ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀʀɪɴɢ ᴡᴏʟғ

[wolvenstark]

M Y A.

SULKING. mya didn’t do well at sulking. septa’s critical voice rang in her ears sometimes; mya was short-sighted. living in the moment came as naturally to her as breathing. when calder had slain their cruel brother, that same short-sightedness had allowed her to adjust to their newfound freedom with ease. the shadows of their dark time disappeared in the light of a new era and the future was bright enough that she didn’t feel the need to look at it–that was calder’s job now, after all. whatever he decided, he had her support and her sword.

the endless seconds of a few silent shadows eclipsed the horrors of seven years of terror. she could not let those terrible figures out of her head in the same way she always had been able to let go of the bad before. phantoms haunted and the future wove knots in her stomach. the dark cloak that draped itself over winterfell like a funeral shroud left her brooding more than she cared for–finding herself sulking in the crypts below in hopes that the ghosts of her ancestors would give her the answers that no one could find.

knees pulled to her chest, mya leaned her back against the cool stone wall–steely fingers burying themselves in the hearty warmth of luna’s dichotomous coat. at the sound of footfall on the stony floor, mya took a sharp, annoyed breath and cleared her throat to announce her presence, before looking up under her brows at the intruder. “careful,” she warned darkly, a defiant grin threatening to break the stoicism on her angular face, “you’ll wake the dead.”

THE CRYPTS WERE ENVELOPED by a veil of SORROW and GLOOM, festered with shadows flitting against cracked masonry and flickering flame. Perhaps it spoke to his character, that he’d felt more at rest within their abysmal depths than amidst crystalline atmosphere. He often wandered the mortal abyss until his spine met Elias’ stoney recollection, each rivet biting into frosted rock. The statue which had been forged in his father’s likeness would forever appear foreign cast against his steely gaze. When he met his inevitable demise, a vermilion battlefield littered with corpses was his preferred place of rest.

Bane’s rhythmic pants, for a time, remained the only sense of sound throughout the departed’s desolate chambers. What ghostly haunts the world claimed were lost to him -- the only specter he recognized was that of his own anatomy. Behind the mask of homicidal, shadowy creatures were humanoid conjurers, and he did not fear their cowardly, atomized physiology. THE WARRING WOLF was quite the honorific, and it had not been bestowed upon him by playing a fool upon a throne. It had been manifested on man’s accord, chanted during a tormented war’s finale.

Charcoal ears pricked, drew his focus toward familiarized vocalization. His sister’s splintered hailing was laced with a shared, mordant tongue. The edge of a tight-lipped mouth curved. “Don’t worry,” he countered, “I am the dead.” Though his tone reflected slight musing, a twisted truth resided within the caustic phrase. It had been a forbidding seed, planted long before Winterfell’s forsaken history. He had never been a lively boy stained by radiance, but dark and brooding, seeking the campaign of combative bloodshed. He was as much ICE as the Stark’s ancestral sword, the blade hardened and sharp, now gifted by him to Rook.

[wolvenstark]

W Y A T T.

The tourney in the North was the talk of the kingdoms, even the brave men at the Wall were talking it about it. It seemed that ravens had been send back and forth to Winterfell to carry the messages of winners and fallen throughout the tourney, just to give them a nice distraction from their, at times, uneventful days. While the King hosted, the prince had taken this opportunity to travel to the Wall with some of the thieves and other misbehaving scum to see their safe arrival. His true motive, however, was to check up on the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and see how things were going. A raven would have carried that message, but Wyatt believed that showing up every once in a while, would strengthen their alliance, preventing it seeming like the people south of the Wall were dismissing their good service.

But the days of forging relationships further North and escaping the festivities taking place a little more South were over. Wyatt had now been well on his way home with the handful of guards riding beside him. The fresh air was cold enough for it to feel like punches in the face, but Wyatt did not bother. Winterfell was in sight now, even in hearing reach. He could hear the loud roars of laughter and giggling women already, as well as the massive clings of steel swords connecting with each other. Right next to him, was his furry companion, they exchanged looks. They knew they were home now.

They passed the gates of Winterfell and a natural cordial greeting was given to him, but he barely paid attention. Wyatt merely gave them the polite, acknowledging look and made way to the stables near the castle. When he left the stables, he noticed some eyes turning his way and he couldn’t help but connecting. Wyatt approached with a slight smile. “It’s good to see you,-” He paused suddenly, before extending a surprised expression.

