burnnouts
Burn Bright Til' We Burn
I fretted fire but that was long agoindependent roleplay blog for canon and original characters. mun and muses are over the age of 25 and will only write with muses 21 or older.
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Talisa had not cried yet. She could not understand it, why her cheeks were still dry. But the events of the night had not truly settled into her heart yet, had not made themselves real. She had seen it happen, of course. She had watched a man lunge at her, his blade slipping off her hip, breaking her dress and the skin but--thank the gods--not piercing her stomach. A close call. She had cried out for her husband, Robb's name heavy on her lips, and she had seen him fall, an arrow in his leg first, then his chest. She remembered screaming then, remembered clawing at a guard's arms as he'd held her back, as he'd dragged her from the room. The guard--a brave man, whose name she had never known, whose face she had hardly even seen--had forced her out of the hall, locked her from the banquet, but Talisa could hear the screams on the other side of it, could hear men dying.
And then they were running. She and his mother, Catelyn Stark, forced away from the bloodshed by that brave man. Had she not felt the baby kicking in her stomach, she was not sure she could have done it. She might, instead, have fallen to her knees and sobbed, crying out for her husband, wishing to die by his side. The guard guiding them was shot down, and then it was just them, two women alone, sprinting through the woods, not daring to look back.
She did not know how long it had been since they'd started running, only that she never seemed to tire. Though her whole body ached. Though blood had stained her dress. Though her head was pounding. She held tight to her belly and only now, hidden in the woods, far from the Twins, did she dare to stop and look at the woman before her. Robb's mother. He is gone. Talisa shook her head. It couldn't be true. She would wake up soon. She had had this nightmare before: the one where Robb died, where this war did not end in his favor.
"We have to go back," she said suddenly. "We have to go back. To find him. We can help him. He's injured. I can help him." She was a nurse. This was what she did; she stitched broken men back together and made sure they'd live to see another day.
The Gods – the old and the new – must have cursed her, punishing her for her sins. There was no other explanation for why she was still alive when she had lost almost all of her family. Her husband, her sons, possibly her daughters as well – why was she still alive? If only she could trade her life for her childrens’ lives, she would do it in a heartbeat. Catelyn was lost in her thoughts and almost didn’t hear her son’s wife when she spoke out loud.
“This is all like some sort of terrible dream. But it’s real, isn’t it?” Talisa ( @burnnouts ) asked.
She wanted to laugh. Everything had felt like a terrible dream ever since the King had come to Winterfell. If only he had never come to take Ned away, all of them could still be safe at home. How many nights had she dreamed of this? She was tired, she was broken, but still it seemed like she had no time to let herself fall. “It is more than real,” she confirmed quietly, not looking at the younger woman. Catelyn wasn’t sure what she’d do if she looked at her just yet. A part of her wanted to scream at her, blaming her for this loss. If she had never crossed Robb’s path, no oath would have been broken. He could still be alive. And yet she knew her son’s feelings to be true and knew this woman had made him happy. How could she hate her for that? “I would have chosen to wake up a long time ago had this merely been a terrible dream. He is gone. They all are.” The last part came out as merely a whisper, meant to be heard by no one but herself.
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Robb paused in the doorway. His guard stood feet away, their hands upon their belts, well armored and prepared for the worst. After the mess with the Freys, that botched assassination at his Uncle Edmure's wedding, they were all a bit weary. Robb had believed once in honor and decency--he still believed that that was the right path to follow, and he still wanted to be a good king. But he had also learned that no amount of hospitality guaranteed a safe discussion. Against all odds, against all he had been taught and all he had seen to the contrary, he trusted Myrcella. Not all children were like their parents. It was a lesson he had learned the hard way.
Yet, after all this time, he still hoped he was the exception. In every choice he made, he wondered what his father would have done in his stead. His father had believed in mercy, in honor. Both had nearly gotten Robb killed. His father had believed in mercy and honor, but the world did not. The realization had made Robb want to shut himself away in the North and never set foot on the King's Road again. And yet that was not a failsafe either, for it had been Northern lords that sneered at him, calling him the King of Mercy with venom on their tongues. And it had been Northern Lords that turned on him when his sense of honor had not satiated their need for revenge.
