WOLVES / TEETH

princess in the north

[serpentae]

great houses of westeros ≡ [1/9] stark

“Every noble house had its words. Family mottoes, touchstones, prayers of sorts, they boasted of honor and glory, promised loyalty and truth, swore faith and courage. All but the Starks. Winter is coming, said the Stark words.”

[lykcs]

daenerys targaryen, gendry, jon snow

daenerys targaryen: do you find yourself looking back on the past often?

“lately, i’m afraid i’ve spent a fucking fortnight on the past.” mya mutters angrily, clenching her jaw before looking up and sighing. “i’d like to say i don’t–i didn’t, but right now it’s all i can think of.”

gendry: what is something you’ve created that you are proud of?

an odd sort of question. mya has never considered herself a creator more than a destroyer. she is not the sort of person who can rule a kingdom like calder–creating something from the ashes of their broken family. “no, not really.” perhaps that meant she needed to figure out  a better way to contribute to the world than being a mere extension of her brother’s sword. 

jon snow: what would you break your vows for?

there’s nothing–and that’s true–that could pry mya from her duty to her family and the north and she rolls her eyes at the very thought of it. “i take it i’m supposed to say love or gold or power, but i care little for love outside my family and less for gold or power. so it seems i have plenty.” she shrugs rolling her head lazily to the side. “so i guess nothing.”

[lucybaird]

// frida kahlo 

[lykcs]

➴ ˚⊹ — WYATT STARK.

A betrayal is what it felt like when the maester of Winterfell died in the assassination that took place during the tournament. After the reign of Braddock and the new age of Calder, Wyatt felt that a promise had been made to him. No more suffering, no more death, no more injustice. Yet the seal of those promises had been broken early on.

The chill of the northern night screeched. It was the only thing to be heard in the echoing halls of the dark structure in which they lived. With Cinder by his side, Wyatt aimlessly wandered the halls, searching for life or warmth, anything to settle his restlessness, really. As his footsteps echoed and echoed and continued to do so for what seemed like an eternity, he found himself near the entrance of the crypts. It was a place he’d rather avoid, yet sometimes it had seem that something was pulling him in there. Unlike the rest of his family, he had felt a burden near the resting place of his ancestors. There were two Starks dead for which he was blamed by some, as well as himself. He took away a mother and a brother when he entered this world, a fact that his father was reminded of by simply looking at his face. 

His steps were loud as he was in trance by the cackling torches. Cinder, too, was restless, but in his own way. As he arrived on the floor, he heard the clearing of someone’s throat, followed by an annoyed warning aimed at him. “I apologise. I didn’t know you were here.” He replied to his sister. Naturally, his curiosity wondered why she was down here, yet her gloomy expression stopped him. Instead he knelt down in silence to pet Luna in silence. “Would you prefer to be alone?”

there was a certain kind of insult in the death of a maester. mya had no talent for healing or history. she had no aptitude for the things that brought maesters or even, her brother wyatt, their joys and so it was all the more painful to lose someone like them--their usefulness ( their NECESSITY ) not lost upon her. a warrior dying a warrior’s death ( even in its most insulting form--as an assassination ) was still better than the calculated murder of a man who spent his life for the sake of others.

it was difficult to not dwell on dark thoughts--a flutter of DARK WINGS beating rhythmically beneath her ribs. mya was made for the moment and the immediate future and finding it near impossible to quell the dramatic repetition of the tourney’s events in her mind. as annoyed as she was to be interrupted, she was just as grateful for the distraction--smiling darkly at the sound of cinder’s padding along the dank crypt floor.

“you’re fine, wyatt.” mya dismissed the apology, giving cinder a good pat as she watched her brother greet luna in similar fashion. “i would much prefer to be cracking skulls and piercing hearts, but instead i am wandering halls and suffocating under the weight of everyone’s sympathies.” sick to DEATH of the constant niceties surrounding death, the inaction was killing her. “your company is easily among the least offensive things i’ve dealt with this day,” she spoke as much to herself as to him, staring past her brother to her mother’s stoney face and scratching the direwolf’s ears absently, before turning to look at her brother. “how was the wall?”

[etalks]

All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel…. Think about it. There’s escaping from the wolves, fighting the wolves, capturing the wolves, taming the wolves. Being thrown to the wolves, or throwing others to the wolves so the wolves will eat them instead of you. Running with the wolf pack. Turning into a wolf. Best of all, turning into the head wolf. No other decent stories exist.

Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin (via jaimelannister)

[lykcs]

➴ ˚⊹ — CALDER STARK.

THE CRYPTS WERE ENVELOPED by a veil of SORROW and GLOOM, festered with shadows flitting against cracked masonry and flickering flame. Perhaps it spoke to his character, that he’d felt more at rest within their abysmal depths than amidst crystalline atmosphere. He often wandered the mortal abyss until his spine met Elias’ stoney recollection, each rivet biting into frosted rock. The statue which had been forged in his father’s likeness would forever appear foreign cast against his steely gaze. When he met his inevitable demise, a vermilion battlefield littered with corpses was his preferred place of rest.

Bane’s rhythmic pants, for a time, remained the only sense of sound throughout the departed’s desolate chambers. What ghostly haunts the world claimed were lost to him – the only specter he recognized was that of his own anatomy. Behind the mask of homicidal, shadowy creatures were humanoid conjurers, and he did not fear their cowardly, atomized physiology. THE WARRING WOLF was quite the honorific, and it had not been bestowed upon him by playing a fool upon a throne. It had been manifested on man’s accord, chanted during a tormented war’s finale.

