[northxrnwolf]

( lady jane ):

Jeyne cleared the King’s wounds and stared at him for a long moment. He was a King, but she’s just a lady. A lady who was now his prisoner. She remembered the stories her septa told her about The North. Stories her mother told her about people & her with her questionable blood.

She did her best to swallow her pride as she watched his northern guards as The King asked for her name. She didn’t want to tell him, but perhaps it was best she did. She had to be honest. After all, what was the use in lying about who she was.

"Jeyne. Jeyne Westerling, Ser. Now sleep."

She pressed the vial to his lips and made him drink the cool liquid. She pulled away from her patient, standing slowly. Her nightdress was soaked red with blood, her fingers covered in the blood of the king. “He will live, I must change, will you allow me to do so?” She asked the men standing guard who just nodded at her and Jeyne left the room quickly.

She had a bath ready for her when she made it back to her sister’s room. She scrubbed the blood away from her hands and stared down at her body, swallowing thickly. She wasn’t pretty, but perhaps whoever she married would see her as beautiful. Her mother arrived to speak with her. Jeyne mostly ignored what she said, mind wandering back to auburn locks and river colored eyes. Eyes that could know her despite the pain. Jeyne only reacted to her mother when the woman tugged her hair harshly asking if she was listening to her. “Yes, Mother, I’m listening, it’s about the King that attacked us? Currently, he’s in my bed, wounded. All I’ve been doing is taking care of his wound, would you please leave me to dress and check on him.” The Spicer woman tugged at her hair again called her insolent and left her side.

Taking a breath, she pulled on a dress of yellow and white cloth, her house colors. Putting the stays in place, she brushed her hair, braiding it into a palette over her shoulder. She left the chambers she was sharing with her sister and headed back to her own chambers. The Northmen who had been holding him down now stood outside the door. They didn’t bar her entrance. Entering her rooms, she was startled to see a huge animal at the foot of the King’s Bed. She covered her mouth to keep from screaming, but the wolf just looked up at her from his place on the floor, before bounding over to her, and nudging her hand gently. As if to show he was okay. That he liked her. Perhaps it was because she saved his master’s life. Nevertheless, she lifted her hand carefully brushing against the top of the wolf’s nose and over its ears. “I need to check on him now.” Moving over to The Young Wolf’s side, she lifted the cloth off his head, dipping it in the cool bowl of water by his head and replacing it gently. “There… That should feel better.”

                                 Jeyne. It rolled off his tongue like a hum, murmured through chapped lips and dripped into his cup as though the finest of Dornish wines—though that was no subject Robb was skilled in; his life had been curtailed, and though reds and whites had been trickled down his gullet once, twice, perhaps a handful of times, in merry memory alongside his bastard half-brother, such vanities had been snatched from his grip, replaced with a greatsword, replaced with the clunk of heavy armour and chainmail—replaced with a  c r o w n.

                                                         “You have my thanks, Lady Jeyne.”

His thanks would come now- though as dazed eyes settled on the white of her nightdress (or what remained white) the hint of a frown graced his features. Perhaps it was the threat of his men which had kept her by his side, that had forced the arrow through marred shoulder and dabbed and bandaged swiftly and orderly, and perhaps the stories told of him- of Grey Wind- had been met by Westerling ears, even so far from the North. But Jeyne, with her stained nightdress and brunette locks, was more and greatly pleasanter than he’d expected, from whispers of the Westerlings.

He did as bid, eyes stitched shut and dragged under the tug of milk of the poppy. The dreams he’d have were indiscernible, crippled with blood and hammered with steel—the lions were restless, thirsty, teeth bared and grinning down at the injured pup, but there was great contrast in his subconscious: there was c a l m. Though Robb barely grasped its solidity.

                                                        He woke to the cool of cloth at his forehead, dragging Tully eyes to open from the haze of sleep and ferocity of dreams. The warmth emanating from his wolf’s body had been shifted, and where his feet had rested, coldness would creep through limbs, half-open eyes slowly casting around the room to place the beast acting as his guard and comforter—but Grey Wind would return soon enough.

She was right; the coolness in his forehead was strangely soothing. A glance was taken, back to her face- her face, plain, but pretty, in a way, in an intriguing, unconventional way- and the tips of his lips would tug into a slight smile (turned grimace when pain throbbed through his shoulder once more).