"I hope the same for you," he said, and he found that he meant it. All the anger he'd built up for the Lannisters, all the trouble their family had caused, he realized now that it had nothing at all to do with Myrcella. At her final words, he let himself smile in a way he had not allowed for many years, a laugh like a wolf's bark escaping his throat. He remembered walking with her into the hall, arm in arm, and the way she'd beamed at him. He had enjoyed the attention then. He had been just a boy--stupid and optimistic and thrilled by the excess of the night, the pageantry and the courtly customs. He hadn't even begun to really even think about girls then; that would come later, at all the wrong times. He knew what men said about him now: the King who won every battle but nearly lost the war in the bedchamber.
"I will see you in the morning," he said simply. "Sleep well, Your Grace." Were such things possible, when her mother would die by his hand when the sun rose? Perhaps. Perhaps not. But he did, truly, want the same for her as she did for him: peace.
"It should be me who is sorry. It was my family who brought so much damage to yours." Point blank. It is kind of him to feel sorry, blood is blood and while her mother was never the best mother, she was still that, the woman who birthed her and took care of her for the first years of her life. But time and distance had taken a toll on her and Myrcella thinks she will be able to do what she must without shedding a tear. "I hope you find your peace and home after all of this. You deserve it, Robb." And she leaves the titles aside for a moment.
She will allow it so, a boy and a girl, speaking, without the weight of his crown and the future cloak she will have to wear. She smiles briefly at that, standing up as well and fixing up the plies of her dress. Too dornish for the weather they were meeting but regardless, she endures. "You know, in Dorne, the Sand Snakes tried to teach me how to use a sword and many weapons, but I was always a bad student. The best they could do is a dagger." Not the best protection but it had helped save her life before. Ser Arys Oakhart lost his life protecting hers and she intends to make the best of it.
"But despite what you say, I do wish we see each other again after all of this. Peaceful times, hopefully. See the time pass by." Peace would be nice, and she would not mind seeing the North again, perhaps when Winter passes. But that is no longer part of her responsibilities. "To think I had such a crush on you when we were in Winterfell. You can boast to your lords about that. The new Queen blushed like a maid dancing with their now king. It would make for a nice bard song." A little tale of courtly love that never came to be. She would love to have one and perhaps she would make it so. "May your Gods be kind to your family this time."
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It was frightening how quickly things could change. When he had begun this war, he had planned to go South only to rescue his father, to return Eddard Stark to his rightful seat as Lord of Winterfell. But his father had been dead for years now, Robb's armies stuck just beyond the Riverlands. He had lost men and gained them, made oaths and broken them. He had been named Lord, and then King, and all the while, news came to him by the ravens alone. His sister had once been promised to Joffrey by their father--a betrothal Robb had always despised--and then he learned she was wed to the Imp. Margaery Tyrell had been married to Renly Baratheon when his mother had gone to negotiate with the King-to-be. Even that seemed ages ago now. Renly was dead. Joffrey was dead. Tommen now, too, was dead, with Cersei alone sitting upon the Iron Throne.
That would not do. He would see Cersei Lannister removed from power if it was the last thing he did. And Margaery Tyrell was--and had always been--the key to that success. The Tyrells moved wherever the winds changed, flitting from side to side in this war with no real loyalty but their own necks. But they had been wronged by Cersei now, and her family was honor bound to defend her and her brother, to seek revenge on those responsible. That made them allies, if nothing else. His mother had long recommended he come here; finally, Robb was listening.
"I thank you for your information," he said curtly. He had hoped to reunite with at least one of his sisters by now, but it seemed Sansa had gone the same way as Arya: on the run, where his letters and his armies could not reach her. If all went well, both his sisters would stay safe until Robb was able to remove Cersei from the Iron Throne, then return North to weed out the traitorous Boltons from Winterfell.
"While I am sure you are safe here in your home, I can offer you Northern guards as well, what we can spare. And news of your survival will not leave this room." Robb would make sure of it. Even now, he had his best archers shooting down any ravens in the area. The news both of his arrival in High Garden of his incoming siege on King's Landing, and of the prior Queen's survival would be best kept a secret for now, when victory was so close at hand. With the addition of the Tyrell's forces, he would finally have enough men to take the castle. "I am very sorry for your losses," he offered. "But they will not go unanswered. With your brother's aid, we shall have Cersei's head in a fortnight."
