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.