              He was propped now, resting his weight on the arm left untouched by war’s embrace, tufted curls of auburn tugged away from the pillow. Pain was still rife; razors seems to prickle beneath his skin, throbbing languidly with each passing stoic moment, to the point where Robb hastened to curse the one who fired the wounding shot- and let the Others find him. But the boy was not deaf nor blind nor lame, and as he shuffled into the upright position, his stony complexion would return, only chinked slightly due to pain.

                      “You have met my wolf, I see—he isn’t usually a fan of strangers.”

[northxrnwolf]

( sansa ):

northxrnwolf

                                   ”Do hurry, Robb! You have to see my snow ℭastle!                                 Quick, before Arya destroys it.”

            Snow glazed the crumbling turrets of the broken tower, crunching against the soles of battered boots, and even the tears wept from the heart tree turned solid, crystalline and pale, under the glare of winter.

                “Snow castle, you say? Let us be quick then, sweet sister,                   before Arya does find it—or better still, the Others.”

[northxrnwolf]

i'm going to blame the lack of starters, replies and answering messages on me being ill. apologies, i hope i'll feel better tomorrow and an get back round to them.

[northxrnwolf]

( ??? ):

War was a man’s weapon, one to tear apart families, kill and maim boys, and rape maidens leaving them with child and disgraced. That was what her mother had always told her. Whispered in her ear, how men stole into maiden’s beds and spoiled them. But this man, this king seemed no older than she. War had torn him, made him tall, bronze haired, like the warrior himself, but he was just a boy underneath that. And boys… She could understand. She trembled under the stare of the tall Northman behind her. He was gruffer looking than the king himself. When she first saw him, she thought perhaps he was the king. He had the Northern Look. Sullen. This king… He didn’t look Northern, with his bright river colored eyes.

She would have thought him handsome, had she not just had her castle taken by him. She thought to her sister. Sweet Eleyna. Her sister sound asleep in the mist of war, only to be woken up by the rabid war dogs. Her sister who had been so scared that she had his behind her, hid in fear that the steel wielding men would bite her flesh and kill her with their teeth. After all that had been what they were told. These men were wolves.

She watched as the armor on the king was removed carefully so she could inspect the wound fully. The armor reminded her of her elder brother. Reynald and his tourneys, or the ones they would pretend to have. The Knight of Seashells he was called, she had helped him into armor a number of times, she knew the catchings and the fascists well, but this armor seemed… Even more intricate. But nothing like the armor worn in King’s Landing. This armor had seen battles, like the king that wore it.

Jeyne hissed as she surveyed the wound with gentle fingers, brushing against the cotton that surrounded the arrow wound. He wouldn’t lose his arm, at least she would do her best to make sure of it. His life as well. She would try to save the life of the man who had stormed her castle. The man who had taken her home. She felt him flinch under her touch and heard the hiss escape his lips. As the knife was folded into her hand, she heard him speak.

Save his life… & no harm would come. But what would happen if she couldn’t do it? Fear leaped in her stomach and she nodded, silently cutting his shirt open some more, Ripping until she could push the fabric off and away. “A clean cloth and warm water, now please… And someone hold him down. As I said before, this will hurt.” As the items she requested were found and brought to her, one of his men held the king down. She pressed her hand to the back of the wound, the arrow wasn’t all the way through, but… If she pulled it out, she could cause more damage. If she pushed it through, she could staunch the blood and patch him up easier. Licking her lips, she cut the arrow at the top, the feathered end falling away. Making four little cuts around the wooden arrow to ease it through his arm, she looked up into the eyes of her patient.

"Take a deep breath. One… Two… Three." On three, she pushed the arrow through the rest of the way, pulling the offending object through the hole, and quickly, staunching the blood with warm water and clean cloth. She thought for sure his men would cut her throat when she pushed the arrow through, but they seemed to understand what she was doing. That it was the only way. Blood found its way to her white nightdress as she whispered, her thanks to the gods and turned to his men. "Your King needs rest. He will live, though." Opening the bandages by her side she found a small vial of Milk of The Poppy. Cleansing his wound and wrapping it as best as she could; Jeyne placed a cool cloth against his forehead and pressed the vial to his lips bidding him to drink of it.

"Drink this, & sleep." & keep your promise. Harm none here… Leave this place when you’re able… Harm no one here.