‘ Find my brother. ’ -- these were the words which the wolf growled amidst reigning terror. How far had the wake of homicides stretched ? He had wished to lead the convoy which would collect the youngest pup, but he was the King expected to prevail, and he would not forsake their people. He’d deployed his second pair of wolven irises; a molten, predatory pair possessed by his four-legged sentinel. Throughout the venturing bannermen he sought the North’s visionary expanse with warging capabilities. Exterior screeches often slashed through his concentrative, steadfast reality. When their separation met a strenuous fortress, Bane fell back, lulled toward his master who shared a fragmented soul. The direwolf had barely edged the South’s border before the codependent link splintered.

But he’d grown weary of ceaseless waiting. Muscled arms swung a slick saddle atop his destrier’s back. To avoid the pursuit of his loyal Guard, the stable’s had been exchanged for seclusion. Yet, Winterfell’s newfound Maester scrabbled after him, his nervous tongue stumbling over sentences which he no doubt meant to deter the young King. When he’d heard enough senseless squabble, he snapped. “You’re a replacement.” he relayed, the elder stepping rearward at every forward stride of Calder’s stressed severity, “Your position was not earned -- it was relinquished by a dead man.” His unsanctioned company swallowed, spared a startled regard which resulted in his bolting. A bridle was snatched from stone, scraping frost from a glistening surface. The warhorse stamped a powerful hoof, mirrored his rider’s restless aura with an anxious snort.

Leather-clad digits curl about the pommel, his left sole presses against the stirrup, and then -- it’s good to see you. His boot reclaims the earth, and the rise of dual shoulders accompany a heavy sigh. When he pivots to face his beloved brother, stoic features remain devoid of what was an internal, festering concern for his wellbeing. Even before rancorous war, an apathetic resilience had rooted itself deep within frigid marrow. As frays raged, worlds concaved, and Braddock reigned, he had forged himself an impenetrable stronghold. Leathered fingers reach to loosen the cinch of now unnecessary tack. He exhales: “I’m glad you’re alright.”

[wolvenstark]

THE WARRING WOLF AESTHETIC [ 1 / ? ]

‘ he wields DUAL BLADES and a gnashing DIREWOLF ; even his CROWN has bludgeoned foes. ’

[thistletongue]

Do not cry wolf; become it.

(via thistletongue)

[wolvenstark]

S E R E N A.

more death. it coated her tongue and throat like ash and stole the voice from her. it had not been house cassel alone who sustained such loss. nor was it relegated to the tragedy of her mother’s death that haunted her like the whistling winds of winterfell. whatever had taken the lives of so many people was no fault of hers after all, but the machinations of some other sinister force. somehow it was worse. worse that more people had died senselessly and worse that she could not blame herself. with a frustrated huff let loose a barrage of fists upon the training dummy in the dark, deserted courtyard. there were few things that brought her comfort over violent physicality.

the sound of her own fists, rattling the man made of wood and cloth, drowned out the footsteps of the other as they made their way across the courtyard. it was not until she turned to wipe her brow that she laid her eyes upon them, annoyance clear in her stiff smile–a greeting and a reflex. “i did not realize anyone was awake at this hour.” the changes in time had not evened out harmoniously within her yet and she still found herself still sleeping during the day and up at all hours of the night, pacing in her restlessness. “i cannot adjust to the time here near as easily as the weather.” it had not been an easy transition either, by any means. “what is it that troubles you at this late hour?” an intrigued brow punctuated her question, serena did not care for the sensibilities that kept curiosity at bay.

THE GELID ATMOSPHERE WAS SACCHARINE PAIN. It seeped into bone, froze epidermis, splintered marrow, and the wolf found residence among its chilled torment. A lulled slumber had never graced his presence. His cerebrum constantly warred, his newfound crown and its tortured dose of shadow magic a severe distortion of preservation. The health of his Kingdom and its resilient people had always devoured him, had swallowed him even as an unbridled Prince. In return for his dutiful, diligent defense, they eulogized him. Now, however, Calder was uncertain if he could amount to their commending expectations. He’d pledged his life to the conquering North the day he led them to triumphant conquest, and he would spare himself before another of its occupants greeted insidious demise.

