#caointeag

[azmenka]

@caointeag : he's a ten but he's Maron Greyjoy

Maron:

[crgnstrk]

@caointeag asked ; [ ruffle ] sender ruffles receiver's hair | from Lyarra

head lifts the moment fingers are felt on top of head, a hand raising as well a half second later as if to swat her hand away from his hair. the gesture is as gentle as is ever seen from the young stark, the greatest display of discontent in the furrowing of brows that is more reminiscent of the expressions he might have worn as a child on the rare occasion when his brother caused some upset. it smooths out quick enough. "i didn't hear you coming."

[rcyaledits]

FOR AS LONG AS THE SUN AND MOON SHALL ENDURE

「   endless amelia & lyarra edits  *ੈ✩‧₊˚.  @caointeag    」

[playshrp]

038. within a quiet corridor of a castle during a lavish ball a raucous northern-y feast . | from Lyarra @caointeag!

domeric usually loved this sort of thing. parties, being surrounded by others. it left him with a sense of connection he often felt was lacking, weeding out the seeds of loneliness he had always carried with him. but he was quickly learning that to northmen, a party was not just that. it was rougher, louder & he had partakenv. tb in perhaps a bit too much to drink... he had severely embarrassed himself by spilling a flagon of ale on lord forrester's eldest son. domeric had apologized & taken it as an excuse to stumble into the darkest corner in winterfell he could find to regather himself.

whether he was pitted against the world or his own drunkenness isolation was a wall he could throw up to protect himself. even as the burn of the ale faded in his chest he scarcely wanted to return to the party... so he had situated himself on the edge of a window seal, casting his dark gaze to the sky.

it was fine if he made a fool of himself in front of the moon, he mused. me might have laughed at his internal joke if he did not hear footsteps. when he see's the source, he sits a little straighter.

" lady stark, " domeric speaks before he registers her presence entirely. his stomach twists in a knot, though it would be difficult to tell. he feels too aware of the hair in his face, the wrinkles in his shirt. he forces out a breath, " what are you doing here? "

[azurepriince]

@caointeag​

he had seen battle plenty of times - the jogos nhai quickly came to mind when  he thought of battle and war . it was a never ending war with them and he did regret not being there to lead the yi ti army against them . while he was doing this - hunting zhi-da down - for his empire , he had left his other duties to do so . 

flexing his hand , he glared at the forming bruise on it . he didn’t know what house those soldiers belong to nor whose crest they bore but to attack someone on the road ? minding their own as they rode ? zhi-da better be here ; he nearly lost a limp fighting that small group . and it hadn’t even been the first one . 

niao pushed it out of his mind as he neared a river . sliding off of his horse , he let the white steed drink as he pulled out and stared at the wanted poster . the scar he saw on the paper filled with him , knowing that his father didn’t die without a good fight . he had never seen his father fighting but the stories he heard made it known his father had been a ruthless warrior like the sons he sired . 

the ache in his chest had not lessen with the passing years . 

daoji suddenly lifted his head and turned it . frowning , niao rubbed the white neck and craned his neck to see where he was looking. “ daoji , what are you- ”

a girl . a woman ? he blinked, rounding his horse he watched her down the steam . he hadn’t seen anyone since he drifted off of what people called the king’s road and he cocked his head . patting daoji once more , he took a step forward with his hands up . with what he knew about what was happening in westeros , it didn’t seem safe to be out alone . 

having been attacked and nearly attacked himself many times , he nearly regretted not bringing a few men with him .

“ my lady , i don’t think it’s safe to be out alone . ”

[archivedazmenka]

@caointeag​ / ❄ Our muses huddle together to stay warm.