              The young king steeled himself, willing for numbness to coil its fingers around his body and drag him from miserable consciousness, as pain seemed to prickle through him. Father had seen worse wounds, Robb reminded himself, forcing fearful eyes into ones of stoic necessity. A king, he was, plated in steel and crowned with iron, with the whispers of winter running through frigid veins. He was born a leader; sovereignty to the North, like the stories Maester Luwin and Old Nan muttered to a younger, Tully-haired boy of Bran’s age now. Memories seemed to shroud the pain- dull it for but a moment.

But perhaps it was the ashen shade of white which crystallised on his skin which alarmed the men whom lingered, for Robb had never been taught how to take an arrow to the shoulder. Ser Rodrick had warned him, perhaps, with the use of wood at arms, to block, to defend, but never to graciously fall silent when faced with pain as the North needed—for Robb was just a boy.

It was that moment which his eyes took in his nurse. She was small, hazardous to say meek because the burden of the King in the North sullying bed sheets with blood and valour weighed heavily on her back, and stationed men at the door were armed to the teeth, both unscathed, both willing to run her through with steel and sword without much of a second thought. But eyes were bright, a welcomed difference to the cold stone of the North. And touch, though it would prickle slights of pain through his nerves, was soft. A gentleness also so foreign. It seemed pleasantries had been stripped off his back- now lacerated with the lashes of war and mourning of his father- and left at the keep in Winterfell. It seemed that gentleness had been barred from his body as though stripped from surcoats themselves———— and it was welcomed.

The pain, however, was not. It jolted through him, almost as though her words of warning and caution had little effect on the Stark boy, and had hands, clad in metal and gloved with pressure, not have clamped at his arm, pushed at his chest, the wolf would’ve done more than just  h o w l.

                                             ( But howl, oh he did. )

             A stray trickle of tear had welled in the corner of squinting eyes, ivory teeth bared and allowing muted hisses, snarls, growls, to barrage against them, and as it slipped down his pallid cheek, the upwards lunge of his body was halted by strong hands.

There was only pain—pain and blood—which Robb could feel, plucking at his resolve, one withered finger by one withered finger.

                           “What—what is your name?” He forced through gritted teeth, as a cold vial was pressed to trembling lips. He’d thank her, later, when the pain had subsided and sleep had left, with whatever they could spare.

[northxrnwolf]

[northxrnwolf]

                                   THEY  CALL  HIM  the Young Wolf                 

i. ind. robb stark from grrm’s asoiaf series. ii. book-based but accomodating to show-watchers. iii. multi-ship, multi-verse. iv. crossover and au-friendly. v. oc and other fandom-friendly. vi. mun is a dork and is sad over richard madden’s lack of auburn hair

                           i. the north.           ii. the laws.           iii. the lives.

                                                                     ( art )

[veronicafitzosborne]

[northxrnwolf]

the pack survives

AU MEME → Starks + dystopic future/apocalypse → for @loserwolf

[northxrnwolf]

( ??? ):

 northxrnwolf    

                        The  s k y  was dark, darker than Loras had ever seen it           without it being night. The  c o l d  was unlike anything he had            ever experienced; it was cruel, ruthless, the kind that sneaks           underneath one’s skin until reaching one’s very bones. The            coldest day, no doubt. Some deemed it the coldest day of           the year but having been born in a place where a breeze was           as cold as it would get, to him it was the coldest day of the           last seventeen years.                The whistling of the wind amongst the snow-capped trees           and the presence of the dark becoming more menacing by           the minute was enough to get into the knight’s nerves like           the cold had with his bones. His horse must have sensed his           anxiety, for it began to gallop at a speed that only a moment           later would Loras realize was reckless. The darkness and the           speed at which it had all happened made it difficult for the            young man to be able to recollect what had happened once           he had met the ground. It must have been a patch of ice he            had not seen, or a hole in the ground that was concealed           underneath the snow like a snake is amongst the grass.                His eyes opened to dark clouds announcing a storm. One            by one his senses awakened, starting with a deafening            buzzing in his ears and followed by a pain that reached his             very spine, yet originated from his ankle, trapped under his            equally hurt horse. Frightened, the animal struggled to rise            by means of his three unharmed legs as if aware of the fate            that for it awaited if it didn’t. The knight’s exclamation of pain            as he forced his ankle towards him from under the horse got            lost in the woods surrounding them both and a few soothing            words and a swift slid of his sword later, the horse’s struggling            came to an end.                  Hurt and hardly able to feel his fingers and toes, Loras            made his way through the unknown woods, his hopes of            ever finding some aid diminishing whenever he found            himself believing he was but walking in circles, being bound            in a place unknown and lacking all sorts of reference. The             time that went by could have consisted of minutes or hours            for all that he knew. The sky remained as dark as before,             though he doubted it could get any darker even if the night            were to reach it. At last came a sight to prove him he had            indeed been walking somewhere other than where he had            been before yet the young man did not feel any less lost. The            wall he leaned back against was as cold he was sitting on             to rest his aching ankle and the smoke he had sighted            that came from beyond that great wall, probably originating            from a chimney, was as distant as his chances of reaching            such warmth any time soon.    

