost on such a brute of a man. “Men respect my ability when I win one, and women respect how good I look while I do it.” 

Loras wore his Knight of the Flowers persona like armour, protecting the world from the worst parts of himself with a far prettier picture that it was far easier for them to cheer for and adore. Maybe his misgivings would be far more obvious if he appeared more like Sandor Clegane. 

“There is respect born from mercy too - there is no rule that states a duel must beget both a dead man and a victor.” Clegane had shown him mercy once when his brother had turned his wrath on the young knight, despite how strictly the man seemed to adhere to the idea he had not a knightly bone in his body. “Would you not agree, my lord?”