He isn’t accustomed to the presence of another entity at such an hour. Bane stalks the grounds alongside him, their lengthy strides in sync, boot and paw embedding tracks within stark snow. The steward -- Serena he recalls by the newly appointed Maester’s tongue -- is hailed by an interrogative direwolf. When Calder approaches, lips lift over fangs, the beast mirroring a shared edge since the Tourney’s downfall. “The wolves have been restless.” Or so, he and Bane produced gnashing fangs, warging throughout twilight, the guardian sentinels of Winterfell’s borders. Queries are often evaded, often surpassed by pointed glares or the inquirer’s self-sewn lips. Yet, her voice is sanctioned, perhaps a promotion by her position within House Stark. “Nothing for you to trouble yourself with.” He eyes her lumbered opponent, the harmless adversary beaten by the previous dawn’s fresh barrage of soldiers. “Care to spar something with flesh and blood? Or are you satisfied with splinters?”

[wolvenstark]

🙋 + hounds

A PLEASANT NUISANCE. The Bolton hounds keep Bane active, and often etch the rarest smile into Calder’s features. No matter how fleeting or bare it may be, the riled hounds are a jovial distraction amidst the trials of a King. The pack reminds him of his more untamed antics as a boy, and he can be found wrestling with them when they’re within his vicinity. It’s a softer, less severe view of Calder that not many get to witness.

[wolvenstark]

B R Y N.

“We play at war and the war follows us.” He shook his head, his dark, deep voice, feigned concern, sorrow, over the death, but his grin gave him away. How much had his family lost to the Nobility’s wars? How many lowborn families had suffered. Now it seemed the war had been bought to the rich. He himself had not competed in the tourney. It had been his intention, he never would have returned north without it. He had thought it would be a good chance to display his skills to the Lords and Ladies near by. When he arrived, however, he was turned away, he had lost much of his limited purse on the road, and had not been able to afford the buy in. 

Many of the patrons of the inn were giving him sour looks, not willing to lose his bed for his comments he spoke up again. “I do not mean to minimise the event. But I cannot help enjoying the irony of the situation. Either the Gods, or some invisible foe, have a truly sick sense of humour. We must laugh with them, or risk becoming the but of their joke.” Tomorrow, he was sure, the God’s would tire of the rich and return their attention to the poor. 

The inn was quiet, it was late, and most were with their own families, they did not wish to wander so far from home when danger felt so imminent. The few eyes present, however, continued to eye him with distaste. It seemed, once again, he had managed to attract all the wrong attention.  “A drink then, for any whom I offended.” He downed the one currently in his hand, before turning to order another. His purse was extremely light in his pocket, he would need to find another job before he left, no use holding onto worthless coin. “I can tell you all about the humour of the Gods.” 

Elias once scolded with beaming canines --  his son a misbehaved hound amidst his venturous wanderings. Where the matriarch meant her laws be absolute, the patriarch chuckled: wolves will be wolves. He reminisces the grandiose throne room; an adolescent Bane’s spindly legs bounding, and toppling his young Prince. His mother, index and thumb pinching the sharp bridge of her porcelain nose. His father, armored with echoing laughter. Even now, as King, he still chooses stealth when absconding from Winterfell. His childhood routes, cunning and secretive, remain littered with spiraling cobwebs. The barracks are swallowed by dimming torchlight, his personal Guard deterred by the remnants of a Dornish red cask. Bane is a hulking shadow, his skulking mass overbearing when cast across exterior masonry. The stablehand is nested upon frosted hay, devoid of consciousness. He passes the stall of his muscled destrier, the warhorse’s cranium swinging forward, his leather-clad digits briefly stroking a velvet muzzle. The charger snorts in protest when a colt is plucked from across the aisle -- to take his own beastly stallion will draw unwanted observation. An instance later, the cloaked King vanishes past an iron portcullis.

Winter town is barren; snow falls like ash from a traumatized atmosphere. Citizens barricade themselves within delicate abodes, but sinister shadows, he knows, can seep through what they desire. He cannot inspirit disheartened people through false oaths. They are not secure, and he will not quell healthy doses of terror. What war awaits the Kingdoms now -- its potential ruination must not be diminished. The colt beneath him brays, strikes outward with a pristine hoof, sidesteps the direwolf whom he’s not accustomed to. When the inn is neared, his horse sheltered, he dismisses the brutish wolf to the Wolfswood, a clipped whine his parting word.