                 There was a chill in the air, reverberating through inches of snow which sent white climbing up his ankles,  but it was the snow that Grey Wind pined for; it was the clumping of frost and ice in peppered  fur, and the shivering and shaking leaving Robb soaked through and  through, which kept the wolf bounding through it, even when it almost swallowed him up to his knee.

               Bran and Rickon had been dubbed summer children for a reason,                he’d began  to  remember,  and though a fire blazed and licked its                fumes into the chimney, there was no warmth to shudder through                his fingertips. Summer, because the days were long,    the  nights                short,  and  though  dew  may  bead  or  crystals  of ice and snow                were scattered across Winterfell’s great keep,   they  hadn’t  seen                the might of winter,   crashing  down  on  them  with  an  iron  fist,                swallowing warmth and hopes of summer. Winter may be running                through Stark veins,  the  eldest,  the one cooped up in a cabin by                the outskirts  of  a  razed-Winterfell,  had  been  born  in  Riverrun,                down in the south,  nursed and coddled,   and exposed to the cold                when tufts of autumn licked at his crown.

                      But as he wrenched the door to his cabin open—to the whimpered                       begs  of  his  wolf,  the snow would hit him once more,  luring  him                       toward the great cloak,    furred  and  collared,   he’d kept close-by.

                Within a flash, Grey Wind was off. Boots yanked on, haphazardly, yet enough to keep the tongues of winter from spitting him into an icy death, and cloaks and coats fastened tightly to his body, Robb trudged, following the plentiful steps emboldened in the snow—after all, it wasn’t uncommon for Grey Wind to scurry off; it seemed his will was his own, and though Robb’s voice would bellow through the white, for the most part, his wolf was independent. (But still in dire need of company, and Robb was loathe to split from him.)

Along he’d trek, following paw prints through hidden patches of ice forcing the Stark to slow and seep hesitation into each step. Perhaps it would’ve been smart to bring a lantern—both to keep him warm and to illuminate, though Grey Wind would be back soon, and Robb would find himself back home.

                                                               But there was a noise. Footprints stamped into the snow which certainly weren’t of direwolf origin, and, judging by the slight drag churning up the white, ailment had struck the stranger.

                   When Tully-blue eyes focused on the cowering figure, back propped up and breath forming vapour before him, a frown would crease on his features, and jolted steps were taken toward him.

                                           “                        What is your name?” He called, cutting through the snow and reverberating back. And what business did a man have to be riding North in the middle of winter? 

[northxrnwolf]

( traveller ):

                        questions made of the same concept over and over                         again strew past her mind, the unsolicited force makes                         eyebrows only to furrow, light increase midst. understandable;                         war shows its worst face whenever is less expected but if                         dry hair ( for couple of hours anyway ) cost so many words,                         may she risks tied locks into tuft.

gulp, a sigh follows —- rib cage raise and subsequently deflate —- facial muscles loosen. it was not time for deep thinking, they have come far as standing face to face one of the pretenders to throne with current power so dimensional she could ever have.

                              the children stood by one on right and left, the third hidden securely behind her back. ❛ perhaps be it one who deserves the most. ❜ 

                       ❛ i do stand by you, however, my King.                          as i heard only great things. ❜ she graces                          momentary smile before gaze flickers                          around every face in sight .

         “Yet you speak in tongues, Lady Aslaug?” Enigmatic, she may seem;               elusive, but the weight of children bore on her back and striking across               her every move—one day that would be him.

