#silkasruin

[dragonends]

“  let  go  of  me.  ”    ──    from  isyla

 a  smile  morphs  a  once  handsome  face  to  something  akin  to  a  snake,  a  dragon,  a  mouth  full  of  daggers  waiting  to  sink  into  flesh.    this  wasn't  even  the  first  time  he  had  sought  her  out  that  day,  that  morning  the  second  son  had  the  sweet  little  adder  in  his  chambers,  coiled  and  screaming,  muffled  by  her  own  hand  as  he  had  left  mark  after  mark  upon  her  thighs.    the  prince  knew  if  he  were  to  slide  his  hand  between  her  legs  now―  he'd  still  be  leaking  out  of  her.    “  you  do  not  tell  me  what  to  do.  ”    grip  on  her  arm  tightening,  whatever  chance  of  her  escaping  his  attention  dwindling  second  by  second.    “  i  do  find  it  amusing  how  defiant  you  look  right  now,  when  just  a  few  hours  ago  you  were  begging  for  me  to  fill  you.  ”

 ⸸    ˖ 𓂃 .    sent    from    @silkasruin

[zaldrizesa]

» starter call. // @silkasruin ( daella )

It's the evening of the Trial of Seven, long having found out about the fate of her father in what should have been an easy thing for him to survive — the Kingsguard were sworn not to harm him... but she did not account for her uncle's mace. There is no blame cast upon him, though, knowing it was an accident... no, her blame lies entirely on someone else. As the large door to her room creaks open, Daenerys looks up with red rimmed eyes and tear stained cheeks to see Daella there — not a word is spoken as her cousin crosses the room and they embrace. Dany is unable to hold the floodgates closed as she begins to openly weep all over again, her arms and fingers clinging tight to poor Daella.

[draconisi]

@silkasruin liked for dyanna ( from here ) from daella.

gloved fingers brush petals gently out of the way to reach the thorned stem, eyes of dark indigo narrowed as she reaches to cut at the base — catching it before it falls and potentially crushes it's sisters. there is dirt on the knees of her dress, she thinks. she is not kneeling in a way that would've kept them from resting solidly off the ground ( though the princess pays it no mind, focused in near entirety on her task - though her eyes raise every now and then, and a half smile forms, before her head drops, somewhat abruptly, plainly delighted to find that her mother had not risen and departed from the mundanity of it. though, in truth she had expected nothing less of the lady dyanna ) flower in hand, the dark haired girl's head raises.

her braid falls back from where it had rested over her left shoulder flat down the length of her spine. her arm extends, offering the woman the flower, her smile growing into something entirely happy, nearing, slightly further toward giddy as she says, " i want to get more, but not here. i've plucked enough here. i want to at least fill that vase, mother. the one you read beside, the one on the side table — maybe more. i think it would look nice, " the princess' teeth sunk into her lower lip, chewing as she considered, then, and said, " would father like them ? perhaps in his solar, do you think ? maybe - though i know rhae would like them, " daella would pick some for her little sister, though she did not think she should have a place in mind for them, for rhae would be like to move them, she knew that her younger sister would accept them. it would be to her then to be the one to decide what she did with them, and where to place them in her rooms.

" there are a fair few in bloom, and i want to pick them, so more can grow, but i don't know who would... aemon would accept them, i know. but he would be more like to press them into books, which, would preserve them... but, i want them to be out, to be appreciated, before that, " was that wrong ? was she attempting to decide for her brother what to do with what she had every intention to give as a gift ? what should it matter, what he did ? they would still be appreciated, even if it was in a different form, even if it was not what she expected, " i will give him some, " the princess promised her mother finally with a little nod, " though in truth, perhaps i should give them to the servants. mayhaps a bouquet would soothe some... well, i fear that they have grown rather upset with me. though i do not see why. i am not trying to take their position, i just want to help. "

[angcltouched]

@silkasruin persephone asked for ares : [ 17. ] sender gently dabs the blood from receiver's face with a wet cloth.