His cowl slips away, hood cascades, features unmasked among the bustling, intoxicated fray. Some are huddled, graveled whispers harsh across chipped tables, while others tease the courtesan occupying their lap. Often, he is able to harness the guise of a simplistic mercenary. He bleeds the part; he’s always been war, and never been royal. The innkeeper retains his identity; has been doing so far before the Northern diadem graced a cranium of dark shards. An essence of strife lingers, its aura deployed by a man who has received sour expressions and cursing tongues. “If you offend a member of the Night’s Watch, I am uncertain you possess enough coin for each of their brothers.” he interjects, gesturing toward a faction adorned in oil-slick fabric. For their attendance by his Uncle -- Lord Commander -- received the identical, shadowed plague. His leather protected spine presses against the bar-top’s ledge, each rivet biting into stained wood. “And if I do not believe in the Gods?” he queries, drawing the brim of a lumbered chalice to his lips.

[randomroleplaymemes-blog]

Send "🙋" + any headcannons you want to know about my muse.

[wolvenstark]

A S T R I D.

The she-wolf paced back and forth in a small clearing in the middle of the forrest nearby Winterfell as she tried to understand exactly what had happened. She was frustrated, and felt defeated, caught off guard. Most of all, she was angry that such an event would turn to what it did. Did she miss something? Or the other soldiers? What happened?

Angrily she chucked knives at a nearby tree, the blades digging deep into the bark nearly every time. She wanted to kick, scream, kill something as the anger raged within her. It was clearly an act of war, something she thought they might be free of for some time. Free to enjoy their new lives in their Kingdom. Her direwolf stood close to her, watching and waiting as if their enemies lurked just nearby. Suddenly, the wolf took a defensive stance and a small guttral sound came from deep within her.

“What is it, Mirabella?” Astrid asked, looking around to see if perhaps an animal was nearby, or something more sinister.

Calder recalled their rambling Maester from his youth. His hair had yet to split and grey as his corpse pronounced, yet had still been a wise official whom despised chasing the Prince and his mangy wolf. Soon enough, Astrid had taken Winterfell’s soil, and her own diabolical beast stirred up the ancient nobleman’s dominion. And then, another pup, yet this one Romulus devoid of Remus. Perhaps the only wolf their deceased Maester hadn’t need tarry with was Braddock.

But they were both dead.

Cruel, or fortunate? Calder suspected the latter. Nothing splendid dwelled among a Septa’s chilling tales of shadow magic, and the lands beyond notorious ‘myth’. Despite the harrowing outcome of his mutilated Coronation, the King knew where Elias’ advocation would forge: unite the family, the wolven troops, the ferocious, steel-fanged bloodline.

Bane stole the frontline, a trotting stride leading his soul-bound counterpart through parting brush. A shroud of greenery was brushed from its graze of his cheek as he infiltrated the clearing. “ Astrid, are you alright ? ”

[wolvenstark]

They told him: You are King. People will want to kill you. He replied: Plenty have wanted to kill me, and I have always killed them first.

Calder Stark during a War Council

[wolvenstark]

R O O K.

        MILKY EYES, slack hands, spiraling snow. The Godswood was his protection — a nest of woven boughs, a thicket of bramble and splintered bark that expelled all intruders. Layers of snow settled in the sworn sword’s open palms, and frost grew within the threads of his clothes. Lashes and knife-shorn locks as black as coal were a stark contrast to the pure white, and even so, his dusty leathers made him seem a part of the gnarled tree that comforted his bones. But these details were lost. Rook did not see the white trees and the garnet leaves from beneath. He couldn’t hear the trickle of a nearby creek, or feel the weight of his human form.

Instead, he felt brittle winds slicing between his feathers, and saw the world from a height that would curl a weaker man’s stomach. Winterfell and its cosseted Godswood were miles away, lost in the gray mist of bleakness, eternal, and Rook soared in the obsidian casing of his raven familiar, Grim. From the heights, he could see with his flickering vision that bandits littered the King’s Road. They skulked, all cloaked figures sweeping along the highway’s bends in sinister phalanxes. They left nought in their wake but polished bone and muddled pools of blood, and they wielded stolen blades and Cheshire grins. Along the edges of the Wolfswood, they waited for prey. Above, the Rook WATCHED.

