Awkwardly  do  hands  place  themselves  upon  the  fabric  adorning  her  hips    &&    awkwardly  do  his  eyes  divert  from  her  gaze.  He  was  confident  in  all  but  this.  Taught  to  dance  in  parties,  but  never  Southron  waltzing.  Unsure  feet  stepping  across  the  floor  with  an  oafish  prance    &&    who  was  he  to  think  he  could  be  anything  graceful  when  blood  of  the  North  flowed  in  his  veins.  Embarrassed,  simply  because  of  the  classic  beauty  that  followed  his  lead.  When  his  lead  was  hardly  any  good  at  all.

❝   such  glory  you  promise.      and   so   cunning   you’ve   become !                 how   you   have   changed .     ❞

                                 ❝ —— let them drink WITHOUT us.                         There's no urgency to join them. ❞

      Much akin to his namesake, he claws at the bearskin cloak that covered their bed. Impatient fingers that once held a blade of war now clenched the thick coat, insulating the rose and wolf together, and pulled it over the top of them.

           ❝ I'm sure th'lords will understand ... ❞

❰   SEND IN  ™  IF YOU THINK I’M QUALITY.   ❱

                                     naked meme || regalae / accepting.

                            ‘ Lady———— ’

                                An embarrassed pause brings nothing but a stutter from between frigid lips—it provokes the stain of PINK across pale cheeks, and he will stammer, in nerves, in confusion, in whatever it is that strikes him like thunder, across unscarred torso and into the tips of deft digits.

Had Ragnar, antigenic, pathogenic, seeped into his veins with fetid ire, perhaps an arm-ringed hand would drop the roughspun wool of a bundled shirt from his hip—had the water he’d drank bene tainted with his father’s proclivities, perhaps he would have smirked, beckoned the lady toward him with the crook of his hand—— but it was not Ragnar that ran in his mind.

                  ( you must stay with your father or you will regret it for the rest of your life. )

                                    ‘ —— Margaery! ’ He finishes, after the fumbling ᴄʜᴀᴏs of covering modesty—— but he is not ashamed of his masculinity, not by any stretch—it is the shock that spurs such hasty actions.

                                                vikings meme || regalae

                       Fingers coiled and worked into the mesh of sticks—of firewood gathered in burly arms, and he nurtures the flames—raw, dwindling, flecked with malice in blacks and crusted white ash— he surely stinks of it by now, is coddled in it by now. But the fire, when it flickered, when it rose and roared with naught but saccharine intent, warmth curled around tufted strands of gold.

                   Smudged hands, grooves thick and ridden with dirt, with puce in the state of coppered red and ferrous brown, an inked story of their throes, poke at shortened logs, trimmed and sliced beneath the glint of axe—and though chips of teeth and wood were spat from his assault, the fire sputtered and coughed the final wheezes of warmth from beneath his work.

                                                 He paid little attention to her words.

            The fire demanded his gaze, his digits, and when he was told she would bathe, a blasé nod lulled from his head. But the fire was ravenous, now, with jaws of lurid orange snapping at his cheeks with unrelenting ferocity.

                                      ———————— ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ.

He pauses, neck craning, and though essentials call for him to stay, to tend and coo at warmth, the hushed laugh escaping his lips brings him back to his feet.