it was unexpected to him, such kindness. most gods looked at him with judgment, with distance, sometimes even with thinly veiled disdain. to them, he was only rage, violence, war made flesh. nothing more than a force to be feared or used. he was no different from the battlefield he embodied: brutal, relentless, and unforgiving. and yet here she was.

persephone, standing so close he could feel the warmth of her presence, treating him as if he were simply ... normal. as if he were not a storm barely contained in skin, as if the blood staining his face did not belong to a god of war. it unsettled him. beneath his ribs, the familiar fire still burned, that constant, simmering rage that never truly slept. he did not recognize kindness when it was placed before him, and he certainly did not know how to receive it. every instinct in him was made for battle, not care. for destruction, not gentleness.

his breath came heavier as she pressed the damp cloth against his skin, wiping away the blood with tenderness that felt almost foreign to him. each slow motion sent a strange tension through his body. not pain, but something far more disarming. something he could not fight with a sword. for a moment, his fierce gaze softened as it met hers. curiosity flickered in his eyes ... and beneath it, something dangerously close to tenderness. something raw, unguarded, almost human. it was brief, but it was there.

his lips parted. ❝ i ... ❞ the word caught in his throat, trapped beneath the weight of feelings he had no name for. his jaw tightened, pride and discomfort warring inside him. he exhaled slowly, choosing a safer path. ❝ thank you for your help. ❞ his tone was quieter than usual, stripped of irony, yet still guarded. as if acknowledging the moment was already more than he knew how to handle.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐁.

[dragonends]

“  i’m  concerned  that  you  mightn’t  understand  what  discreet  means.  because  the  path  of  chaos  you’ve  just  created  is  exactly  the  opposite  of  discreet.  ”    ──    from  lydia

 an  arrow  strikes  the  dirt  a  breath  away  from  his  feet  as  they  flee.    “  all  i  said  was  that  their  dear  leader  ulfric  was  a  rotten  coward  for  how  he  slew  the  high  king,  i  truthfully  did  not  think  they'd  take  it  this  personally.  ”    an  outright  lie  of  course,  if  anything  etienne  had  hoped  for  such  a  reaction.    each  time  a  band  of  those  blue-cloaked  fools  dared  wander  to  close  to  the  rift,  the  guild  would  delight  in  stripping  them  down  to  their  smalls,  leaving  them  to  face  the  wilderness  unarmed.    of  course,  seeing  as  neither  side  of  the  war  favoured  well  with  the  guild  directly,  the  legion  were  just  as  much  targets  as  the  stormcloaks,  but  something  felt  all  the  more  satisfying  knowing  those  race-hating  bastards  were  lesser  equipped  then  before.    sliding  down  the  embankment,  etienne  pulled  the  woman  beneath  the  stone  bridge  before  she  could  protest  too  loudly,  a  single  finger  pressed  to  downturned  lips  as  he  listened  for  the  pursuing  group.    in  his  free  palm,  embers  begin  to  rise,  a  dancing  sphere  of  flames  sitting  ready  to  strike  should  they  be  found.    “  i  feel  like  you're  angry  with  me  for  something  else.  did  you  not  enjoy  our  morning?  ”

 ⸸    ˖ 𓂃 .    sent    from    @silkasruin

[dragonends]

“  revenge  won’t  bring  peace  for  you.  ”    ──    from  mother

 he  knows  this,  far  more  than  his  mother  or  brother  realises.    but  what  he  seeks  is  not  peace,  he  does  not  crave  solace  or  serenity  that  forgiveness  may  or  may  not  bring  him.    but  something  far  darker.    when  the  raven  carrying  the  news  of  his  father's  death  had  reached  them,  when  matarys  had  heard  the  wails  of  his  grieving  mother  echo  in  halls  for  hours  upon  hours,  baelor's  second  son  could  not  bring  himself  to  shed  even  a  single  tear  then.    that  letter  planted  a  seed  deep  within  his  soul,  it's  tendrils  grew  quickly,  wrapping  tightly  around  his  heart  as  thorns  pierced  hatred  into  his  very  flesh.    hatred  for  his  kin,  and  a  burning  to  see  them  brought  to  justice.    trial  or  not,  they  were  the  reason  what  remained  of  his  father  were  nothing  but  ashes.    matarys  would  see  that  the  gods  welcomed  more  of  his  family.    “  there  is  no  such  thing  as  peace  mother.  there  is  only  right  and  wrong.  the  gods  will  guide  my  hand.  ”