       FOG WAVERS ACROSS THE BLACK BOGS SURROUNDING THE MOAT; LOW CURLS OF STEAM SNAKING THEIR WAY IN BETWEEN FERNS AND TORCHES             and whatever moisture settles on the sparse greenery crystallises soon enough. no two days ago the first, innocent snowflakes have tumbled to the ground, melting the moment they hit the earth, but there could be no doubt that a lasting, distinct cold had settled in the windswept remains of the castle. in the dead of night, when no breeze is howling around the crooked towers, one can hear the teeth of his men chatter every now and then. up here, on whatever is left of the ramparts of the Gatehouse Tower, the frost bites especially hard. and yet it is here they stand, looking out on the muddy waters around them in search of boats about to return after a supply trip to White Harbour.

        puffs of smoke form before his face with every exhale; shoulders pulled a little higher, the tips of his bare fingers drumming quietly on his belt. for once, even Maron has donned a warmer attire than just tunics and leathern vests: wrapped around his shoulders is a black cloak of suede and seal pelts with a golden kraken stitched to his right shoulder, its tentacles spreading down his chest and back. stars are bright above their heads, the waters are still and peaceful, and it could have been a perfect night, were it not for her constant shifting and rummaging by his side.

       she knows cold. she has the north in her veins. but pair that with excitement and fear of the unknown ahead and even the most cold-resistant Stark might waver a little.

       he waits; watches, waits a little more, but when the cold has crept thoroughly into his bones as well, Maron heaves an almost melodramatic sigh. without a word does he step behind Lyarra then, a hand reaching out to gently pull her back and before she can utter a single word of protest, he has wrapped his arms around her shoulders from behind and with it the thick, heavy, cloak. back to chest; whatever little warmth he had left soon oozing through the fabric of their clothes, and Maron looks straight past her, out onto the steaming bog. a flash of white in his hooded face, a pointy canine exposed in a subtle, little smirk.

       “you’re welcome.”

send a symbol for... / accepting.

[starsspin-a]

         “How many times do I have to tell you no?” One more it would seem. And a few more times after this he was sure of it. She did what she wanted and that would get her into trouble, and he would have to swoop in and get her out. She was smart though, much smarter than any gave credit, still she was his daughter and it was his job to protect her.

@caointeag​ from ned

[azmenka]

@caointeag says ❝ i can stand here all night if i must. ❞ ( x )

" BY ALL MEANS , FEEL FREE TO - " he would heave a sigh , feels it build up in his lungs already , but opts , instead , for briefly rubbing the bridge of his nose . expanding his chest in any type of form , he knows , might just stretch the already bleeding wound just below his collarbone even more and once that happens , he stands without defenses against that stubborn would - be - maester of a Northerner currently camped outside the door of his cabin .

he had half hoped to slip back in without her noticing the darkened stain on his tunic , or the grimace he's been trying to hide ever since boarding the ship again , but his luck , it appears , has thrown itself overboard the moment she had set foot on it . not that women aboard generally were bad luck ( a myth , spread by lesser man , obviously ) but this one in particular is doing his head in . of course she had to drop the lingering fear of boats , the sea , and anything to do with it right this moment when he actually , for once , doesn't want her attention .

it is no fatal wound , he knows that . fuck's sake it's not even grave ; a cut , deep enough it might require stitches , yes , but surely nothing that would keep him bedbound . just to make a point , he deliberately avoids the four - poster - bed at the far end of his cabin to , instead , slump down into a chair at the desk and fill a horn with ale . to the brim . it perhaps strains him a little , not to groan when he eventually lifts the horn to his lips .

something like static in the air has him pause . listen . for a moment , he's almost tempted to tentatively call out and see if she's still out there , but then fears it may be an invitation for her to barge in after all . so for another moment he , instead , glares at the door as if daring it to open magically , before he downs the entire horn and , with a low hiss , carefully peels himself out of his vest . the dark grey shirt underneath is clinging to his skin already . caution may have been a smart call here but , just like reason , it is tossed into the wind and Maron , this time failing to stop a pained snarl coming out , rips the sticking fabric off the wound in one single move , and , using the momentum of movement and pain , manages to pull the shirt over his head and hurl it into a corner . more ale then , and a careful look down at the cut . another scar in the making , no doubt , that he could gladly add to the collection already decorating his body . . .