𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐍 / beast .

𝐈  𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋  𝐁𝐄  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅  𝐖𝐇𝐎  𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒  𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍  𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐒  ,      𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐏  𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍  𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐏  ,      𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐌𝐀𝐍  𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍  𝐌𝐄𝐍   ⸻

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@vargher​ .   king’s landing   ,   morning   ,   present . 

margaery knew this event would be large, lord’s and lady’s from all of the minor and major houses — knew that sansa’s kin would all be here from the north. apart from her father, of course, a tragic drama that still twisted her heart though she would not let it show. she knew not to let it show. still, she could not imagine the position the other was in. all of that to say that, even though she was aware that his kin would be here, there is still surprise to find lord robb stark — or king robb as the north called him — in attendance. 

he is touched with death and war, she can see it. she’d seen it on the knight’s who had come back from robert’s rebellion, almost a walking corpse in some moments — dead behind the eyes, yet seeing the horrors that had come to pass. she had tried to be light for them, as she will try to be light now.

“   is there any hope that i might be able to have a moment?   ”

𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧  : after the battle at oxcross, a wounded wolf 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞  :  299 a.c.   𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡  :  robb stark  (  @vargher​ ).

A girl had seen death and the dying before. Life was full of it no matter how limited some ones world was it was an unavoidable occurrence. Eyes had held within their gaze mangled men and sights lords wished to shield delicate daughters from. Jeyne’s eyes had never been barred from those sights even if her parents had wished to keep her from such horrors. The old maester had required assistance on cases like that where the village healer’s knowledge could not help and he could not fully see. So a girl learned and she saw knowing that if she were a man, she would be beside her brother or father on the fighting fields because it was required or she would train to become a maester unlocking the extra bit of knowledge denied to her. Jeyne had experience with the more gruesome, with sickness and injury. Still she’d never beheld the battlefields or the aftermath of them - nor had she been caught behind enemy lines as she found herself now.

Even as fighting was over the danger was still incredibly real. The Lannisters had not won, forces here had been decimated and lions had been sent running. Wolves prowled the field, stained with blood and she if caught and recognized as a lady- the consequences would’ve been great though she doubted Lannisters would pay in to any ransom demands. They had not yet for father or other lords. While good sense told her to collect her travel companions, to try and find the house knight she traveled with and make haste far away Jeyne could not allow herself to flee. There were injured men, men and women who needed her skill regardless of who they fought for. There was a chance to save lives after destruction and engage in far more rewarding work than embroidering seashells or collecting dust in the Crag wait for some sort of life to expand beyond the limits she already knew too well. Hands, delicate and strong were tainted with the blood of soldiers like the ground was stained with it and blue and green hues of hazel eyes glanced across the field to look for bodies she may have known. She looked for the house knight that had travelled with her that had insisted the young lady say behind and wait till soldiers cleared out or there was an opportunity to evade wild northmen.

There was no sign of the older man, part of her worried she would find  him among those no longer alive knowing when they heard the fighting he made her stay with the innkeeper’s wife not seeing her protector return. There was no staying behind, no waiting idly like a scared little mouse cowering in the corner in the backroom of an inn. Jeyne was too honorable for that, too skilled in the healing arts and treatment of wounds to do nothing. Even if the knight or the septa she travelled with came back to the inn the stubbornness and determination of Jeyne saw her here, dressed like no fine or great lady but as she would be if allowed to do what she secretly trained for.  

A gentle hand stained as crimson as some of the ground was worked tirelessly wrapping bandages in the field around wounds waving over whomever it was to collect the man regardless of his side to seek closer medical attention “He needs medicine I don’t have with me - milk of the poppy to ease his pain. The wound will heal - he can keep his limbs if you keep it clean from infection. I don’t know his name or who he fought for just help save him for the mother that worries over him” Jeyne called out as two large men came to collect the boy and the young woman that had been there with her went along with the solider that was barely more than just a boy. Wiping blood from her hands, pushing back stray strands of her hair back she called out to the other that went with him. No matter if that soldier had been the 10th or 20th young man the Westerling woman had given her all to help. While this was not for the faint of heart, Jeyne would stay to look for her knight or other companions. “Until the field is cleared - I can’t leave them without some sort of help - let these hands be good for some thing if not keeping some of them alive longer. Go on ahead”. Turning around though when the young lady that wore the aftermath of the battle on her apron and mud on her dress was face to face with a great beast. A direwolf

𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧  :  the  northern  camp  just  outside  the  village  of  brindlewood,  the  crownlands. 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞  :  twenty  sixth  day,  second  seed,  300  a.c. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡  :  robb  stark  (  @vargher​  ).