Charcoal ears pricked, drew his focus toward familiarized vocalization. His sister’s splintered hailing was laced with a shared, mordant tongue. The edge of a tight-lipped mouth curved. “Don’t worry,” he countered, “I am the dead.” Though his tone reflected slight musing, a twisted truth resided within the caustic phrase. It had been a forbidding seed, planted long before Winterfell’s forsaken history. He had never been a lively boy stained by radiance, but dark and brooding, seeking the campaign of combative bloodshed. He was as much ICE as the Stark’s ancestral sword, the blade hardened and sharp, now gifted by him to Rook.

there was some gentle comfort in the cold ground--a sure base to fall upon when the world spun as if a children’s top. above the cold stone the white winds howled in mourning for the blood spilt upon the snow--not the hot, red blood of war, but the crumbling black ash that left more questions than answers in its wake. above the dead, the living mourned and mya was sick to her own death of them. sniveling and letting their grief fester in their ale-filled bellies. she couldn’t stand the sight of idle hands. there was work to be done, and yet ...

yet, here she sat: sulking, brooding--her own grief rotting beneath her ribs. she was no strategist like the lady bolton, no king like her brother. mya had one true skill and that was to be a FURY; a weapon. what use was a sword with no heart to plunge it through? all she could find herself suited to do was to wait, sharpened at the ready--trying not to rust. the crypts were no whet stone, but they were a private place. they had her history and reminded her where she came from. THE LONE WOLF DIES--at least braddock had--and yet, the pack persisted. worrying teeth into her lower lip she wondered, if guests of the wintry north could disappear like smoke, would the pack persist or perish.

at her brother’s voice, mya relaxed and luna’s head rose to greet bane with a light howl, before letting her chin rest back on her large paws. “are all king’s so dramatic?” mya jeered back with a genuine grin. pulling her knees into her chest, she scooted over to make room for him--running her fingers through luna’s dichotomous fur. “you get tired of all the sad eyes and questions or just looking for a grim family reunion?” her husky voice croaked from recent disuse.

[lykcs]

The body is a place of violence. Wolf teeth, amputated hands. Cover yourself with a cloak of leaves, a coat of a thousand furs, a paper dress. The dark forest has a code. The witch sometimes dispenses advice, sometimes eats you for dinner, sometimes turns your brother to stone. You will become a canary in a castle, but you’ll learn plenty of songs. Little girl, watch out for old women and young men. If you don’t stay in your tower you’re bound for trouble. This too is code. Your body is the tower you long to escape, and all the rotted fruit your babies. The bones in the forest your memories. The little birds bring you berries. The pebbles on the trail glow ghostly white.

Introduction to the Body in Fairy Tales By Jeannine Hall Gailey

[clarastie]

’ we are one clan. And this is our home. ‘

[lykcs]

[mournfulroses]

Have faith, old heart. What is living, anyway, but dying.

 Sharon Olds, from Stag’s Leap: Poems; “Known to be Left,” (via writemeanna)

[lykcs]

[lykcs]

∘⡊ ➴ ˚⊹ MYA STARK — TAG DROP

∘⡊ ➴ ˚⊹ found yourself in a new direction ` arrows falling from the sun — visage ∘⡊ ➴ ˚⊹ she knew herself by heart too ` and was sick of the story — past ∘⡊ ➴ ˚⊹ every wound forms a scar that tells the story ` i survived — winterfell ∘⡊ ➴ ˚⊹ the moon is beautiful now ` you should have seen her before the war — musings ∘⡊ ➴ ˚⊹ she makes dark things beautiful ` and beautiful things dark — headcanons ∘⡊ ➴ ˚⊹ soon I will become the dark dark space ` between the trees — music ∘⡊ ➴ ˚⊹ shot an arrow in your harbor ` where you waited in the rain — answers ∘⡊ ➴ ˚⊹ have faith old heart ` what is living but dying anyway — family ∘⡊ ➴ ˚⊹ I am deliberate ` and afraid ( of nothing ) — mentions ∘⡊ ➴ ˚⊹ silence became her ` bow and arrow — edits ∘⡊ ➴ ˚⊹ what the woods whispers to itself — memes ∘⡊ ➴ ˚⊹ anything alone is a haunting ` any two things together is a terror — luna ∘⡊ ➴ ˚⊹ take off the armor ` let your skin breathe — aesthetic ∘⡊ ➴ ˚⊹ i hate small talk ` let’s drink in silence instead — ooc ∘⡊ ➴ ˚⊹ yippie queue yay motherfucker — queue

[lykcs]

SULKING. mya didn’t do well at sulking. septa’s critical voice rang in her ears sometimes; mya was short-sighted. living in the moment came as naturally to her as breathing. when calder had slain their cruel brother, that same short-sightedness had allowed her to adjust to their newfound freedom with ease. the shadows of their dark time disappeared in the light of a new era and the future was bright enough that she didn’t feel the need to look at it--that was calder’s job now, after all. whatever he decided, he had her support and her sword.

the endless seconds of a few silent shadows eclipsed the horrors of seven years of terror. she could not let those terrible figures out of her head in the same way she always had been able to let go of the bad before. phantoms haunted and the future wove knots in her stomach. the dark cloak that draped itself over winterfell like a funeral shroud left her brooding more than she cared for--finding herself sulking in the crypts below in hopes that the ghosts of her ancestors would give her the answers that no one could find.

knees pulled to her chest, mya leaned her back against the cool stone wall--steely fingers burying themselves in the hearty warmth of luna’s dichotomous coat. at the sound of footfall on the stony floor, mya took a sharp, annoyed breath and cleared her throat to announce her presence, before looking up under her brows at the intruder. “careful,” she warned darkly, a defiant grin threatening to break the stoicism on her angular face, “you’ll wake the dead.”