#tuskslove

[forgaeven]

▸ call me when it goes to shit. (nettles to rheowick)

❛ do not leave, milady — ❜

his hand hooks around her elbow, and his lips brush the tips of her ear. his grasp, despite the strength he possesses, do not hurt. how could it, when the very hold of it is nothing more but to hold, and not to restrain. in that, he is unlike daemon targaryen, he supposes. rheowyck does not dig his claws in, despite the fact that sometimes, rarely, there is a terrible need to want to. whether it is fortunate or unfortunate, mother is a great influence in this : she is the image of restraint herself. her words often clipped and precise. her movements, often measured and controlled. much of rheowyck's demeanour, he hopes, he has emulated in her image. that he is fair as he is just, that he is trusted as he is noble.

still, still. sometimes the scales of his dragon-blood show. not much, and never in these sort of particular circumstances, but rheowyck feels the fury of his valyrian blood sings sometimes. the need to take by blood if he must. the desire to burn if he wills. sometimes he wakes, and the damage has already been done. his knuckles bruised with the impact, his skin colored red with remnants.

neither father and mother is here to correct it.

but that is of no matter. here, now, rheowyck exudes the calmness of his predecessor. ah, yes, his maternal grandsire, yorbert royce, who is known for his joviality and easy manners. the way he entered a room and gathered a crowd, like moths to the flame of his gentle brightness. rheowyck has been known to have the advantage of being slightly more disciplined, but nevertheless, he is known much for the nearly gentle way he manoeuvres the court of the vale. the expert subtlety in how he exudes his charm. here, now, he hopes to stop her not with possession, but a glimmer of surrender. a hope.

he smiles, soft, and it is devastating.

❛ it is a night of celebration, and sheepstealer is well-fed. stay for longer. ❜ behind, the small council of vale is exchanging drinks and the music plays. ❛ i am in need of your company. ❜

currently accepting: the great divide. for the curious @tuskslove's nettles.

[lovedunexpectedly]

@tuskslove said : “your presence feels... familiar, like a dream i’ve forgotten.” (peter to betty. amnesia? amnesia)

peter is in hospital. not visiting his aunt but in a bed and hooked up to a variety of beeping machines. for all the mysterious bruises and injuries it feels like he is never without betty hasn't seen him like this. she keeps thinking of her mum, the years spent at her bedside, retelling her day to someone she was near certain couldn't hear her.

the only thing stopping the rising panic had been his eyes blinking awake, now it only rises is again and no recognition registers in them. "i-" the doctors hadn't said anything. it feels like anything she might say could make this worse. "we're friends, we work together."

[remcmbrances]

" how does it feel? " he looks down at her with a playful smile on his lips. around them, the buzz of a bath assembly fills the senses - in many ways a shock after the quiet months they'd spent at woodston, wrapped up happily in the newness of their marriage. indeed, it is the first time either of them has been back to town since their first meeting - and all the eventful tumult that followed. but he is glad to be back. always one for entertainment and gaiety where it could be wholesomely found, there is nothing more satisfying than to return with his wife on his arm. and knowing how much they both have changed since the last time they danced together in this very room.

" how does it feel - " he repeats, squeezing her elbow as they watch the dancers rush to their places for the first set. " - to be back? this time an experienced woman of the world? " he glances at her, mischief twinkling in his eyes. " or perhaps you wish to be a girl again? free from your matrimonial shackles? "

starter call -> @tuskslove

[forgaeven]

▸ stay gone. (nettles to rheowick)

❛ i will not. ❜ his declaration is neither a command nor a plea. only what it is, a declaration. softer than what a lord's intonation may permit, but firm that it does not exist without the authority of his station. his violet eyes all-knowing as he takes her in, this young woman with her dark curls and her piercing eyes. does she recognise him, he wonders ? when he stands, does he look like the shape of her lover, only twenty years younger ? is her shackles raised because of it, or does she reserve this same strand of suspicion for anyone that may come across her path ?

behind her, her dragon – the ever infamous sheepstealer – raises its body. its scales seem to expand like it could multiply the weight of itself and terrify the perimeter by her mass alone. rheowyck finds it in him to not fear it. somewhere in his memories, he remembers caraxes' own protective stance, and syrax' far more lax one, in bits of memories that flits through his mind. he doesn't quite clutch onto it, but it ripples. it teaches him how aware he must be, but how he must not succumb to fear when he is sure that the rider would not harm him — not yet, anyhow.

❛ you have been stranded here, have you not ? you and your ... companion. ❜ his eyes skitter once more to sheepstealer, who moves restlessly. a wild dragon, indeed. ❛ i reckon you must recognise me. fear not, i am not his ghost. ❜

currently accepting: the great divide. for the curious @tuskslove's nettles.

