* ── [ camille lou , cis female , she / her . ] : in the frays of king aerys iii's reign , therein remains jana umber nee bolton, the twenty seven year old ruling lady of last hearth . rumor has it that their loyalties lie with house bolton and they are against to the targaryen reign . they're so disciplined + self - aware that it makes sense , but most seem to look past their cynical + narrow - minded nature . when they come up in conversation , i'm always reminded of snow and sorrow mix, when is a girl just a girl ? winter comes and goes, a woman is built on hardship and longing, the flag of a flayed man is replaced by that of four silver chains, a union sealed with an unwanted kiss . @thronesstarters
full name: jana jeyne bolton titles: lady of the last hearth, lady of dreadfort, lady of the last dread age: twenty - seven gender: cis female ( she/her ) sexuality: bisexual loyalty: house bolton, house umber, house stark primary traits: disciplined, self-aware (kind- of), dutiful, narrow-minded, meek, cynical, pessimistic immediate family: husband ― ruling lord umber, son ― lord kevan umber, son ― lord lance umber • extended family: the house umber, the house bolton
TRIGGER WARNINGS: MENTIONS OF INTERNAL MISOGYNY, IMPLIED ASSAULT, ARRANGED MARRIAGE
the birth of jana does not come easy for the late lady bolton. eighteen hours in labor, silver hair shimmering with sweat, porcelain cheeks stain with tears, nails forming blood red crescents on the palms of her maidens, till eventually she is hollowed out by one empty scream and the dreadfort is silenced. bowing its head, mourning for what the lady bolton has lost; the last trickle of innocence, the only remnant of girlhood, now replaced the second emergence of motherhood. this new age is marked by a cry, a quiet one, barely noticeable. but the winds gush with it, rattling against the windows, the flayed man banners beat against the dreadfort walls, the warmest of welcome for the newest lady bolton.
( the winter gets so cold though and she’s so frail — valyrian blood runs through her, — the wet nurse laughs, her first men roots will distill it & she will be like the rest of the north, human and quivering. )
girlhood does not come easy for the little lady bolton. she does not have her sister’s swords or the nimbleness of her brother, she has only the cold. it is her only comfort, winter creeping along her veins, embracing her heart in its cold grasp, you can see it in her eyes, how much she’s become of it, the coldness of her gaze, the absence of her heart. but nobody cowers under it, nobody thinks too much of it. for she is only a girl. and girls, even with ice for their veins and storms as their blood, are just girls. so nobody says a word when the stable boy leaves with a wide grin on his soot marked face and she is trailing behind, with no marked change of appearance except for a cut on her lip.
( oh that? the cut on her lip? you know what they say about the lady jana, she’s the nervous kind. did it to herself…. )
adulthood betrays her. her world ends not with a bang but with a feast. a nameday celebration, like the blood-thirsty monsters that dwell in the depths of the narrow sea, they feast for her first blood, the mark of a lady, the beginning of a betrothal, the end of girlhood. she is a woman now. more powerless than a girl. soon she will be exiled, united with a man she cannot love, in a city she will not call home. at fifteen she is presented to alaric umber, lord heir of the last hearth.
( he is to be your husband jana, sit up straight, smile. smile jana. no, not like that. prettier, properly like a lady. yes, perfect )
at eighteen they are married, united for eternity under the eyes of the old gods. the candlelight flickers, the floor seems to swirl and walls blur as drunk lords and folly ladies usher her to the chamber, they grasp at her porcelain skin, step on the dress she had made, pinch at the flowers near the roots of her hair. yet no heir. and a year later, the umber name remains stagnant. another year passes and the halls are empty, no footsteps of running children, no crying of babes. the lord beron umber, father through law, is losing his patient. the maester makes her drink a special tea, disgusting to taste but she must finish it, one of the handmaidens take her to an oracle, another to a woods witch from the east, they lay their hands on her, they look at her palms & whisper in an unknown language.
( she longs to return home, to the comforting walls of dreadfort. but what does it matter what she wants? )
then one day, there’s a sickening feeling at the pit of her stomach. she feels queasy, like something is stealing all her energy. the maester says she is with child. finally. she tilts her head back in exultation, the suffering has ended.
Tutti ci vogliono dire come ci dobbiamo comportare, no? Che palle. È normale che a un certo punto ti chiudi in te stesso e nessuno sa più niente di quello che hai in testa.
annaxmalina
blakekathryn
stormborns
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2087