      A diluted layer of frost adhered to splendid steel armor. The King’s exquisite finery was only adorned during crucial consultations, where the congregation’s summit demanded reminder of who occupied the Northern throne. Calder favored his functioning, empirical leathers, not the mass of silver which was comprised of weighted downfall and smite paramount movement. A bladed diadem sat atop its proud cranium, ends sharp enough to pierce, to force smooth smooth stone jagged. At least his wolf appeared wonted, for all a massive, towering beast could prove to be in sutured normalcy. As he strode among the flurries, his scouring for a most vital absentee met its targeted end.

The silhouette harbored familiarized stillness which only focused wargs possessed. It was inhuman, an unbreathing figure relying on their demon counterpart in order to ignite their senses. Calder owed his Sworn Sword for much of its explanation, its acceptance, and raw training. For it was an unnatural breed of human, and one where royals were not supposed to digress. And in light of recent events, he suspected some brazen folk would murder at the sight of it. Metal-clad digits ran upward, grazing the fabric of his sellsword’s arm. They curled about the bulk of his bicep as he neared, the progressing closeness meant to lull him from such vision. “What do you see?” Something worse than the molten irises of Bane? Worse than their earlier perimeter examination? Worse than The Warring Wolf? The gall of shadow magic? “I apologize for disturbing you,” he continued, breath distorted by a gelid cloud, “but I require you for the dismissal and selection of new guards.” A recent obstruction had proved avaricious allegiance to their prior King.  “The Wall will receive them.” Though his swords were a tempting fate.

[wolvenstark]

@kcrstxrks Time: Midnight. Location: The King’s Chambers.

Wintry winds pricked bare flesh. Exposed forearms rested upon the stoned railing of his chamber’s balcony, and a moonlit torso remained pierced by gelid resilience. An attenuated layer of crystalline coated his surroundings; including interior cerebrum. The Kingdoms were under shadowy siege. Their House’s Maester, expunged. A nightmarish tale which had delved into strident reality left him with a King’s imposing conundrum -- how does one seek security for their people in the midst of slaying shadows? The dark magic billowing across Essos had once been accompanied by a Septa’s evening anecdote. Never had it been viable. Never had it received such potent recognition.

Dual fists clenched, nails assaulting the meat of his palm with half-moon impressions. Then, the creak of his chamber’s gate splintered his thoughtful turmoil. Bane’s once restive cranium lifted from a mass of furs, the beast’s growl a tell that it was not a visitor they often held. He turned from the balcony, a single step allowing him to emerge from darkness and re-enter spacious, candleit barracks. His swords beckoned, their homicidal blades whispering from their sheathes. What Guard had deserted their post? Had a spectered legion snuffed out his stationed men? There was but one he wholly trusted: Rook. He had managed to convince his Sworn Sword to take to Wintertown; allocate rounds of unlimited ale with his mercenary brethren. The great portal widened as it sanctioned another’s entrance, and adroit digits curled around a weaponized hilt.

Yet, it was the edge of a ghostly gown which sought his domain. The purposed grip upon his sword remained. And then, cascading raven locks surrendered to the unmasking glow of flame. “Lyanna.” The revelation elicited incertitude. What could she possess at this hour, which needed immediate attending? Better yet: what motive had the temptress surpass his faction of twilight guards.

[wolvenstark]

T A E R A.

“Are you sure you want to go accusing me - me - of witch craft. Surely I am a witch because I am skilled with all manner of weapons and know you without even having to have seen you. There are several vulnerable points in your guard, the security around your keep is pathetic at best because I could’ve all but waltzed in with a sodding silk gown and there are shadow killers lurking in the darkness so bold as to strike when they did. Yet you dare to call me a treacherous frog eater to look to her swamp. I say to you Ser look to your king and your kingdom because something is coming. Something is coming for us all and his head might be the one they come for next. I welcome your condemnation, you pompous old wind bag of a man. Accuse a red headed girl for having some part in this because she happened to best your rider in the joust” Taera snapped at the pompous ass of a lord that thought to confront the red headed woman that’d won the joust so many days ago sure that’d been  the same kind of sorcery used as it had been to make killers out of thin air. It was rare however that she showed such great emotion and such anger was usually very, very well reserved and it was absolutely deserved at this moment.

