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@nivalisrose
❛❛ Oh, I ———— ❜❜
( the inevitable question surges in her heart ———— by who? )
❛❛ Who, erm … spoke to you of me? ❜❜
it isn’t a NEGATION of the other woman’s claims, but there are simply some pieces of the puzzle that need to be arranged first.
[ —— C O N F U S I O N? Caution met concern as she stared unwittingly; wolfishly. ]
‶ You knew my father. They told me of a promise you made him. ″
♚ "I am sure you have a name"
█ ▌ " I do, Your Grace. — yet I'm afraid it may cost my life. "
( aunt. )
[ avelley. ]
‘ yes. when you’re ready. helping can’t happen all at once. ’
‶ I am ready. I'm tired of being helpless. ″
bloodiedwolf
‶ Are you ever going to teach me to use that? —— I won't be able to help if you don't. ″
mayorbelle
█ ▌ ‶ I was told that you could be trusted. Is this true? ″
+ nivalisrose
♚ ~ “Who are you, my lady?”
█ ▌ ‶ No one, your Grace. ″
[ Lies, lied, liar. ]
omg replies and stuff
LIKE THIS FOR A THING
‘ good. remember them. ’
arya had half a mind to press her further, to get this avelley to speak the words aloud ; but decided that was less important — that, at least, it could wait. the girl’s fear — my niece’s fear, she thought, but that was too dizzying to consider in full, just yet — was fading, being replaced by anger and pride and something else with no name, but all sentiments she recognized. for a moment, it was — in spite of tully colouring — like looking at herself, or rather the self that she had once been … and that was enough to strengthen her convictions. yes, she would help this girl. would spare her from the life she’d had. no more running, no more hiding in shadows, no more lying. winter was coming, and girls could be wolves, and storms in skin, as much as anyone else and better.
she’d only have to teach this one how to howl again.
bright, harsh flare of her confidence’s eclipsing, sun and moon, halted jarringly, even so, at the inquiry that followed, abortive and incomplete as it was ; though arya refused to let her gaze drop or falter, it settled an old, familiar weight into her chest, one she’d almost forgotten how to feel. i have a hole where my heart should be …
there was no sense in lying to the girl about this either.
‘ — … yes. i was. ’
she made no move closer, nor further away, though she felt her voice grow quieter — not less certain, but hushed and weighted down by the years of shadow, grief, distance. they say he can’t be killed …
and who are you, the proud lord said, that i must bow so low — ? only a cat of a different coat, that’s all the truth i know. in a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws, and mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours, and so he spoke, and so he spoke, that lord of castamere, but now the rains weep o’er his hall, with no one there to hear …
‘ by coincidence. i was … the story’s a long one. two years long, at least, or more. i’ll tell you, if you want, but not now. not here. will you come with me, or not — ? ’
Her aunt's confession——
AUNT
She had to test the word, feel it linger as an echo against the hollows of her chest, until she was sure this was not a terrible jest by the gods of death and fate. Nevertheless the confession brought about further anger, anger at things she did not fully understand, nor could comprehend. The Red Wedding was as much a mystery to her as the faces of the Stark family and that of her father. And what of her mother? The Tyrells - did they live also?
So much mystery, so much darkness. And death. Hunters, hunting, hunted.
‶ I'll follow. ″
And thus, Avelley Stark Snow, sought to leave all that was the caged memories of her parents; faces that never were her own to cherish. Only ghosts.
[ She was wrought with silence, however. It seemed too much for an orphaned child to absorb. ]
a sigh pulled from worn, tired lungs — old for her years, beautiful and wilful and dead before her time ; but arya made no venture to move closer, to encroach upon the younger’s tangible fear. it was more of a strain than it should have been, not to look the predator, to soften and curb her edges, to keep her teeth masked behind the gentler swell and curve of smoothed-over lips ; but, for this girl … for her own blood, or what was left of it, she would certainly try.
‘ do you know the words, girl — ? when the snows fall and the white winds blow … ’
she trailed off, eyes cool but expectant ; the maxim had proven to be backwards, upside down, the inverse of the truth, time and time again, but that was secondary. if this girl was to know her for a stark, there were only so many ways to coax her into believing ; and if they didn’t succeed, having come this far, defected from shadow and blindness and secrets and death, the red god will have his due, lovely girl, and gods only knew how he had, how she’d given him her years, her life, her sight, her memories, and he always wanted more, so hungry, this god she’d been pushed to serve, lied, hidden, slipped between shadows, along the cusp of life and death, would all have been for naught.
