#smalljonumber

What are you looking for exactly? Remembering something or just wanting a refresher?

The pain was still there, a dull throb sent through his shoulder with every new heartbeat - blessedly so, giving him something to concentrate on, to keep him away from the dark pit of despair he felt himself balancing too damn close to.

“Your Grace... please, you mustn’t blame yourself,” the girl - Jeyne - tried again, voice tentative but warm, and Robb had to close his eyes and focus on the pain of his wound as she tied the ends of the bandage with gentle, careful touches.

He wasn’t going to cry, not this time. He couldn’t.

And yet his thoughts circled back to where they had gone over and over again since he had been given the news. Bran, the way he had last seen him, under furs in his bed with that blank look on his face that had been there so often since his fall. Little Rickon looking at him with fear in his eyes, arms wrapped around his neck and begging him not to leave too.

I have to. I have to go south to get father back.

It was his own damn fault. His own fault. He never should have sent -

A touch on his cheek stirred him back to the present, eyes snapping up to land on her face. Her eyes were filled with worry, her thumb soft as it brushed over his cheekbone, slow, tentative, and there was something squeezing so tightly around his chest that it felt as if it could break him any second.

How can a man be brave...

This is something I can see D&D doing, but if they darem Daryn Hornwood will jump out of his grave to slap them :/ Alys Karstark is a queen and should not be used like that. "Let him be scared of me!"

smalljonumber a réagi à votre billet “mcssagcinabottlc a réagi à votre billet “Me when I go to Alys’ tag...”

She needs to find that Horse and flee.

At first, he jumps in surprise at the unexpected sensation, but when he turns and sees Smalljon’s face grinning back at him, he raises his eyebrows as well as his hand to feel for what exactly it is that’s resting on his head now.

A laugh escapes him when he recognizes it.

“You get to be Robb Stark’s squire?” Meryll asked in disbelief, looking at her Uncle Olyvar, Lord Walder’s eighteenth son. He was two years older than her but had yet to grow much taller.

“You do not have to act so shocked, Meryll. Lord Father chose me himself,” Olyvar said in a forthright tone, though his posture betrayed his anxiousness nonetheless.

“I’m coming too,” Meryll announced.

“You are not. Girls aren’t allowed to go to war, Meryll.”

She was about to tell Olyvar exactly what she thought of that when they were forced to step aside and make way for the ranks upon ranks of pikemen to pass as Uncle Hosteen shouted marching orders. They look like toy soldiers in their matching leather armour and coifs, Meryll thought. Other than differences in height, you could hardly tell one from the other. She looked up at Olyvar, wide-eyed.

“Oh no, I know that look,” Olyvar started, shaking his head and backing away. “And it’s going to get me in trouble, I know it.”

She grinned. “You won’t get into any trouble if you just do as I ask. I need a pikeman’s kit. Surely, you can find one in the armoury? Because if you don’t, I’ll tell Uncle Perwyn it was you who took his new bow.”

“But that was you!” Olyvar shouted in outrage. Meryll smiled sweetly and pointed in the direction of the armoury. 

Today is headcanon day || accepting