𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : the northern camp just outside the village of brindlewood, the crownlands.
𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞 : twenty sixth day, second seed, 300 a.c.
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 : robb stark ( @vargher ).
the journey to the capital would have been smoother had they chosen to take to the seas rather than the road. it was only a three - day sail from the port of dragonstone to king’s landing though the amount of coin being borrowed from the westerlands as well as the iron bank meant that the blackwater bay would be packed like a jar of brined sardines and with their father already in the capital, overseeing the enforcement of law on the king’s small council, shireen had been sent to join the northern camp, laying down the ground work for a proper stark - baratheon alliance in his place. there would be no time to discuss such matters once the walls of the red keep were in sight, neither did their father trust anyone who worked within the palace enough to be so forward with his intentions, so the idea had sprung to use them as a mouth piece, of sorts, though they would have to soften his presentation in order to secure the trust of these solemn northerners.
( it was a fair idea and one that they wholeheartedly supported, well aware that their father sometimes lacked the patience for such back and forth conversations, but as they disembarked from their chestnut brown mare when camp broke for the evening, shireen could not help but regret the decision they had made to volunteer to play emissary on behalf of stannis baratheon when there had been more experienced men willing to make the journey. )
still, aching limbs aside, they refused to leave the preparations for the evening to the foot soldiers alone. there was much one could learn about the high lords from the men who served them and while house stark had been cordial in their acceptance of the small party from dragonstone into the fold, they could not help but wonder if the peaceable disguise was just that ─ a disguise to throw them off the scent until their allegiances were exposed. they could not blame the northerners, if that was the case, for their father had recently been accepting back into the small council under the pretense of loyalty to king joffrey, but hopefully eddard stark had uncovered enough of the late jon arryn’s investigations to place their father by his side before his death. striding down from the hilltop where the carriages had been gathered and the horses had been tied, to the small clearing that now housed multiple tents, shireen balanced a crate of potatoes on one hip, their free hand outstretched for balance upon the uneven, slanting ground.
passing the young wolf, who seemed to be gazing off into the distance as his pup trotted back to his side, they hummed gently to make their presence known as they walked by, bumping their unburdened hip against his side. ❝ here now, stark … why don’t you stop counting the clouds and give us peasants a hand ? ❞ with a light tone, their voice held a teasing element as they watched the wolf - pup ( who was more grown - wolf, if they were being truthful ) come to a halt by the other side of it’s master, tucking it’s head beneath robb stark’s palm.
𝙼𝙸𝙻𝙺𝚈 𝙴𝚈𝙴𝚂. white, grey and soulless. hands slack, the young wolf’s mouth floods with iron. beyond brindlewood, grey wind’s vermillion - varnished tongue laps at effervescent viscera. robb is comatose, a disquieted pause in the rise and fall of his once enervated chest. he is as still as the gravestone figures within winterfell’s hallowed halls, where wolves will one day howl in homage and intern him to age - old departed depths. gods, do not let me be remembered as the king who lost the north. for he would not be the king who knelt, a honed blade in hand, bound to death before dishonour. he peers through the predatory gaze of his towering beast, an imbrued maw hovering above the carcass of a brawny elk where he tastes more than the contused flesh of man. a drifter, shapeshifter, his host lets him run. the direwolf is a smoke - grey blur, remarkably lithe despite the advancing girth of monstrous frame. he has long outgrown bran’s shaggy pony, rivaling a sixteen - hand charger which shies as he lopes down dirt - trodden road. the northern camp is perceived through grey wind’s golden stare, a pack of his men parting to grant the great wolf passage, extended strides reduced to a trot upon approach. he does not feel the bump of their hip, but watches through a beast’s sharpened sense, ears pricked and cranium canting at the sight.
the bleached pigment of dual irises dissipates, oceanic hue bursting back through the pupil. he is returned by a soft intake of breath, years of practice having shed the desperate gasp of resurrection. with not a sole trusted brother beside him, he is fortunate to find his body devoid of knife, keen point burrowed deep betwixt the leather strappings of armoured plating. there is blood canvassing grey wind’s muzzle, his snout, phantom - coating the young wolf’s throat. ‘ and what of your men, lady shireen ? ’ robb queries, head tilt towards her. a nod as he stalks forth, his wolf in stride, stag - crested soldiers clanging their tankards atop a barrel some feet from their position. ‘ they look far too in their cups to lend you a hand. ’ halting a breadth before her, what strained curiosity survived his vision shifts into well - earned caution. grey wind sniffs at the woman’s boot, blows hot air through the nostrils, scents the length of her pant leg, huffs, circles and studies. when he settles, her presence sanctioned for the while, robb allows shireen’s attention to linger a prolonged few seconds, the focus upon looming canine enough for him to relieve them of a hefty crate. ‘ after you, my lady. ’
blakekathryn
gummygunk
kaledo-art
origamiaround
prguitarman