 ⸸    ˖ 𓂃 .    sent  from  @silkasruin 

[angcltouched]

@silkasruin persephone asked for aphrodite : ❛ i’m trying to fix your hair, so hold still. ❜

she was trying to. truly, she was. but the curiosity was burning beneath her skin like a sweet, intoxicating flame she simply could not smother. it crawled through her veins, made her slender fingers twitch restlessly, her nails absently brushing against the soft petals of a nearby rose as if the flower itself shared her anticipation. her heart fluttered, half with excitement, half with a delicious anxiety to know what had truly unfolded between persephone and her mysterious, brooding new lover, hades.

around them, the garden seemed to breathe with life: blossoms glowing in soft shades of pink and gold, doves fluttering lazily overhead, and the air heavy with the scent of spring. a reflection of persephone's own presence. yet even this beauty could not distract aphrodite from the matter at hand. after all, who could she not be curious ? especially when all she had ever heard were the dark tales of the god of the underworld. the whispers of shadows, cold halls, and iron thrones.

and now? now persephone stand before her like a girl freshly in love, cheeks faintly flushed, eyes shimmering with something tender and secretive, completely enchanted by that very same terrible god. aphrodite shifted closer, leaning slightly back so her eyes could find persephone. ❝ i can't ... ❞ she murmured, her voice breathless with barely contained excitement. ❝ i need to know what happened. don't leave me in the dark, my dear. i want all the details. ❞

𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒.

[chaserabbits]

❛ seriously. i need to know if you're okay. ❜ ( for Ned from ashara )

LOADING FILE . . . : / / prompt. [ status : clearing out inbox. ]  ↳ @silkasruin

the quiet wolf, true to his somber nature, cloaks himself in silence. for silence is the language he has mastered best. within the pale embrace of starfall's sandstone halls, that hush swells heavy and soverign, speaking in a tongue more grievous than any uttered word. yet she would not be so easily turned aside, nor would she mistake his quietus for peace. and he, bound fast by the iron creed of his honor, could not shape his lips into falsehoods and name himself fine when he was anything but. eddard stark is no weaver of lies.

at most, he is a keeper of truths unspoken, a sentinel who bars certain sorrows from ever reaching the light. honor bids him speak plainly, yet his heart rebels. for he would spare sweet ashara the weight of his hidden griefs. he cannot bear to summon the tender crease upon her brow, nor draw forth the search gaze of her dusk dark eyes, amethyst deep as northern twilights where the dying sun bleeds it last across the skies. in their depths would dwell a sorrowful knowing, a gentle pity. and that above all torments, he cannot endure.

grief is no stranger; it keeps his pace as a sworn shadow. it walks beside him cloaked and constant, yet he feels the frailty of his mortal frame and wonders how much longer he can endure such ceaseless sorrow. he is a direwolf brought low in the hunt, his flank speared with cruel shafts. each arrow is a wound that cannot be drawn, lest his lifeblood drain him utterly. much has been torn from his grasp, bonds severed and lost, cosigned to memory and mourning. and in the hollow that remains there festers a dread most bitter: that fate, if left unsaitiated, shall demand more of him still.

yet here within this fleeting and fragile hour, there abides a single steadfast truth: she is here. she stands before him as he remains seated, nearer than propriety might bless between unwed souls. yet still he reaches for her as if the sacred vow had long since bound them. his hands come to rest upon the gentle curve of her thighs, finding solace in their warmth and living strength beneath the whisper of her silken dress.

his head bows low as if in prayer or penance, brow resting against her midriff. and there he lingers, holding fast to her as he is held in return. no word is spoken, nor needed. for in that hush, their silence is a communion, and in its stillness he finds a fleeting mercy.

do not leave me, the longing toiling deep within compels him to say. do not leave me as they have. not you, too. but his tongue is not able to speak the words.