                             Strangely, however, the King relished the thought.

              “You hear great things? –--Then you must not stand for the Lannisters.”               Perhaps a laugh would’ve followed,    if eyes weren’t so trained on him.               No,    Robb had a face to pull  —  a mask to keep taut around his head,               strangling  him  with  stone  and  steel.   A slight nod curled auburn hair               before his forehead, lapping at the skin there, before his words tumbled               out once more.

                      “Your children… what are their names? Why is it you’re here?”

              Soon, the King in the North would have his own line of princes,               and the Westerlings and Starks would be joined with more than               just marriage, but blood, and as war bloomed in each corner of               Westeros, that was the only happiness Robb could cling to.

                           “They are safe here. We do not harm children.”

[roleplayaskmemes]

Send a ◉ for my muses reaction to yours sneaking into their bedroom and putting a knife to their throat.

[northxrnwolf]

( mother ):

The thought of many grandchildren was a cheering thought, not matter the darkness and shadows which now surrounded them. Jeyne had good hips and Catelyn had little doubt she would bear many children, Catelyn’s grandchildren, and for all Catelyn might wish Robb had kept his marriage pact or had fallen into the arms of a woman with a family far more powerful and wealthy than the simple Westerlings, she could not deny that Jeyne was devoted to her son. And there was none who could deny her gentle heart; she would be a good Mother, a good wife…but would she be a good Queen?

"No, I did not believe Arya would have married willingly, nor happily, but….it was the agreement which was made and she would have married him as her duty commanded, as her King commanded,” She added pointedly, ensuring Robb knew she had expected both his support and enforcement upon the matter. She had not wanted to promise her daughter to the Frey, but Ned had been imprisoned, her brother Edmure captured, and they had needed that Crossing. For the sake of your Father, you will forgive me, Arya, she had thought as she had nodded her agreement with Lord Walder. But Ned had been murdered and now Robb had broken his own pact. It was all for naught.

"You speak of Jeyne’s honour, but what of Lord Walder’s? He will feel his has been slighted and he is not a man easily assuaged, Robb. It is not something which he wants Robb, but someone. He has spent his life forcing matches for is children and grandchildren; he appealed to my Father for both mine and my siblings’ hands, and were Lady Frey not in good health I have little doubt I would play a part in any new bargain he might wish,” She thanked the Gods that were not the case. 

                 “             A King she would then move on to hate because of an unfortunate deal he struck with Walder Frey. Besides, no one can attest for her whereabouts, Mother... But what of his wards in Winterfell? When Theon… took our home, when he took Bran and Rickon, did he spare the Frey wards? Razing Winterfell has surely more casualties than just Rickon and Bran, and will that not sully his honour? Will it not bring him in to fight alongside us, as opposed to against us, for the sake of his own blood?”

                        Perhaps it was optimism Robb clawed at; it seemed the passing of family had only opened his wounds, from the arrow to his shoulder, to the scarce shavings in battle, and when a tremble was hidden in the tips of his fingers at the thought of Theon- an almost brother to him- taking the lives of true Starks, he only hoped the feeling emanated down to the Twins, to coax in an emphatic Frey host.

“We have other ways to bargain, Mother. I did what I thought Father would do under the circumstances. Do not think I made a decision so lightly—but Father was an honourable man… and Lord Walder is a snake, you’ve said it yourself. There are other matches… one of my children, perhaps. If Walder Frey wants royalty in his blood, then so be it—he may not be around to see it, but that promise would be kept. Jeyne would comply, I need only ask her. There must be something he wants more… a man like him always wants more than he says.”

But it seemed as though they were stuck in a difficult position; a pact had been broken, one Robb would surely spend time trying to precariously slot back into a healthy sense of trust and building the bridges needed to win this war, but with very few chess pieces left to move and sacrifice for a couple more pawns.

      “This will be straightened out, Mother. We must think on what it is we can negotiate.”