Lattice scars had once slashed bone and bit into marrow. What had been left upon that damaging scene was an ordeal of spilled lifesblood, and a gnawing dose of phantom pain which would never truly subside. Today, the wolf’s fluid gait was interrupted by the barest of stiffness. Only those who studied, who knew their warring wolf, would catch such a slip in lithe stride. Bane harbored the splintered splice, too. Sufferance was a mutual term dealt in unison between them. It was a conflict Calder wished to bear on his own, and not unleash upon his beloved comrade. Their connection, however, could only be shattered by a reaper. The fault of his health would have contributed to his vanishment if it weren’t for the raised tone of familiarity. Its durable lilt was pinpointed in the courtyard’s vicinity, and he deployed Bane toward its note of unrest. The direwolf’s devoted ferocity was the first to detonate upon arrival. A gnashing jaw obliterated the space between Taera and her craven adversary. A barrage of monstrous snarling resounded. Fangs were paraded, a thunderous growl escalated. With each stalking step, the impetuous lord stumbled rearward. Where the direwolf materialized, the King emerged. “The Reeds have aided in the North’s preservation for centuries,” he addressed, “and if you cross them, you cross the entirety of their allies.” Bane snapped powerful jaws, and Calder ventured forward, their target scrabbling backward with each languid, pursuing pace of the King in the North and his beast. “Apologize,” he forewarned the petrified man, “or you will lose much more than the joust.”

[wolvenstark]

A M E L I R A.

          her fight with the waves had plagued her nightmares since she was a girl, even now waking up in a cold sweat with visions of drowning and being tossed against the sharp rocks of the river’s bottom. nightmares of her demise. nightmares where she, nor her brother survived. but nightmares were nightmares and reality was much crueler. reality had a sick sense of humor while nightmares splayed possible truths, truths that plagued one’s subconscious. and when she didn’t have nightmares, she had dreams. dreams of a shadowed wolf dragging her from the waves, dreams of the cloak engulfing her. the cloak that smelled of spices and fire.

          unfortunately, this was not a dream, nor reality. unfortunately she hadn’t drowned in the river and unfortunately, she was burdened with the horrid sin of choosing to live rather than die for the north, as her father and mother had. a supposed selfish act to those who didn’t understand. who couldn’t understand. 

          amelira’s ears perked at the sound of the snow crunching behind her. she knew it wasn’t her men, she knew that if the figure’s intentions were killing her she would be dead. she knew a lot of things. she knew that voice that caused a chill up her spine. she flinched at the words he had used, the mention of blood. the north remembers. her eyes cast down on the snow, her jaw tensing ever so slightly, twitching for a moment before relaxing. she needed to choose her words carefully. she was a traitor after all. the north remembers.

          “ oh yes, i’ve come to this empty, secret, hidden hill so i could lure you out here and kill you. so i could add to the carnage these lands have seen. ” her words were lowly spoken before her gaze lifted to look at his face. her black eyes narrowing ever so slightly before her gaze shifted back to the lands before them. “ your highness, ” she added with a small smirk. “ my brother sends his regards and his congratulations. he also sends his condolences that he is not here. he’s fallen ill, but as soon as he recovers he promises to visit and congratulate you himself. if he’s allowed, your highness.” the last bit was added as a quip, the tully woman biting her lip to hold back a smile. 

          the tempest struck in earnest. his stoic demeanor remained resolute as she delivered her verbal deluge. if not for the caustic blood sweeping through iron veins, she may have forfeit her cranium to a pike ( a once favorite pastime of braddock’s ). perhaps a battalion of men would have sought consequence for such designation. instead, a deep chuckle absconded, his breath a cloud of chilled heat. it was an endangered note -- who all had heard such light sound from the warring wolf, but the crossing of dual steel?

          bane’s ears pricked at the lowly utterance of his master, but a predatory, shielding stare failed to detract from the woman. calder could sense bane’s recognition, sense the brute seeking threat amidst crimson locks. when the king set a black-clad palm upon his spine, the direwolf’s diligence visibly settled. “ calder. ” he offered. his observing leer panned a vast, frozen tundra. “ your highness, your grace, my king -- they’re just titles. ” let’s not pretend braddock deserved them. “ any word can be said, but their meanings are earned. ” he’d won the north at eighteen, had held its unabridged respect far before his conquest. the majority of those dwelling among its conquering exterior, however, had much to assimilate.