‘ you can think me a liar, if you want. if that makes you feel better. you can decide to believe all the wolves are dead, and i can leave you here. or you can decide to trust me. the choice is yours. ’
That which held her feet in place, a concealed cement that hardened at her ankles, was not was she expected. It was not fear, nor the drumming paralysis that walked in hand with it. It was instead the crushing, enveloping admission and subsequent responsibility that followed suit.
[ Kin. Family. Blood. ]
She had family.
‶ ... I know the words. ″
Anger crept as would any venom in her blood. Anger towards the enemy. Burning and singing the lining of her flesh as it crippled her heart. She felt it. There in the core of her storm. Longing, longing, longing. Longing for memories, longing for intimacy. There, before her, stood the ghost of all that she did not know, and gods willing, she would fight to keep it here for days, months, years; until lies crumbled to truth.
She drew closer.
‶ Were you there? When —— ″
‘ that’s what i thought. ’
arya supposed, distantly, that she ought to have felt more in the face of the expected revelation. she could almost taste the younger’s grief, and her anger, and she remembered what that felt like ; the raw, searing burn of it in the lungs, behind the eyes, the itch in her fingers and the aching of her teeth to sink into cersei’s pretty throat and tear, and tear, until there was nothing left of that voice — and she might have stolen the jewels around the queen bitch’s neck, too, sold them for a good price and had food and lodging enough for at least a week, maybe even a month.
she remembered what it felt like, but it had been so long since, with her fury and her hatred compressed into a hard, frozen knot at the level of her solar plexus, that the admission almost left her cold — or, perhaps, only in a position to mimic the appropriate sentiments.
there was rage in her, yes, and she could feel it starting to thaw out the more she thought over the girl’s words ; no one told me there had been a child, she thought, and it tightened her jaw and sharpened the edge to her gaze. she should have known that, only she had been blinded by her own grief, and ire — and her own struggle for survival, though she supposed she could not blame herself quite as much for that. still, she should have known that robb would have … and this girl was of her blood, and had suffered much the same loss she had, but they were complete strangers one to the other. arya didn’t know if this girl would be like her, fiery and untameable and better with a sword than a sewing needle, or if she would be like sansa, soft and gentle at the top but cold and bitter underneath ; or else if she would be like robb, strong and brave but reckless and led too much by his own heart. there was so much she didn’t know, and too many questions, and her chest and head ached under the weight of all of them and the guilt and shame and fury that she hadn’t known, that someone should have better taken care of and protected this girl and she hadn’t known, but she had to start somewhere simpler.
‘ my name is arya stark, of winterfell. your father was my brother. ’
a pause ; the words came out surprisingly easily, but words were only empty air, heated by the force of the life behind them, and they could be twisted to take any shape you pleased, or to mean nothing at all.
‘ — i know you don’t know me, and i don’t expect you to trust me. i wouldn’t, in your place. but … seems like you’re my — my niece. and … if you’d let me, i’d like to help you. ’
( No. ) No, no. This was wrong, wrong, wrong.
There was no physical means for Avelley to conceal the widening of her eyes; those blue orbs so much like her father's, and her grand-mother's. Steps carried her back, as if this 'Arya' was a ghost, a haunted creature. Fear lined each breath - one, two, three - so that their weight grew with each intake, until it caused agony.
‶ No, no ... liar. They're all dead. All my family. ″
She didn't even know their names. Her carers would not tell her. Secrets were meant to protect her from the pain but they merely tore at wounds that never healed. Gaping gashes of tears, and songs of death, sorrow and lives long taken.
Shortly after capturing Jaime Lannister in battle, Robb Stark, the King in the North, decides to attempt to ally with Renly Baratheon. He first settles on sending his mother Catelyn Stark as his envoy but changes his mind at the last minute in order to go himself. Robb meets Renly at Bitterbridge in the Reach as the latter is hosting a tourney in honor of his marriage to Margaery Tyrell.
‘ is that who i am, now. interesting. ’
was she perhaps the queen regent, or had lord bolton had a daughter and hid her away for eighteen summers — ? head faintly tipped, almost curious, arya ventured another wry, crooked smile at her own private not -quite-jest, for all that she’d been so very many different people in between the beginning of it all, and now ; but the words that followed the groundless accusation ( too much of an irony to be truly affronting ) tore at something small and private and hidden away from the light, down at the level of her bones where no one saw and no one cared to, and the fleeting expression faded just as swiftly from its splintering at the corners of her lips, the hollows below her cheekbones. they killed my mother and father at a wedding … no, it was surely only a coincidence ; and she had been far from westeros, separated by sea and death and loss of self. there could have been another, or three, or five such weddings, and she would not have heard tell of it — nor, in truth, would cat or beth or mercy have had reason to care.