the  journey  to  the  capital  would  have  been  smoother  had  they  chosen  to  take  to  the  seas  rather  than  the  road.  it  was  only  a  three - day  sail  from  the  port  of  dragonstone  to  king’s  landing  though  the  amount  of  coin  being  borrowed  from  the  westerlands  as  well  as  the  iron  bank  meant  that  the  blackwater  bay  would  be  packed  like  a  jar  of  brined  sardines  and  with  their  father  already  in  the  capital,  overseeing  the  enforcement  of  law  on  the  king’s  small  council,  shireen  had  been  sent  to  join  the  northern  camp,  laying  down  the  ground  work  for  a  proper  stark - baratheon  alliance  in  his  place.  there  would  be  no  time  to  discuss  such  matters  once  the  walls  of  the  red  keep  were  in  sight,  neither  did  their  father  trust  anyone  who  worked  within  the  palace  enough  to  be  so  forward  with  his  intentions,  so  the  idea  had  sprung  to  use  them  as  a  mouth  piece,  of  sorts,  though  they  would  have  to  soften  his  presentation  in  order  to  secure  the  trust  of  these  solemn  northerners.

(  it  was  a  fair  idea  and  one  that  they  wholeheartedly  supported,  well  aware  that  their  father  sometimes  lacked  the  patience  for  such  back  and  forth  conversations,  but  as  they  disembarked  from  their  chestnut  brown  mare  when  camp  broke  for  the  evening,  shireen  could  not  help  but  regret  the  decision  they  had  made  to  volunteer  to  play  emissary  on  behalf  of  stannis  baratheon  when  there  had  been  more  experienced  men  willing  to  make  the  journey.  )

still,  aching  limbs  aside,  they  refused  to  leave  the  preparations  for  the  evening  to  the  foot  soldiers  alone.  there  was  much  one  could  learn  about  the  high  lords  from  the  men  who  served  them  and  while  house  stark  had  been  cordial  in  their  acceptance  of  the  small  party  from  dragonstone  into  the  fold,  they  could  not  help  but  wonder  if  the  peaceable  disguise  was  just  that  ─  a  disguise  to  throw  them  off  the  scent  until  their  allegiances  were  exposed.  they  could  not  blame  the  northerners,  if  that  was  the  case,  for  their  father  had  recently  been  accepting  back  into  the  small  council  under  the  pretense  of  loyalty  to  king  joffrey,  but  hopefully  eddard  stark  had  uncovered  enough  of  the  late  jon  arryn’s  investigations  to  place  their  father  by  his  side  before  his  death.  striding  down  from  the  hilltop  where  the  carriages  had  been  gathered  and  the  horses  had  been  tied,  to  the  small  clearing  that  now  housed  multiple  tents,  shireen  balanced  a  crate  of  potatoes  on  one  hip,  their  free  hand  outstretched  for  balance  upon  the  uneven,  slanting  ground.

passing  the  young  wolf,  who  seemed  to  be  gazing  off  into  the  distance  as  his  pup  trotted  back  to  his   side,  they  hummed  gently  to  make  their  presence  known  as  they  walked  by,  bumping  their  unburdened  hip  against  his  side.  ❝  here  now,  stark  …  why  don’t  you  stop  counting  the  clouds  and  give  us  peasants  a  hand  ?  ❞  with  a  light  tone,  their  voice  held  a  teasing  element  as  they  watched  the  wolf - pup  (  who  was  more  grown - wolf,  if  they  were  being  truthful  )  come  to  a  halt  by  the  other  side  of  it’s  master,  tucking  it’s  head  beneath  robb  stark’s  palm.  

𝙼𝙸𝙻𝙺𝚈  𝙴𝚈𝙴𝚂.      white,      grey  and  soulless.      hands  slack,      the  young  wolf’s  mouth  floods  with  iron.      beyond  brindlewood,      grey  wind’s  vermillion - varnished  tongue  laps  at  effervescent  viscera.      robb  is  comatose,      a  disquieted  pause  in  the  rise  and  fall  of  his  once  enervated  chest.      he  is  as  still  as  the  gravestone  figures  within  winterfell’s  hallowed  halls,      where  wolves  will  one  day  howl  in  homage  and  intern  him  to  age - old  departed  depths.      gods,      do  not  let  me  be  remembered  as  the  king  who  lost  the  north.      for  he  would  not  be  the  king  who  knelt,      a  honed  blade  in  hand,      bound  to  death  before  dishonour.      he  peers  through  the  predatory  gaze  of  his  towering  beast,      an  imbrued  maw  hovering  above  the  carcass  of  a  brawny  elk  where  he  tastes  more  than  the  contused  flesh  of  man.      a  drifter,      shapeshifter,      his  host  lets  him  run.      the  direwolf  is  a  smoke - grey  blur,      remarkably  lithe  despite  the  advancing  girth  of  monstrous  frame.      he  has  long  outgrown  bran’s  shaggy  pony,      rivaling  a  sixteen - hand  charger  which  shies  as  he  lopes  down  dirt - trodden  road.      the  northern  camp  is  perceived  through  grey  wind’s  golden  stare,      a  pack  of  his  men  parting  to  grant  the  great  wolf  passage,      extended  strides  reduced  to  a  trot  upon  approach.      he  does  not  feel  the  bump  of  their  hip,      but  watches  through  a  beast’s  sharpened  sense,      ears  pricked  and  cranium  canting  at  the  sight.

location: winterfell time: before leaving for king’s landing with: @vargher​ from: dear ole dad

he is too young. gods, he is too young to be ruling in my stead. and yet, ned had only been a few years older when he’d gone to war at robert’s behest. he was angry. angry that lyanna had gone. angry that his father and brother were gone. angry. angry and young. he hoped robb would never be that.

gods only knew the consequences of that.

