vargher

[vargher]

Anais Nin, The Diary of Anais Nin Vol. 1

#𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 : study . #im fine !!!

[vargher]

V.E. Schwab, Vicious

#𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 : study . #zoey !! #ty for sending this :')) #king robb vibes u right heheh #knowing me and robbs so well uwu

[vargher]

𝚃𝚈𝚁𝙴𝙻𝙻.  𝙼.

@vargher​ .   king’s landing   ,   morning   ,   present . 

margaery knew this event would be large, lord’s and lady’s from all of the minor and major houses — knew that sansa’s kin would all be here from the north. apart from her father, of course, a tragic drama that still twisted her heart though she would not let it show. she knew not to let it show. still, she could not imagine the position the other was in. all of that to say that, even though she was aware that his kin would be here, there is still surprise to find lord robb stark — or king robb as the north called him — in attendance. 

he is touched with death and war, she can see it. she’d seen it on the knight’s who had come back from robert’s rebellion, almost a walking corpse in some moments — dead behind the eyes, yet seeing the horrors that had come to pass. she had tried to be light for them, as she will try to be light now.

“   is there any hope that i might be able to have a moment?   ”

𝙸𝙽𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴  𝙷𝙸𝚂  𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳,      𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝚆𝙰𝚁  𝙸𝚂  𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚈𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴.      those  who  would  still  call  him  a  boy  king  knew  not  the  man  who  was  the  murderer  of  his  own  childhood,      who  had  made  his  god  stillness.      the  days  where  he  had  laughed  exchanged  for  days  where  he  grew  teeth,      turned  to  a  season  to  sow  and  a  season  to  reap.      grief  will  always  be  a  butchery,      his  sisters  the  bearers  of  the  carving  knife  most  of  all,      their  brother  now  borne  by  survival      —      suffering  loneliness  and  loss  under  the  weight  of  his  own  making.      robb  is  not  the  good - natured  youth  the  lady  once  glimpsed  through  cascading  snow,      sparring  in  the  yard  whilst  she  conversed  with  sansa  in  the  hall.      he  had  not  the  time  to  meet  her  then,      still  a  lord  heir  engaged  in  hereditary  duty  well  before  the  roar  of  the  north  bent  the  knee.      it  saves  him  now  from  spoiling  the  likeness  of  whatever  chevalier  his  sister  had  spun.      margaery  tyrell  will  always  know  him  more  beast  than  man.      ‘  you  are  welcome  to  do  so,      lady  margaery      [...]      but  your  house  is  sworn  to  the  lannisters.      and  when  i  am  done  with  them,      i  will  march  to  the  reach  and  root  your  kin  from  their  keep,      should  they  cause  further  abuse  of  mine.  ’      she  is  right  to  be  wary  of  his  presence.      he  cannot  blame  her  for  it,      bringing  war  past  southron  gates  and  usurping  a  great  deal  of  land.      but  he  will  not  apologize  for  it.      the  warn  of  his  tone  is  built  upon  apprehension  and  caution,      threat  well  founded  after  all  he’s  confronted.      this  is  the  only  peace  he  has  for  lannisters  and  their  allies.      and  if  he  hesitates,      they  have  already  lost.

#brokendove #𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 : threads .

[vargher]

𝚆𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶.  𝙹.

𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧  : after the battle at oxcross, a wounded wolf 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞  :  299 a.c.   𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡  :  robb stark  (  @vargher​ ).

A girl had seen death and the dying before. Life was full of it no matter how limited some ones world was it was an unavoidable occurrence. Eyes had held within their gaze mangled men and sights lords wished to shield delicate daughters from. Jeyne’s eyes had never been barred from those sights even if her parents had wished to keep her from such horrors. The old maester had required assistance on cases like that where the village healer’s knowledge could not help and he could not fully see. So a girl learned and she saw knowing that if she were a man, she would be beside her brother or father on the fighting fields because it was required or she would train to become a maester unlocking the extra bit of knowledge denied to her. Jeyne had experience with the more gruesome, with sickness and injury. Still she’d never beheld the battlefields or the aftermath of them - nor had she been caught behind enemy lines as she found herself now.