(✿ *✿°)/～♡ heart for a starter from margaery ft. @burnnouts
"I knew Sansa when she was at the Keep. I believe I considered her a friend. As much as one can have friends in that place." The Thrice wed woman speaks with ease. She remembers how relieved the king's sister had been when the news she no longer was betrothed to Joffrey reach her. Margaery would've carried that burden, but apparently, the Gods had other plans for her. After this third wedding, and failed marriage, she is at a loss. "Unfortunately, she escaped when Tyrion was captured.
No news of her but I presume she might be with Littlefinger. Not that is pure safety but better him than others. And she is smart." She had grown to become smarter through her time there. Hopefully, Sansa is alive and well somewhere to reunite with her brother. She too reunited with a brother though the other, her favorite, her companion, had been loss to the wildfire.
"Most think of me dead still, Your Grace. I would rather have it that way. It's best Cersei thinks her plan worked until it's time. My brother is lord now, and he will join the North against the Lannisters, when the time is right." Her brother Garlan had joined her in this visit, a promise she would bring the best the Reach has to offer to the King in the North.
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A meme for muses who don't take breaks.
Change pronouns and wording to your heart's content to best suit your muse.
"You've been staring at that screen for hours."
"I'm surprised that your butt ever comes off of that chair anymore."
"Coffee break? I think you need one."
"Some fresh air will get your ideas flowing again, trust me."
"You know the company's suckering you if you don't take your breaks, right?"
"Watching you makes me anxious that I'm not working hard enough."
"You need to take time out for yourself, or you're going to burn out."
"This isn't healthy."
"Finish up and let's go, already."
"It looks great, sure, but when did you last sleep?"
"My in-tray is a LOT heavier than my eye bags, believe me."
"I can't afford to stop here."
"Let's put a pin in this and come back to it tomorrow."
"Think we can crunch this out if we stay all night?"
"Stressing over deadlines all the time is going to bring your own 'dead-line' way, way closer."
"There's gotta be more to life than this."
"You need to learn how to switch off."
"I wish you cared as much about me as you do about your work."
"People criticising just don't recognise how dedicated you are."
"Who do you think is going to finish the project if you make yourself sick?"
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I was born a Tully and wed to a Stark. I do not frighten easily.
#LCDYWCLF. an independent portrayal of CATELYN STARK from a song of ice and fire. canon divergent with multiple verses as told by gin.
( sideblog to @alyafae )
On my honor as a Tully, on my honor as a Stark.
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They were alone, Robb noted. He let the tension fall from his shoulders, let his body lean into hers--just a boy that needed his mother, a boy who had taken on far more than he could ever have imagined. A year into this war, Robb was nineteen now, older than many who marched away to battle, but he was the youngest, still, of his bannermen. When he spoke to Sir Umber or Lord Karstark, he knew what they saw: a green boy out of his depths, a boy who had never seen war before, leading soldiers two, three times his own age--men with wives and children and castles of their own. As much as this war had forced his hand, made him prove himself to the Lannisters, to make a name for himself on the battlefield that would ring out to King's Landing, he had also had to prove himself to his own men, prove time and time again that he could win this war with mercy, that not all battle strategy depended on the highest death count.
Those were lessons his father had taught him, but his father would never teach him any lesson ever again. What more had Ned Stark had to say that he had never gotten the chance to? What lessons had he saved for when Robb was older, when he was wiser? Had he ever imagined his son would be here, in this position, that all this time, he was raising a boy to be king? Tears burned at Robb's eyes, but he fought them back. Kings did not cry. Kings did not cling to their mothers, desperate to go home, wishing again to be a little boy, playing with a wooden stick in the yard.
He managed a small smile instead. "Grey Wind has garnered far more fearsome a reputation in this war than I." The stories that were spreading across Westeros said that Robb could turn into a wolf at night, that he tore out the throats of his enemies, that he hunted on all fours, that he was more beast than boy. He had not bothered to correct this narrative; it was good for their cause, for his name to spread to the south as the monster they should warn their children about. It was lucky they did not know the truth, that the Young Wolf was so wracked with worry, he didn't sleep, he hardly ate. That he was still so desperate for reassurance from his mother.
