#riverrunbrynden

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@riverrunbrynden

BRYNDEN TULLY   and   ARYA STARK.        //  blackfish & nightwolf. 

an aesthetic for @riverrunbrynden.

[text:Brynden]: What the hell is this? 

[text:Brynden]: Did you mean to send this to me?

[text:Brynden]: Absolutely not.

a minute later…

[text:Brynden]: What kind of porn?

He wasn’t used to having half naked women parade around his apartment. Scratch that, he wasn’t used to any women being within fifteen feet of his apartment unless his noisy, university student neighbors, decided they wanted to bring home some company. Usually loud, high pitched, and overly flirtatious company. The first two of which were even more annoying when your temples throbbed from the pounding headache of taking two chairs to the side of your head; along with bloodshot eyes from the liqueur that had gotten thrown into them, when some idiot had decided to waste the good scotch by throwing it at your head, and even the smallest light made everything burn to the point where the world became blurry; and your body was busted so bad you’d need a whole pack of stitches just to keep yourself from falling apart.

And Brynden had just about decided that said company lied in the sack more than Baelish had in his entire career. There was no way lads that young, and with zero patience could be that good in bed. Sometimes, in the wee hours of the morn, he found himself grading the young ladies’ performances. Their voices carried so well he could hear them through the paper thin walls, and he had to admit… They were pretty good liars.

The lads were idiots, freshman hotshots on the local sports teams, but he certainly hadn’t expected them to be… violent towards women. None of the lasses he’d ever seen came out with bruises on their faces, wrists, and he doubted they’d allow them to leave such marks. They had to save what was left of their reputation after all. So when he saw a young lady go into the room next door, he’d thought nothing of it, and continued with his washing…

He heard words being tossed, a momentary shout, but had written it off as the two boy’s arguing. Till he heard the deafening sound of flesh being struck, and the undeniable, long silence that followed in the air. He’d stopped immediately, turned his head, and stalked out of his apartment. He’d rapidly crossed the threshold to the thick, oaken door of the student’s side of the landing, and slammed his boot right into the middle of it. It creaked, splintered, and busted around it’s hinges with a deafening crack.

The Blackfish stepped inside, surveying the area, and what he saw made his blood thunder in his ears. His veins felt like they were burning, set alight hotter than dragon fire, and the twist of his face must have been enough, because the boy stepped away from the girl immediately. Not fast enough, and all too quick. He saw the damage, rage blinding him till he was right on top of the lad, towering over him. His fake tanned skin paled several shades, Brynden’s fist embedding itself firmly into his gut, even as he grabbed his hair and slammed his head into the floorboards.

Two days later and he was still suffering the repercussions of his actions. The lad was in deeper shit than he was, being on the school team, but it was the lass people were concerned with… More what she was than who she was. The Blackfish sighed, throwing a thick, heavy quilted comforter over her.

“Lass, ye mind wearing actual clothes while ye stay here?” He paused, swallowing hard, and sat the mug full of melted chocolate and sweetness he’d made for her off to the side. The steam curled up through the cream, a tinge of nutmeg and cinnamon stirred into its depths. “Ones that… Aren’t mine?”

Tethar was used to people being rough with her. She was a sex worker, after all, and she indulged a lot of weird fetishes people had, things inside of her and on her that most people would have been disgusted with. It wasn’t the disgusting old men who wanted their dicks sucked that were problematic, nor was it middle aged couples who wanted a cute little barely-legal subby girl to play with, it was the young people. 

She wondered sometimes, how people her age that didn’t view sex as a job managed. Young men didn’t understand the meaning of limits, she wondered if they really saw people that they viewed as ‘less than’ them as even human. She felt bad for their future employees and wives. 

But sometimes work was slow- especially in January, when people were broke and the sadness and loneliness of the holidays were over. Work had to be taken that she didn’t necessarily like. Looking back, it was a blur, he was a strong kid, on the crew team, she guessed. Athletic and rough and entitled. He had mistakenly slipped his dick where it didn’t belong- they had discussed things before hand and that was not in the price she had quoted him, and she had gently told him to get it out of her butt, trying not to break the scene, but he  didn’t, instead pushing her head down, fucking her harder, and the next thing she knew, she was on her feet, bleeding from her mouth, a nasty bruise on her head, the boy on the floor, an older man who looked like he had been rode hard and put away wet asking her if she was alright. 

“I would but my clothes are still wet.” she had washed them in his bathtub, or tried to, at least, and she had just about gotten the blood stains from them. “Once they’re dry, I’ll go home and get some fresh clothes, as long as you think you will be okay for a few hours. The EMT said you should have someone keep an eye on you for a few days.” she said. “And you saved me a lot of pain, and maybe even my life, so I would feel really shitty leaving you alone if you were going to pass out and die on me.” she said, sitting down, wrapping the blanket he threw at her over herself. 

@riverrunbrynden

Winter had come, and Robb was hundreds of miles from home, and from the looks of it, he would stay that way for years to come. He huddled over the stone desk, reading letter after letter, all requests to the crown for aid. It was times like these, he’d begun to regret not naming himself a hand of the king. The Kings of the North did not have hands, nor sworn Knights to guard them--could not, without the Faith of the Seven to “Knight” them--but here, trapped inside this castle that had begun to feel more like a prison than a luxury, Robb felt very far from the Old Gods, could feel the seven, real or not, breathing down his neck like a curse, seven ghosts squeezing the life out of his lungs, pushing on his chest harder and harder and harder until he could not breathe, until his heart collapsed under the pressure. 

A Hand might have read these for him, might have made it so Robb’s eyes were not straining under the light coming in through the window to see even one more word when so many hours of it had made them blur into nothingness. He had his council, and he’d be wise to delegate some of this onto them, but it would have made little difference: he would not sleep all the same. He’d stopped worrying about such things as ‘sleep’ and ‘eating’ midway through the war, and victory had not changed that. Victory had given him more to worry about than less. 

Robb heard the man come in and prayed it was not another tragedy. He could handle what already lay before him--perhaps: the starving in the city, the nearby villages out of food and supplies, the warring farmers, the upheaval of the church, the panic at the Wall--but no more. Let it not be more blood spilt, he thought. He had wiped so many houses from the map in these past few moons, seen the Lannister line dead at the end of his sword, the Freys and the Boltons--both of whom had once been his allies--had fought Stannis, a man he’d once admired. He had fought and fought and fought--and nearly died--for peace, and in this aftermath, the city hardly risen from the ashen war zone it had been a moon ago, Robb had yet to feel it: peace. 

@riverrunbrynden

[unknown number]: who is this? do i know you?

[unknown number:] did walda put you up to this?

@pinkfrey