Even as fighting was over the danger was still incredibly real. The Lannisters had not won, forces here had been decimated and lions had been sent running. Wolves prowled the field, stained with blood and she if caught and recognized as a lady- the consequences would’ve been great though she doubted Lannisters would pay in to any ransom demands. They had not yet for father or other lords. While good sense told her to collect her travel companions, to try and find the house knight she traveled with and make haste far away Jeyne could not allow herself to flee. There were injured men, men and women who needed her skill regardless of who they fought for. There was a chance to save lives after destruction and engage in far more rewarding work than embroidering seashells or collecting dust in the Crag wait for some sort of life to expand beyond the limits she already knew too well. Hands, delicate and strong were tainted with the blood of soldiers like the ground was stained with it and blue and green hues of hazel eyes glanced across the field to look for bodies she may have known. She looked for the house knight that had travelled with her that had insisted the young lady say behind and wait till soldiers cleared out or there was an opportunity to evade wild northmen.

There was no sign of the older man, part of her worried she would find  him among those no longer alive knowing when they heard the fighting he made her stay with the innkeeper’s wife not seeing her protector return. There was no staying behind, no waiting idly like a scared little mouse cowering in the corner in the backroom of an inn. Jeyne was too honorable for that, too skilled in the healing arts and treatment of wounds to do nothing. Even if the knight or the septa she travelled with came back to the inn the stubbornness and determination of Jeyne saw her here, dressed like no fine or great lady but as she would be if allowed to do what she secretly trained for.  

A gentle hand stained as crimson as some of the ground was worked tirelessly wrapping bandages in the field around wounds waving over whomever it was to collect the man regardless of his side to seek closer medical attention “He needs medicine I don’t have with me - milk of the poppy to ease his pain. The wound will heal - he can keep his limbs if you keep it clean from infection. I don’t know his name or who he fought for just help save him for the mother that worries over him” Jeyne called out as two large men came to collect the boy and the young woman that had been there with her went along with the solider that was barely more than just a boy. Wiping blood from her hands, pushing back stray strands of her hair back she called out to the other that went with him. No matter if that soldier had been the 10th or 20th young man the Westerling woman had given her all to help. While this was not for the faint of heart, Jeyne would stay to look for her knight or other companions. “Until the field is cleared - I can’t leave them without some sort of help - let these hands be good for some thing if not keeping some of them alive longer. Go on ahead”. Turning around though when the young lady that wore the aftermath of the battle on her apron and mud on her dress was face to face with a great beast. A direwolf