          “ perhaps i will accompany you and your bannermen to the riverlands, ” the wolven king permitted a fleeting smirk cross his features, “ save him the trip. ” the beta snorted beside his alpha. finally, calder peeled a molten gaze from the frigid landscape. he briefly glimpsed his sanctioned guest, her attire drenched in a flashing vision, its memory residing with only one party. “ you never know, lady amelira, you could need wolves to pull you from the river again. ”

[wolvenstark]

A M E L I R A.

          it was quiet as she stood on the hill, gazing along the lands. the winds whipped around her, causing her cloak and hair to dance. her eyes stared at nothing as her mind raced, her men watching her from afar. the faces of the dead flickered along her vision, though it did not disturb her. she was grateful none of her men had been harmed, mournful of those who had. death was a hungry beast.

          she closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the howls of the wind mixed with those of the direwolves. although it was not home, the north was calming to her. many lives had been lost, but the landscapes stayed serene. her eyes flicked open and her gaze set on winterfell, eyebrows knitting together slightly. “ three kings, “ she murmured to herself gently before her gaze fell back upon the rolling hills.

          she had never been to the north during a true winter. her father would fear she would fall ill and suffer as her brother did… does. she took in a long, steadying breath, her features soft. she wished to go home. the whispers and glares only drained her, having to smile at the people who had given up on her family, or what had been left of it. she stood as still as a statue as she thought, lips pursed.

          a tressed curtain of scorching copper had once been saturated by the twins’ collateral torrent. a battering tide had augured the bludgeoning of slight craniums upon jagged rock. yet here, now, she was far from the adolescent youth he recalled, and he had surpassed the silhouette of a slender boy. if he had not glimpsed the tully child’s frame dashed among the current, would another have liberated her from its imminent death? if he had known then that their kingdoms would know deceitful war, would he have allowed the rag doll be unraveled?

          when he loomed closer, bane’s snout reached for her scent. he’d risked bane that leaden day. a young prince -- a secretive untrained warg -- had melded with his wolven sentinel. though not as massive then as the beast he portrayed now, the direwolf’s mass had managed to maneuver through turbulent water with aid from his young master’s strength. and beneath a sunless atmosphere, they had extracted the riverland’s delicate daughter. delicate now, however, he did not know. to survive the war which had existed between them? calder knew she could not be crystalline.

          “ it has been seven years since the tully’s have set foot in the north, ” his tongue initiated, “ and seven years since either have spilled each other’s blood. ” leather soles sunk snow as his gait came to a halt and his weight settled atop gelid earth. his direwolf rested on pitch-black haunches beside him, then directed a dark muzzle toward the woman whom aged from their time as saviors. dual kings gazed forward, surveying the land to which they’d sworn to protect. “ i plan to keep it that way. ” there was greater peril awaiting consumption of both their kingdoms.

[wolvenstark]

A R A E L A.

Araela still could not believe that one of her knights was dead, turned into ashes and erased frpm this earth by the wind like if he had never existed. The attack came at night and by the looks of it, no one had been expecting it, but what surprised her the most was that not only her House had lost a member, but all the others that attended the tournament. No one knew who had attacked and why, but she did know that she was going to get answers one way or another. Her youngest knight, Olivar, had been the target when her Captain and the rest of the men tried to protect her. He was young, only twenty summers old, but he had been an orphan and probably now he was in a better place with his mother and father, but that didn’t change things. He was dead and he wasn’t coming back. 

The Lady of Goldengrove left the dress behind to get dressed in something more comfortable. She didn’t sleep and refused to eat. “Save your strenght, gentlemen,” she told the other knights that were still in shock about what happened. “I’m going to find out if anyone knows something.” Sir Arving stood up from the chair he was sitting and opened his mouth to speak. “But, my lady, its too dangerou for you to go without protection!” Araela smiled at his concern. “I want you to stay here in the tent. People will call you cowards, I’m sure, but pay no attention to those iditos. I’m not going to let anyone hurt the rest of my knights. They will find themselves with my knife buried in one of their eyes if they dare to touch any of you,” She growled and left the tent to walk straight to the first person she saw outside. “Is the King in the North so careless that his own House get attacked without no one seeing anything?” 

Damage control -- a phrase projecting falsities. To quell his people’s sight of such imminent calamity? Impossible. And unwise. This dose of fear was healthy. They need not underestimate their enemy, and vigilance had been repurposed. The uselessness in which he’d deemed the Coronation, the Tourney, had all been solidified by each strike of a veiled match. Now, he scanned the entirety of Winterfell’s perimeter, his eyes trading hazel irses for dual, white clouds whilst he wargged with his closest companion. When sharp wind whipped Bane’s inky fur, it was his own. When the iron tang of blood flooded Bane’s canine mouth, the taste of each vulgar swallow was his own palette. Such a link was uncommon and rare, often questioned and deemed as particularly peculiar.