"Being Lord of Winterfell was a heavy burden I was prepared to face. But King--" He sighed and pulled away from her, pacing across the small clearing. He was acting like a scared child, and the time for those fears had paced. His father had told him once that being a lord was like being a father, that he woke up with fear in the morning and went to bed with fear in the night. Robb's jaw set, his back straightening. It did not matter that he was afraid. All that mattered was that he did what was right. He nodded curtly. "Soon," he promised her. "The idea of a free North has inspired everyone. This will help them fight harder, smarter. We will reach King's Landing soon enough and get the girls. And then we will all go home."
Robb took a seat on a fallen log and looked up at his mother, her face lit up only by the moonlight and the slight flicker of the camp's fires. "You must want to go home now," he noted quietly. He should send her back, let her return to Winterfell with Bran and Rickon. But he selfishly wanted her at his side. "Are you going to leave?" It had not occurred to him yet that he could order her to stay if he so wished. Ordering her to do anything still felt so foreign.
Her husband was dead, her son had become a king. Catelyn could have never imagined any of this when she had first married Eddard Stark. Every fiber of her being was proud of the man her son had become but her heart ached beyond help that she could not share it with her husband. If only he had never gone South … Even now, Catelyn refused to let herself think about it for too long, knowing she would drown in the sorrow. It was a luxury she could not afford just yet. As soon as they all would be back in Winterfell she would allow herself to grieve, but now Robb needed her more.
She understood his self-doubt. Years ago, she had felt the very same thing, if only for different reasons. But there was no need for it. She moved to face her son, reaching up to cup his face in her gloved hands. “No one would be more suited for this than you.” Her beloved husband, maybe, but he was not here and they had raised Robb well. “You were not meant to be a king but you are a child of the North; the young wolf.” She smiled at that, her thumb brushing over his cheek before she dropped her hands to rest on his arms. “I believe in you.”
Her son, a king.
She feared for him, how could she not? But there was no one she would trust more to lead the northmen. And once they had the girls they could all go home. “And you are not alone, my sweet boy. I will be by your side.” She was never raised to be queen, but she, too, knew how to lead. She knew how to be a mother. “And of course you have your council.”The lady dropped her hands completely then, lifting her chin a little as she looked at her son once more. He might look like her, but all she could see now was Ned. Her husband had unexpectedly become Lord of Winterfell and had learned to fill the role. The same would happen for Robb. If only you could see him now, she thought, our pup would make you most proud. “Trust your mother, I would not lie to you. We will get the girl back and then we will go home.”
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Robb looked to the woman beside him, a small smile curling the corners of his mouth. He had known she was a Lady from the moment he'd laid eyes on her--it had been written clear as day in the tone of her voice, the posture of her stance. But she had also been caked in blood and mud, and since this war had begun, he'd rarely seen her as clean and put together as she was now, even with thorns and twigs clinging to her skirts. "We're almost there, my lady," he assured her, stopping to aid her in pulling her skirt from a prickly bush. As he did, his hand brushed hers, and he quickly let go.
Asking her to accompany him to the Crag had been impulsive, perhaps. His mother had certainly looked weary as they had geared up, watching he and the nurse venture into the woods with nothing but a few guards and their horses trailing behind them. "It's just there." He pointed to the building rising over the hill. "Is there not underbrush in Volantis?" he asked, a teasing edge to his tone and his eyes still sparkling with amusement. "It's not too late to turn back. I would be happy to send one of the squires to accompany you." That he did not want her to leave, that he was quite enjoying this time alone with her--or as alone as a king could be with all the guards and squires about--was quite beside the point.
@burnnouts !! talisa for robb !!
While she's glad for the lack of bloodshed as they make their way through this wooded stretch of Westeros, the journey still isn't without it's drawbacks. She longs for open air and paths that can accommodate more than a pair of bodies. "How much more time do you think will be spent battling against the underbrush?" She tugs at her skirt, freeing it from yet another wayward bush. "It's a wonder I'm not yet in tatters."