[forgaeven]

▸ we're so alone most of the time. ( sansa to neith)

neith's brown eyes lift upwards.

currently, they are picking fabrics and threads for the princess' embroidery. neith is aware that she is not ... quite popular among the other ladies-in-waiting. often, she tries not to think far too much of it. after all, there is, in truth, little animosity that is being exchanged, but rather a mild discomfort. then again, neith has always somewhat expect that to happen : she is not a very cheerful girl to have at court, neither is she good in speaking, nor quite invested in the intricacy one requires to survive it. her only interest had been whatever her princess helaena had been interested in, and her want to fulfil or serves her better. and she knows what others say about her in that regards, as well : that maybe, for once, westeros has finally garnered themselves a martell that bowed.

had qoren heard the rumours, surely he would demand her return by a thousand letters. thankfully, such things remained here, in the exchanges of servants and the more notorious attendees of king's landing court.

she looks now to lady sansa, who is taller than her and hair as red as the dune of sandstone. once, neith has heard rumours that those of northern blood are as dark-haired as they come, mysterious as the winter they defended against. lady sansa is certainly mysterious, but she is as bright as the weirwood tree she prays upon. there is nothing dark here. only a girl, just as she, picking at fabrics for the princess they serve. neith looks back to the colourful threads, before she does speak—

❛ we are. ❜ she answers her, her voice is soft. like she's afraid of her own volume.

still, neith continues, ❛ i apologise if i am not ... more forthcoming. i do not ... i do not always have... companions of my age to speak with at home, and princess helaena requires little of me when we are together. ❜ she tries to explain, hoping it may ease some of the more accusatory things said of her and how she covets the princess' attention alone. ❛ — but it is lonely, is it not, being so far away from our place of birth ? ❜

currently accepting: the great divide. for the lonely @tuskslove's sansa.

[forgaeven]

do you still have a heart or has somebody stole it? (nikolai to rhea)

❛⠀do you mock me ?  ❜

the words burst out of her before she could help herself. suddenly, all at once, it feels as though every restrained composure she has kept are threatened singularly by this piercing remarks. she knows not if he'd meant it as a jest, or in a way that reflects his mischievousness: manoeuvring their talks so she could possibly admit that her heart has indeed been stolen by the boy-sailor of her youth, but in the moment, all rhea could remember were the countless fights and accusations she'd endured each time her so-called lord husband cursed her of her honourable front. deride her of their marriage bed he will never grace.

as though rhea had the full say of their marriage in the first place. as though she, too, was not wounded by the promises that his family had not kept, had betrayed her with. daemon targaryen's unrelenting defiance is inspiring only to the way she applies it in her lordship. in his shadow, she learnt to keep her chin high, to not bend so easily by the easy whims of men in her council. but beyond that, rhea had kept every hurt her lord husband had dealt her like they were still scars she, sometimes, could not help but itch.

some days, they still bleed.

and of course, of course, she understands that she too had dealt him her own wounds. she, too, in her fury for such blatant disrespect, have dug her knives deep and pulled her arrow tight in ensuring he is as injured as she. they are as much victims of each other, as they are the perpetrator — that much, rhea will not deny. still. still.

she is the abandoned, the unwanted.

and often, in such lonely nights – rarer now, thankfully – she wonders if she will always be just that : the woman anyone would abandon. the woman nobody would want. even klaus left. for war, of course — rhea understands as much. she too had went on with her marriage; had told him that their summers had meet its end. despite it all, did he still not left ? was it because of this : because she is difficult, and stubborn, and wilful ? because she is a lady made from the bedrock of her ancestors, and the woman who would not yield ? casting aside the need for affection for a chance at the littlest of respect ? is she truly, devastatingly heartless ? is that what her dearest klaus, her summer-heart, her newly-learned nikolai, thought of her ?

rhea feels her eyes burn, it stings with the threat of a tear, but she clenches her jaw. she pretends she isn't hurt. she goes to him, marches really, and snaps into his face :

❛⠀i buried it.  ❜

currently accepting: the great divide. eyeing @tuskslove / coughs @nursc

[artisanals]

@tuskslove / [ CONT . ]

❛ or diary or raven or whatever you like, ❜ eyes roll and hand gestures vaguely, though a smile seems permanently etched atop lips, as if he couldn't care the medium of her histories, and yet found the concept of them deeply entertaining. sansa, despite what many — many — people might have said, was perfectly wonderful company. ( as in she let you talk and talk and talk, and her sharp wit kept you as honest as you could manage to be ). ❛ tomorrow, you shall write about how you did not know i could be worse than yesterday, ❜ and that grin spreads wider, wolfish and mischievous.

[artisanals]

hi love you <3

pictured : you (left), me (right)