It was how The Warring Wolf had come to find himself amidst the freeze, where even bone became icicle. His crown rested upon its metal throne, his cranium devoid of its royal imminence so that he may linger undisturbed. Of course, many in the North could define his stature, the war which secured his dutiful frame. This wandering voice, however, its accusing lilt unaware, received the King’s steely gaze as he ended the conjoined link. The white overlay of wolven eyes dissipated, and he turned to face her, human again ( yet he could still taste the clot of blood upon his tongue ). “Perhaps you have the power to demolish shadow magic?” he countered, a sardonic tone earnest toward a caustic trait. A lesser being would have seen her tongue singed, her figure melted flesh, figure charred and disintegrating. A mass of muscle emerged from the edge of the Godswood’s underbrush, his maw stained by wet crimson. His lips drew back to form a harsh challenge, and predatory irises of molten gold latched onto his master’s oppressor. When Bane approached, Calder’s hand located his direwolf’s obsidian-tinged cranium. The rippling beast relaxed, threat distilled. He knew if Braddock bore the ancient crown, the woman’s esophagus would have been decimated by its past alpha. Starks and wolves were a millennium old tale. Emotions were fed, intertwined in unison whether that energy be negative or positive. “If you deem me careless amidst an unseen force, then what are you, who leads a House which suffered the same?”

[wolvenstark]

R E Y A N N A.

Winterfell was something of a home away from home for her. There had been enough time in her youth spent there that she knew the corridors and passages well enough to mostly navigate them without meeting too many people. It wasn’t just her usual dislike for conversation that had her seeking to avoid others but the fact that she was on something of a mission to locate a single one and had no intentions of letting anyone else stall her. She’d kept her distance since arriving, allowing Calder his own time to fully step into his new role (a role he’d always been destined for) and adapt to it but now she was impatient and had every intention of finding her friend.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, the new King of The North appeared around the corner and her pace quickened by half a step until she was before him. Her features were crafted into something almost unreadable, a seriousness to them apparently out of respect for her new king. Dipping into a reverent curtsy, Reyanna crafts her words into something far more appropriate than any way she’d ever addressed him before. “I was beginning to wonder if I would ever get the pleasure of your company, Your Majesty.” 

Pursed lips soon give way to a smile, unable to keep up the act of seriousness any longer. For all conversations between the two of them might have usually held more gravity when the subject was war, this time they were celebrating and it had been far too long since she’d allowed herself to indulge in a conversation that she actually wanted to be a part of. “How have you been, Cal?” It seemed an obvious question but it was important to her to know his thoughts and how the tourney was going in his opinion.

@wolvenstark

Bane’s shadow enveloped that of his master’s, their lengthy silhouettes cast across Winterfell’s grand corridors. He’d partaken to pacing -- perhaps more steps had accumulated over the past two weeks than all his twenty-five years combined. He bore a cloak of apathetic indifference throughout his life; its regard existing for a now fragmented purpose: Braddock Stark. His collapse surpassed question. Where ravens brought dark words upon another’s quietus, his brought a sheering light, igniting all who dwelled beneath its wingspan. The scarred lacerations which had been lashed against his back was just an inkling of the deceased tyrant’s wrath. And they still scorched him, fresh as the ruthless whip, by the hour he donned the North’s ancient crown.

Coal-tinged ears perked, and a lowered cranium rose to its statuesque position. When Calder halted, his beastly sentinel crossed the floor to steal the space before him. He was a guard unable to be shaken, and the only one the wolven King would not dismiss from his fellowship. Nearing footsteps quickened, and the familiar features which peered around the masonry’s edge were relieving sight. The Warring Wolf need not steel himself for a childhood confidante. Even the brutish posture of his fanged guard met a serene discharge. Yet, Calder grimaced at Reyanna’s salutations. 

“If you are to address me as Your Grace, then you are going to suffer with the addressing of My Lady.” Calder warned, though the metal of his tenor had dwindled down to a more teasing approach. The King observed their vacant hall. Spies, he knew, did not need to presume appearance in order to seek their verbal hauntings. “As good as you can expect.” It was not his place to matter; it was what remained of his dwindling kin, of his fierce people, of alliances needing mended. “If this tourney is to distract the world from what I must deal with, so be it.”