his name sounded like a battle cry , foreign and alarming , rattling from the lips of disgruntled figures drawn against the backdrop of a stubborn island refusing to stand still under the weight of winter . sometimes a plea for mercy , spoken by lips bruised and bleeding from the gnawing , sinking of teeth to keep harshness at bay — salvage the childhood of a boy who borrowed his mother's features , and haunted the empty house where a father sighs and brothers leave . some days his name is a crippling ode to regret , a trembling set of letters assembled by lovers left before morning comes , of lines of friendships crossed time and time again , only to be drawn and redrawn until the line itself moved past normalcy and had made a home in complexities . on some days , when steel meets fire meets water meets gold - ridden hands , there is marvel and disbelief , the kind that stroked his ego and solidifies his reputation despite his beginnings . but his name on her lips sounded like the sweetest of songs . not even the year of silence , of absence , of d i s t a n c e can bring forth a begrudging pettiness that he would have resorted to . one that is easier than having to swallow the pride that had allowed him to survive the confusion that is the north , of questionable allegiances and brothers wearing coats not of their house , of their home , of their blood . ❝ myra... ❞ yearning is desperately concealed , rightfully so . composure crafted beautifully , second to none in the north . but the look in his eyes must have betrayed his efforts because the lord of bear island shatters , falls apart , and ... falters at the mere utterance of myranda karstark's name . he feels every inch of him crumble , a smile flickers on his lips and dwells on them as his eyes searched hers for some kind of salvation .
his life forever altered by the horrors in highgarden , something — someone , within him lost to the chaos and the fire ignited within him , rising to color his skin and rearrange the lines of his palms . one misfortune is permissible , nothing out of the ordinary , but a second one as grave and as bloody is a work of destiny . brought forth by a deity , or otherwise . no one survives it unscathed , injuries of the flesh may heal , but a strike on one's honor and pride never truly does . his weariness had grown to purposeful rage , so profound he had began to accept the resemblance to his mother . she , too , had beliefs she died for . and yet myranda looks to him as she always has , honorable and kind . without the markings of battle, the scratches of treason . as though he was still capable of gentleness ... perhaps he still is — if only for her and her alone . he takes her hand , not a second wasted , not even a word in response . and he holds her hand as he did that evening , as though he holds his entire worlds in his hands . that is who she is to him , isn't she ? what she's always been . even if she thinks of him only as a friend who was caught in the moment . ❝ go on , ask me anything . ❞ he meant every second of it , his lips on hers when the siege has ended , not to act on relief but a lifelong affection finally revealing itself . he leads her to dance , a pace to her liking , the way he remembers it . ❝ i never realized you think so loudly until all i had the past year was silence . ❞