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"I would disagree." Robb inclined his head in a display of continued politeness, but the smile tugging at his lips was far from formal. "Your story is the most interesting I have heard tonight." He was the heir to Winterfell, and so he knew well what was expected of him at formal events such as this; he had been trained in all the proper customs, to use the correct names and titles. But he was also a Northener, born and bread, and fancy balls and luxurious evenings would never truly be comfortable for him, no matter how much his sister Sansa, even now talking to many of the high lords, seemed to adore it. The clothes were thin, even the nights were warm, and the air smelled far too sweet. He could dance, of course, but what thrill could that possibly offer in comparison to seeing a dragon up close?
He glanced toward the door, his eyes following hers, and noticed, as she seemed to, the guards busy in conversation. It was clear that no one was expecting danger tonight. "Let us go," he agreed. "I would very much like to see Moondancer up close." As they began to walk, he answered her question: "Aye. I, like you, found my wolf when he was just a pup. We have been together ever since. But he is in the kennels tonight." Robb did not enjoy going anywhere--even a dinner--without his wolf, but his mother had put her foot down, ordering that, under no circumstances, would her children bring their direwolves to banquet. "Why do you call your dragon Moondancer?"
Baela seems to relax as she realizes that Robb does not want to dance. She had rejected far too many young men tonight and at this point she was just over it. Now though now this was something she could do. Riding with Moondancer was her favorite thing to do and she could talk about her sweet dragon for day. "I fear the story is not all that interesting. A dragon egg was gifted to my sister and I before we were born. My egg hatched and grew alongside me then I named her Moondancer. She is still rather small as we have been growing together but she grows larger every day. She's green and very beautiful if I do say so myself."
She has a glance to the nearby guards who are far more interested in conversation with some pretty lady. Baela stands, smiling at Robb. "I think it would be easier to show you. Have you been to the dragon pit yet? I could take you." She offers before she begins to walk out. She had decided she would go either way it was just if he followed her or not. "I hear you have a direwolf yourself. Did you bring it with you to Kings Landing?"
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Robb's hand faltered on the med-bag. His fingers gripped tightly to the edges of the leather as he felt the voice--a new voice--in his head. It would not be right to say that he heard Grey Wind's voice; it was not something he heard, precisely, just something he understood. There was a connection between them, an unspoken something. He had heard stories of greater magic, of course, but those had always been old wives tales his Nan had told to the kids as bedtime stories. Stories that said the sky was blue because they lived in the eye of a blue eyed giant, stories that told of terrifying white walkers--frozen, skeleton like creatures--that walked beyond the wall, stories of all types of beasts, and of the ladies of red, the dark priestesses. Clearly, his men feared curses. Robb's own mother had believed deeply in what she called 'signs.' When a stag had been found dead in the god's wood, feet from a direwolf, she had believed it a sign that their two houses--the stags of the Baratheons and the direwolves of the Starks--were in grave danger.
But Robb's father had never believed such things; he was a practical man, stern, and logical, and cool-headed. Robb was his parents' son; red-haired and prone to laughter, like his mother; discerning as his father and slow to judgement. But there was no denying what was happening now. The wolf was speaking to him--a voice as clear and poised as any human's, and just as real.
He looked with some surprise at the fox. It was clear in his gaze that he did not fear her, but he was curious, caught off guard. He thought of all the stories he'd ever heard, of things even the maesters and the scholars did not understand, like the ways of the children of the forest, and the age of the dragons.
"Do the other animals come to your aid out of loyalty or obligation?" He was not sure which answer he wanted--nor why it was his first question--perhaps because he still did not know the answer for himself: why did the bannermen, all these soldiers and lords within his camp, follow him? They fought for him and for his father and for their house, but why, truly, had they come when he called?
He reached, first for the milk of the poppy and brought the herbs to her mouth, very aware that she could bite him instead if she so wished. "This will help with the pain," he offered, his palm up. "When I clean the wound, it will sting. I would advise you to take this first." As he grabbed the cleaning supplies and bandages with his other hand, he added, "Are you truly a wolf?"
He does not hurt the innocent.
A vague and unhelpful statement. Innocent of what? One thing she'd learned since finding her way to Westeros was that humans loved laws. There were rules and regulations for everything. Hundreds of them. She'd never bothered to learn any of them, but she was probably guilty of a few. Theft, primarily, but it was likely that witchcraft was a sin among them as well. Humans loathed and craved magic in equal measure. When he found out that talk of spells and curses were more than just superstitious nonsense, would he put her back in that cage?