𝙰  𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝙾𝙵  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙴𝙰𝚁,      𝙰   𝚆𝙴𝚃  𝚆𝙸𝙽𝙴  𝚁𝙴𝙳  𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙼𝚃𝙷  𝙼𝙰𝚃𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝙲𝚄𝚁𝙻𝚂  𝚃𝙾  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳.      he  cannot  recall  the  moment  the  shield  met  his  temple,      bursting  the  vessels  about  the  iris  and  rupturing  the  eardrum  in  an  earsplitting  echo.      the  blood  had  rushed  hot  and  thick  down  his  neck,      blinded  one  eye  from  the  skin  split  above  the  brow,      sword  hand  made  slick  by  a  steady  stream  of  ichor,      courtesy  of  a  well - aimed  bolt  to  the  shoulder.      there  was  a  point  he  parried  the  fall  of  an  axe  head,      his  blade  flat  against  his  palms,      pressing  upward  whilst  his  back  sunk  into  vermillion  mud,      then  grey  wind’s  jaws  rent  wide  to  seize  the  foe  by  the  throat.      but  it  has  all  become  a  blur.      the  battle  won,      adrenaline  begins  to  wane,      surrendering  in  its  wake  a  war - battered  body      —      a  numb,      paralyzed  cavern,      a  pit  of  hell  to  mimic  nothingness,      solid  but  hollow.      in  the  end  of  it,      men  are  stagnant  between  sleep  and  death.      robb  grasps  the  forearms  of  ailing  brothers,      heaving  their  weights  from  the  mutilated  dirt  despite  the  fatigue  closing  in.      desperate  gasps  shadow  the  loss  of  limbs,      soldiers  he’s  ne’er  witnessed  shed  sorrow  drug  to  the  depths  of  despair.      he  has  led  them  here.      and  how  different  is  he  from  the  lion,      slaughtering  fathers  and  their  sons,      making  orphans  of  daughters  and  widows  of  wives  so  that  he  may  reclaim  his  own  ?      the  lord  greyjoy’s  words  resound  now,      recollected  where  the  young  wolf  tasted  his  first  victory.      ‘  the  bards  will  sing  songs  of  their  sacrifice.  ’      [...]      ‘  aye,      but  the  dead  won’t  hear  them.  ’      as  he  surveys  the  valley  now,      the  phantom  crown  at  its  most  leaden,      he  can  only  regard  the  king  in  the  north  as  a  boy  who  sends  their  men  to  die.      gods,      he  wanted  jon.      he  wanted  his  lord  father  in  command.      he  wanted  an  epilogue  to  a  tale  that  had  only  just  begun.      the  deep  bone  ache  of  raw  wounds  reaps  a  give  in  robb’s  stride,      the  wolf  at  his  side  shifting  close.      the  bellows  of  grave  mortals,      of  dying  destriers,      dulls  in  clamour  as  souls  are  swept  up  by  the  wind.      he  has  strayed  far  from  the  north’s  healing  tents  when  the  drain  of  blood  finally  flushes  his  physique.      a  woman  in  haste  turns,      met  by  his  grey  wind  first.      she  is  the  tether  to  the  living  in  a  corpse - strewn  land.      ‘  my  lady      [...]      under  which  banner  do  you  heal  from  ?  ’      the  direwolf’s  cranium  dips  low,      a  heavy  growl  forming  in  the  throat.      robb’s  fingers  twist  in  the  soot - hued  fur  above  the  vertebrae,      the  beast  all  which  stands  betwixt  his  master  and  the  dead - littered  ground.

#wxsterling #𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 : threads . #flashback . #compromising my own self truly !!

[vargher]

— Tatève Simonyan

#𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 : study . #im fine asdfg

[vargher]

There’s an animal inside and it won’t let me die.

page from Rhythm of the War Drums (via morozv)

#𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 : study .

[vargher]

#𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 : aesthetics .

[vargher]

Norse Viking Music - Úlfhéðnar

#𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 : hymns . #robb's war anthem #knife emoji

[vargher]

It is incredibly traumatic for a warg if the animal whose mind they have entered dies while they are controlling it, but the warg will survive this. If a warg's own body is killed while entering the mind of an animal, however, the warg's human consciousness can live on inside of the animal.

#𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 : study . #not the asoiaf wiki supporting my own headcanons alksldg

[vargher]

𝙱𝙰𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙾𝙽.  𝚂.

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.  ’

#steggr #𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 : threads .

[vargher]

#𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 : dossier .

[vargher]

𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝙺.  𝙴.

location: winterfell time: before leaving for king’s landing with: @vargher​ from: dear ole dad

he is too young. gods, he is too young to be ruling in my stead. and yet, ned had only been a few years older when he’d gone to war at robert’s behest. he was angry. angry that lyanna had gone. angry that his father and brother were gone. angry. angry and young. he hoped robb would never be that.

gods only knew the consequences of that.

“you’re too old for me to tell you to listen to your mother, but… well, you will need to listen to your mother. you must also be strong, robb.” ned placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. then, his cheek. “i should tell you not to write to me. to be strong and sure of your decisions as you make them. but i am selfish. write to me all you wish. your words will be a comfort to me when i am south.”