[northxrnwolf]

( ??? ):

         Tavia fiddled nervously with her hands. She          wasn’t used to company, and the wolf made          her more than a little bit nervous. It reminded          her so much of a warg, the wolf like creature          than often appeared in the stories she told her          sister. Truthfully, she would rather that he didn’t          linger there, but wouldn’t say so. It wasn’t proper          for her to deny a king. Gods, she didn’t have much          say against very many at all. The sweet smile she          so often carried with her spread across her          pale face once again. “Oh.”          She wasn’t sure what she would do. Was she          going to continue working, or was that          disrespectful? Oh, why couldn’t life be easy?           She put her hands on her hips and looked to the          ground. The word fire had her heart quicken and          her eyes water. All she could see was the bright           flames and the men in the village desperately trying           to put them out. It was years since it happened but           Tavia could still remember it as if it was yesterday.           Great. Just great. She had already made a fool out           of herself by acting like a scared child. He probably            thought she was afraid of him, or his wolf. "Err.. Yes,            that’s okay. Would you mind if I continued working?”

          Grey Wind would sniff and the straw-scattered floor, scratching paws at refined thatchings—it was unfamiliar, and Robb would take a glance back down at him. Grey Wind had a keen sense, a sense which extended beyond just sight and smell. Robb’s fingers knotted in the shaggy coat, giving the wolf an affectionate scratch, before his attention turned back to the working girl.

          “No, not at all. I assure you I didn’t come to stop you working.”            And  perhaps  he  shouldn’t  have been  there at all, with war           reaping through the entirety of Westeros    (save  beyond  the           Wall,  though  wildling  feuds  had  no effect on the Westerosi           economy,   nor  the  people  within  it)   yet  its hand had been           extended, sentencing men, both good and bad, to their deaths           with the swift click of two digits, and the rain of steel, of snow,           for five crowns had been wrought, and only one could remain           whole, not melted into globs of metal.

       “Do not — be alarmed by my wolf.    He  will  not  hurt        you unless I command it.” For the most  part,  anyway.        There had been times where instinct ruled  command,        much like the men at his side— Rickard  Karstark  to        be  precise.  Though  memory  would  fade,    and   so        would the kinship between  the  Starks  and  Karstarks.

       “And what kind of man would I be to command such        a thing?” The man they told stories about.    “What is        your name?”

[northxrnwolf]

and you would rp that plot with /any/ got character?

provided they're not a Lannister, yes. Who sent me it?

[northxrnwolf]

( lady baratheon ):

          Shireen gave a light smile in return.              ❝I’m  grateful  for  the  kindness you are              showing me, your grace. Unfortunately,              not   many   would   show  a  woman  of              greyscale     much    in    the    ways    of              hospitality.❞  She  gave  a  light chuckle              before speaking again. ❝And I suppose              you    should    change   your   words   to              ”Winter   has   come”.   It  most  certainly              has.❞    She    watched   as   her   breath              evaporated  from  heat  into the frigid air.

                The words coaxed a shrug from his shoulders, and though he remained stoic, as frigid as Baelor the Blessed and all the statues guarding the Winterfell crypts, there was inherent respect to his words.

                    “Perhaps many should look behind the greyscale, and see the lady                     beneath.  I  do  not  think  my  father  would be proud to see his son                     turning away a lady such as yourself  for something outside of your                     control. Besides, you are a Baratheon, are you not?  My  father was                     great  friends  with  one  of  your  uncles,  so  I  see  it  fit  to  extend                     hospitality in his name.”

                    Even still, the bristles of his lips curled into a slight chuckle at her words.

           “You may be right. But a house can’t change their words every time the             seasons change. What is it you come for, Lady Baratheon, if not the weather?”

[northxrnwolf]

would you like a starter for that plot?

i would love one 8)

[northxrnwolf]

( ??? ):

It was a night so black that the darkness hummed around them. Jeyne curled up in her sister’s bed with her, soothing her worries as best as she could. She was fast asleep when the sound of steel clashing and men shouting woke her. Somehow her sister was till asleep, her chest rising and falling sleep overtaking her entire form. Jeyne rose carefully, untangling from the sheets doing her best not to wake her. Going to the window, Jeyne did her best to stay hidden and try to make out the banners, but she couldn’t see them, they weren’t close enough.

For which king do these men ride? Stannis Baratheon, the old king’s brother and his red woman? The Young Wolf of the North who turns into a great beast in battle? It matters not really… They were lost. Ill prepared and a crumbling castle filled with children really. There was no man who wouldn’t surrender as soon as they saw the group. Once they were a proud house, but they had little money left, and not enough to fix the castle.