“you’re too old for me to tell you to listen to your mother, but… well, you will need to listen to your mother. you must also be strong, robb.” ned placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. then, his cheek. “i should tell you not to write to me. to be strong and sure of your decisions as you make them. but i am selfish. write to me all you wish. your words will be a comfort to me when i am south.”

@vargher .    winterfell ,   early evening  ,   flashback  .    

Tethered by blood and sinew,     or something more?     Perhaps he had always been a part of Robb,    just as Robb is a part of him.      Except Jon’s soul is splintered,    torn between the ground and the mountains.       He feels like no matter how large the shard of his heart he’d give to his brother,    it would never be enough to keep him warm.      Robb deserved kingdoms,      forests that weep wet snow at his approach,      mines that cry out in gold droplets at his arrival.       A heir,    yes,     but someone of substance     —    a fortress of his own right,     strong and undaunting amid the howling winds.        They grew crooked,    in some ways.      Trying to bask in that lukewarm sunlight before it disappeared behind the horizon line.       He remembered Robb would play alongside him in the puddles as young boys,     filled to the brim with hot stew and rye.       Robb hadn’t looked at him as if he were some mangy stray,     a mutt that had no mother    —-    and barely had a whole father.        Surely,    this hasn’t changed?       Surely,     Robb still thinks of him as a brother,      nothing less.      Although,    there had been moments when he caught his own reflection rippling in the barrel’s surface before dunking underneath the water.     His hollow eyes,     sullen features   —   a mixture of some dead thing come back to haunt the Stark children.     To remind them that he still trails behind their footprints,    leaving creature-like ones in the snow after him.     Yes,    he thinks to himself:      Robb would be more than okay without him.       Robb would take to battle like a dog to a bone.        Still,     the worry erodes his features     —     and his greeting of Grey Wind is paused as his smile forms into a frown.      His gloved hand dropped,    the breath clouds in front of him as the daylight wanes around them.       ‘Take care of him,     would y'boy?’     Mumbling to the direwolf,      the golden eyes staring back at him,     non-blinking,     as if digesting the request of the bastard as delicately as a royal’s.         Ghost had been avoiding them both,      predictable in his long bouts of disappearances    —    except this time he suspected it had more to do with him missing Robb as well.      He had never been good at saying goodbye,    although he knew Ghost would return to nudge his snout against Robb’s hand during a dark winter’s night.     He turns to greet the footsteps of the Stark,      sensing it was Robb before he fully faces him.      He had a presence to him unlike the other siblings.      An easy confidence built on hereditary duty.        ‘What’re y’feeding him,    Robb?     He’s growing quicker than the rest of them.’

𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷  𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈  𝙼𝙰𝚈  𝙱𝙴  𝚂𝙴𝙿𝙰𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳  𝙱𝚈  𝙳𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴,      𝙱𝚈  𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴,      𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈  𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻  𝙼𝙴𝙴𝚃  𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽  𝙰𝙽𝙳  𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽.      this  is  what  robb  vows,      brows  furrowed  and  rage  gripped  in  the  hands,      as  his  lord  father  imparts  the  news.      jon  will  take  the  black,      swear  his  oaths  to  the  night’s  watch  and  its  shrouded  brothers.      its  brothers.      HE  IS  MY  BROTHER.      the  misery  is  strikingly  plain      —      in  the  stubborn  set  of  his  jaw,      the  slate  of  his  grey  eyes,      the  sudden  ire  refining  otherwise  handsome  features.      he  cannot  permit  such  unbridled  fervor  depart  the  chamber.      like  many  times  past  and  many  times  to  come,      the  heir  of  winterfell  must  lift  his  heavy - laden  head  and  steel  his  thoughts,      tame  the  wolf  blood  before  it  absconds  in  a  snarl.      IS  IT  MOTHER  ?      a  man  not  grown  would  demand  such  response,      and  he  is  neither  naïve  nor  a  boy  without  comprehension  of  his  station.      ‘  robb,      are  you  listening  ?  ’      rage  is  stuck  in  the  throat,      bitten  through  the  bottom  lip,      suppressed.      it  makes  no  sound,      a  promise  kept.      ‘  aye,      i  understand.  ’      the  lord  robb  stark  sheds  no  tears,      nerves  dry  ice  as  he  descends  the  steps  of  his  tower’s  stone  keep.      JON  WILL  BE  IN  THE  YARD,      grey  wind  resolute,      molten  stare  unblinking,      unwavering  like  his  master’s.