‘ believe it or not, your enemies are also mine, and if i had wanted you dead, i wouldn’t have wasted time talking to you. ’
an exhale, then ; she wanted to step closer still, wanted to make the girl look at her and truly see, but perhaps it was not so simple as that.
‘ is it a name for a name you want, then — ? ’
—— a name, a rose, a smell. She was more than just her name.
As did fire turn to simmering light so too did anger turn to sadness. Crippling, harrowing sorrow that called with a quiet whisper in the dead of the night. The curling of fingers around the fur blanket, the clenching of teeth beset by the cloak of silence; finite.
But Avelley Stark could not mourn. She had to be strong; to deny it.
Truth. Simple, encapsulating truth. Shackled at the throat by cold truth.
‶ ... Stark. ″
( Let the wind carry her now ), for Avelley had finally shed herself of the weight promised. No more secrecy, no more shrouded wishes. Just the effervescence of freedom that came from such an admission. And now she was to await her fate.
‶ My mother and father were the King and Queen in the North. ″
— a pause, little more ; arya had long since learned to rule her face, but that did not stop the beast in her heart from flaring hot and cold and sharp all over in tempered, honed fury ; did not stop the creature from longing to bare its teeth and tear out the throats of those who had dared inflict such upon this girl … the very same loss that arya stark of winterfell had known, among so very many, perhaps too many, others.
and what did you do, then, when the world stole your loves all one by one, and your memories of them and your hates were your only subsistence — ? what did you do when your loves were gone and your heart was that of a stranger — ?
perhaps she could spare this girl that ; could keep her from becoming the monster that she had evolved into.
‘ if you can keep another secret, girl — avelley — so were mine. ’
only then did she finally step out of shadow in full, and let the archetypal stark grey of icy eyes be glimpsed in earnest — perhaps this girl would know what it meant, and perhaps not, but it seemed it was now or never, somehow.
‘ now. again. what is your name — your real one. i’ll know if you lie. ’
No. Not now. ( Never. )
Stress lined her bloodstream. She wanted to scream. Scream not in fear or agony, but in anger at the world. Scream until every living person knew who she was. Perhaps even the gods would hear, and bring her mother and father back to her, and right this terrible injustice that she had been cursed with.
‶ Why should I tell you? ″
There was something different in her tone. A wolfish ferocity glimmered in sapphire eyes. She might have been afraid, she might have suspected this woman was capable of spilling her crimson essence across the walls effortlessly.
‶ You are probably one of them. The Boltons, the Lannisters ...
—— I'd be dead the moment you knew. They killed my mother and father. At a wedding. ″
reblog if you're okay with other characters developing crushes on your characters.
Just to let people know that you will not be upset or uncomfortable if their characters do develop crushes and act/make advances to your characters! Also if you’re okay with certain characters but not others than please specify! (◡‿◡)
just a snow. and a liar — a poor one, for all that a girl once blind could all but smell it on her ; and yet, it was not for her to tear the veil off the other girl’s secrecy and evasions, if that was how she wished it to be. a girl keeps secrets ; it is not for a man to spoil them … the barest shake of her head dislodged the errant wisp of a voice’s echo, though the mouse in grey roughspun she’d been, and the ghost at harrenhal, and all the rest of the girls and boys and women in between and after, each and all of them lived on in the prison of her ribcage, in their way.
arya, she wanted to say. my name is arya. of house stark — but she couldn’t. not without knowing for certain whether or not she could trust this girl. the wraith of complicit smile flickered and faded, though her eyes did not quite harden and freeze over ; a quietude slipping in to mask and sub- merge the superficial sheen of nearly playful guile she’d allowed.
‘ i was, once, ’ she admitted in an undertone, with a slight lift of singular brow — there was no sense in outright lying to the girl, though she would provide no further explanation than that, not yet, and would make no mention of all else that she’d been ; the younger was frightened enough without hearing tales of ghouls and monsters, of those who changed their faces and wolves with bloody maws. ‘ but i’m not here to steal from you, or harm you — though i would know why a girl who’s just a snow is under such close watch that her visitors are killed. ’
Heaving weight settled upon a sturdy heart; how sturdy could such a thing be when the mass of the dead lingered upon it since the very day of birth. Parents long since taken with no knowledge of the lines of their faces, or the glow of their eyes. Only the proud echo of their finite legacy and the indefinite betrayal soaked in red, and blood, and red.
‶ It's not ... I can't. ″
Tully blue eyes exhaled with great sorrow, yearning for a freedom so absent, so impeccably distanced. There is strength in her, and her inability to reveal her identity is proof of such strength. That she knows the price her parent's paid to keep her alive. Death ...
‶ My parents were murdered. I have to keep it a secret; for them. ″
starter call! like this for a smaaalll starter!