𝚆𝙾𝙻𝚅𝙴𝚂  𝙳𝙾𝙽'𝚃  𝙱𝙴𝙻𝙾𝙽𝙶  𝚂𝙾𝚄𝚃𝙷  𝙾𝙵  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙽𝙴𝙲𝙺.      where  the  pack  is  displaced,      the  snow  turned  to  slush,      heavy  furs  stripped  by  southern  heat  whilst  paws  sink  into  leaden  mud.      grey  wind  has  grown  uneasy,      lips  curled  back  to  bare  whet  teeth,      stalking  the  shadow  of  robb’s  assertive  stride.      SOMETHING  IS  NOT  RIGHT.      a  palm  placed  upon  his  shoulder,      the  lord  heir  sets  his  jaw,      the  piercing  blue  of  both  starks  eyes  a  great  yawning  mirror,      reflecting  an  opposing  set  of  duties  where  father  and  son  must  soon  part.      ‘  you  must  also  be  strong,      robb.  ’      his  breath  is  carried  by  the  cold,      a  cloud  of  mist  to  mark  the  finality  of  farewells.      ‘  i  will.  ’      I  MUST  BE      —      for  bran  and  rickon,      for  mother,      for  arya  and  sansa  and  jon,      far  they  may  be.      AS  IS  MY  DUTY.      ‘  i  will  hold  the  seat  of  winterfell  until  your  return.  ’     he  would  brave  the  harrowing  storm,      fight  his  own  bleeding  battles,      speak  his  words  with  restive  truth  as  one  wed  to  honour.      ‘  father      [...]      promise  me  you’ll  be  careful.      there  must  always  be  a  stark  in  winterfell,      aye,      but  you  are  the  warden  of  the  north.      this  is  where  you  belong.  ’

#icefiire #𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 : threads . #flashback . #these flashback threads akflsg #really doing me in #!! #robb is so difFERENt #SCREAM #thank god my next reply is angry daddy robb

[vargher]

it eats me alive.

#𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 : study .

[vargher]

𝚂𝙽𝙾𝚆.  𝙹.

@vargher .    winterfell ,   early evening  ,   flashback  .    

Tethered by blood and sinew,     or something more?     Perhaps he had always been a part of Robb,    just as Robb is a part of him.      Except Jon’s soul is splintered,    torn between the ground and the mountains.       He feels like no matter how large the shard of his heart he’d give to his brother,    it would never be enough to keep him warm.      Robb deserved kingdoms,      forests that weep wet snow at his approach,      mines that cry out in gold droplets at his arrival.       A heir,    yes,     but someone of substance     —    a fortress of his own right,     strong and undaunting amid the howling winds.        They grew crooked,    in some ways.      Trying to bask in that lukewarm sunlight before it disappeared behind the horizon line.       He remembered Robb would play alongside him in the puddles as young boys,     filled to the brim with hot stew and rye.       Robb hadn’t looked at him as if he were some mangy stray,     a mutt that had no mother    —-    and barely had a whole father.        Surely,    this hasn’t changed?       Surely,     Robb still thinks of him as a brother,      nothing less.      Although,    there had been moments when he caught his own reflection rippling in the barrel’s surface before dunking underneath the water.     His hollow eyes,     sullen features   —   a mixture of some dead thing come back to haunt the Stark children.     To remind them that he still trails behind their footprints,    leaving creature-like ones in the snow after him.     Yes,    he thinks to himself:      Robb would be more than okay without him.       Robb would take to battle like a dog to a bone.        Still,     the worry erodes his features     —     and his greeting of Grey Wind is paused as his smile forms into a frown.      His gloved hand dropped,    the breath clouds in front of him as the daylight wanes around them.       ‘Take care of him,     would y'boy?’     Mumbling to the direwolf,      the golden eyes staring back at him,     non-blinking,     as if digesting the request of the bastard as delicately as a royal’s.         Ghost had been avoiding them both,      predictable in his long bouts of disappearances    —    except this time he suspected it had more to do with him missing Robb as well.      He had never been good at saying goodbye,    although he knew Ghost would return to nudge his snout against Robb’s hand during a dark winter’s night.     He turns to greet the footsteps of the Stark,      sensing it was Robb before he fully faces him.      He had a presence to him unlike the other siblings.      An easy confidence built on hereditary duty.        ‘What’re y’feeding him,    Robb?     He’s growing quicker than the rest of them.’

𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷  𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈  𝙼𝙰𝚈  𝙱𝙴  𝚂𝙴𝙿𝙰𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳  𝙱𝚈  𝙳𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴,      𝙱𝚈  𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴,      𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈  𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻  𝙼𝙴𝙴𝚃  𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽  𝙰𝙽𝙳  𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽.      this  is  what  robb  vows,      brows  furrowed  and  rage  gripped  in  the  hands,      as  his  lord  father  imparts  the  news.      jon  will  take  the  black,      swear  his  oaths  to  the  night’s  watch  and  its  shrouded  brothers.      its  brothers.      HE  IS  MY  BROTHER.      the  misery  is  strikingly  plain      —      in  the  stubborn  set  of  his  jaw,      the  slate  of  his  grey  eyes,      the  sudden  ire  refining  otherwise  handsome  features.      he  cannot  permit  such  unbridled  fervor  depart  the  chamber.      like  many  times  past  and  many  times  to  come,      the  heir  of  winterfell  must  lift  his  heavy - laden  head  and  steel  his  thoughts,      tame  the  wolf  blood  before  it  absconds  in  a  snarl.      IS  IT  MOTHER  ?      a  man  not  grown  would  demand  such  response,      and  he  is  neither  naïve  nor  a  boy  without  comprehension  of  his  station.      ‘  robb,      are  you  listening  ?  ’      rage  is  stuck  in  the  throat,      bitten  through  the  bottom  lip,      suppressed.      it  makes  no  sound,      a  promise  kept.      ‘  aye,      i  understand.  ’      the  lord  robb  stark  sheds  no  tears,      nerves  dry  ice  as  he  descends  the  steps  of  his  tower’s  stone  keep.      JON  WILL  BE  IN  THE  YARD,      grey  wind  resolute,      molten  stare  unblinking,      unwavering  like  his  master’s.

he  is  faced  with  his  brother’s  back  when  they  are  usually  aligned  at  the  shoulder,      spines  linear,      leather  spaulders  brushing,      swapping  strident  grins  as  they  trip  the  other  at  the  ankle  in  the  training  yard.      robb  allows  himself  a  final  knit  of  the  brow  before  the  tension  is  thawed  from  his  character,      and  jon  pivots  on  his  heel  to  meet  him.      ❛  a  southron  lord  or  two.      gods  know  they  have  plenty  of  fat  to  spare.      perhaps  his  grace  joffrey  baratheon,      if  he  takes  a  liking  to  sansa.  ❜      grey  wind  finds  his  place  beside  robb’s  hip,      the  raise  of  his  cranium  near  the  waist,      each  passing  moon  serving  to  nourish  the  beast’s  maturing  frame.      a  soft  gale  stirs  his  auburn  curls,      prompts  the  eldest  stark  to  address  the  revelation  at  hand.      WE  WILL  MEET  AGAIN  AND  AGAIN.      robb  flashes  white  canines,      swallows  the  sorrow  that  claws  up  his  throat.      ❛  the  wall  has  stood  for  hundreds  of  years.      it  can  stand  for  a  hundred  more.      especially  with  you  there  to  guard  it,      sword  in  hand  and  ghost  at  your  side      [...]      that  is,      if  you  don’t  fall  off  the  top.  ❜

#bastarhd #𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 : threads . #flashback .

[vargher]

#𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 : hymns . #this will always be my robb theme song #and i will always suffer for it #adlkfsklgsjg #:'))

[vargher]

#𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 : dossier . #go off daDdy

[vargher]

Fight till the last gasp.

William Shakespeare, Henry VI (via bunlly)

#𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 : study .