It had been the Young Wolf who had taken her castle. His men had found her huddled with her siblings At one point she had shoved all of them behind her to protect them. She would not allow them to be hurt by these men. But the slap she thought would come never did. A large man stood before her practically begging for help. The rebel king was injured… Did the keep have a maester? No, their maester had left with their father… But she knew a bit from her mother she could help.

Why had she volunteered Why did she leave her siblings alone? Why… well there was no answer for that now because the large man grabbed her arm and dragged her quickly.

In her nightdress, she was brought to The Young Wolf himself. He had been set up in her own chambers. He is now laying on his back, arrow sticking out of his shoulder. “Help him and live.” Were the unspoken words that passed from the man who dragged her here and herself.

Carefully, she surveyed the injury, wiping the blood away with a clean cloth. “I’m going to have to get a knife of some kind. I have to cut the arrow out. Quickly please.”

She looked into the blue eyes of her patient, eyes wandering upward to his hair, then back to his eyes. “Stay still, this will hurt.”

             War littered the keep;      steel fingers wrenched at bodies, plucking limb from limb and thrashing open dams to send blood rushing into streams on cobbled paths. It seemed bloodshed was contagious; the Lannisters had attacked from the west, and so into the west, Robb would venture. There were children—no older than Bran, than Rickon—peering through smoke-smudged windows, trembling and timorous under the glare of Northmen, trickles of tears forming straits down their cheeks at him- rumours spun tales spun  f e a r, and the fierce wolf-man from the north seemed damnable for both young and old.

             Yet there he stood, splayed hand clasped to the joint at his flank, sharp breaths cutting through the silent ooze of blood. Latches and surcoat were removed, breastplate emblazoned with the Stark direwolf in intricate working of steel and iron following, to produce the sanguine mesh of cotton and blood. Though for the man they all told stories of- of the great direwolf baring its teeth at his side and ripping throats from enemies in one swift lunge, there was fear.

                                              Minute, yes, trickling and lapping at his irises, but still curling its sadistic claws into the wound itself—what good would the King in the North be, sans limb, sans life? How could vengeance be taken, for the murder of his father, and the oppression faced by so many at the hand of the Lannisters? For all he knew, Arya was dead, father alongside, Sansa remained but a captive. Rickon and Bran housed Winterfell well, growing and learning entwined in the two Frey wards, under the ever-watchful eye of Maester Luwin. Two Starks remained in Winterfell, guarded by their wolves and stewards and servants and maesters- of that, Robb had no worries. The only fear to flood him then was his own fate, for who would march the Umbers into battle? The Karstarks, the Tullys, the Manderlys, the Glovers? Who’d stand, the face of the North, in his stead? –––– Jon.

The woman to greet him, to tear him from thoughts of death and brotherhood, was unknown. Young, she was, a maiden almost certainly, and though her touch, the staunch of blood, evoked a flinch, a hiss, the Young Wolf would focus on gratitude over pain. A single nod was given, as querying eyes met his, and a dirk was unsheathed from the belt of one of his men, brusquely folded into the palm of his nurse.

                           “… You would see me live, yes? And no other man, woman or child                             will be hurt by Northmen. I give my word.”

[northxrnwolf]

Muse X is riding along an unfamiliar road on what some have dubbed ‘the coldest day of the year’. Anxious to get to safety before the snow begins, Muse X rides faster and their horse slides on a patch of black ice. Both horse and Muse X meet the ground and the animal winds up hurt and unable to move on. Panic begins to creep in until Muse X hears a sound coming from within the thick of the snow-capped trees. They trek into the woods that border the desolate road in hopes of finding help. (cont.)

(cont.) What little daylight there was is dwindling and the bite of frigid, winter air is setting in. Muse X can barely feel their fingers or toes when they stumble upon a large wall, smoke rising from a chimney on the other side of it. Robb inhabits beyond the Wall of Winterfell. He is on his way back to the cozy dwelling with an armful of fire wood when he spots Muse X, shivering in the ankle-deep snow. Robb invites Muse X inside to warm up.

aggrESSIVELY DOES WANT

[silvertippedrph]

anonymously message me with a plot & i'll respond with whether i would be interested or not, then make a starter for it.

note: this is simply to try and help people break the ice of rp’ing or for those who want to rp something off someone’s wishlist, but are just a little too shy. this can remain completely anonymous! so if you receive a plot you like you’re essentially making an open starter based on that plot unless the other person comes forward :)