She watched him over the short distance between them. Beyond the stench of fresh blood and the sword on his hip, he didn't look all that intimidating. He moved slow and quiet, and there was a gentle humor in his tone when he spoke to the wolf.
No. She didn't think he meant to harm her. No man who truly feared magic kept a dire wolf by his side anyway.
'It depends on how gently you treat me.' The fox flicked her tail from side to side, then hobbled forward a handful of painful steps. She was normally a creature of infinite energy, but she ached with exhaustion deep down in her bones. Still, she took care to place the words gently in the human's mind. Feeling another presence in your own mind for the first time could be alarming even for people familiar with magic, and if done carelessly, the spell could be deafeningly loud but impossible to escape. She didn't want to hurt him.
When she was within arm's length, she sank down into a sitting position with her injured leg held aloft.
'I did not curse those men. I was injured and frightened, and the animals tried to help me.' She paused for a moment, her ears trained on the warrior in front of her. 'It is in their nature to come to my aid.'
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Robb looked over the would-be-queen, his gaze solemn as he took in the Baratheon colors, the coat of arms. He had been named after her father--or at least, the man she had been raised to believe was her father. He did not envy her circumstances. Though Robert Baratheon had been a great disappointment, from the stories his father told, he had been a beast of a man once, a fighter of legend, a man who stood for justice, who took down the mad, cruel king, and whose enemies quaked to hear his name. It had been an honor, they told him, to be named after such a man. Had she felt the same, seen her father has a beacon of all that could be right and just in the kingdoms? In truth, the man who had come to visit Winterfell all those years ago had been like meeting a dog after being promised a direwolf. But the Baratheons had been a strong, respected house all the same.
Once, they might have united their houses, put all this blood shed to end with their own marriage. But they had their own kingdoms to rule now. He could attempt an arrangement between she and Bran, but would she consider that an insult, to be offered the hand of a cripple? Her uncle, Tyrion, had been kind to the boy once, and Robb had not trusted him for it. He had learned early on to distrust all Lannisters, and he had held a grudge against the house for as long as he could remember. But he was tired now--tired of the fighting, tired of the suspicion. He had seen too much of the world now to still believe that all men's lives were decided for them by the last name they bore or the sins of their fathers--or mothers--before them.
"For what it is worth, I am sorry," he said softly. It was not the voice of a king this time, not practiced and courtly and regal; it was a young, tired boy, talking to a girl. "Sorry that it has come to this. I do not envy the decisions you have had to make. Both our houses have suffered great losses. I wish it were not so." He stood. At her last words, he smiled softly. "I don't know. Used the right way, I hear a needle can just as easily become a sword."
"I'll have the conditions written and tomorrow we shall sign it then. Dorne also agrees to keep the peace. Their revenge will also be settled with Mother's death." She will be a queen kinslayer now, perhaps the gods will forgive her considering how her mother conceived her ad the way she got away with that lie, a lie that now Myrcella has to push down in everything she does. She dresses in Baratheon clothes and wears a crown alike that of her father, she would likely have to wed a Stormlander to ease them and the prospect is one she does not desire, but Trystane is no longer among them for her to seal that alliance.
"To have the King in the North at my coronation. How flattering." And to think not so long ago, she was the princess and he was the lord that dance with her at Winterfell. She would certainly like to go back to those days, when she was younger and less of a piece to move on this chess play they made. "Unless you offer a northern lord as a suitor for Consort, then the execution and the coronation will be the last we will see of one another."
It's a pity. She remembers the crush she had on him. Dreams of marrying him died many years ago but it felt like a cruel end to a childhood fantasy. Her jest is accompanied with a small smile in turn, shoulders finally releasing the air she was holding in, the scar on her cheek aching with how much she kept her jaw tight. "I have no desire to fight another war. I believe my abilities with a needle would be of no use in one."
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Robb was skilled in battle strategy and war had taught him much, but he was less practiced in the ways of court, in trades of marriage and name. It was something his father had not prepared him for, hesitant as Eddard had been himself to marry off his daughters. But Robb had rushed into unsavory terms before. Robb himself was promised to a Frey girl, Arya to one of the Frey sons; neither marriage pact had been particularly advantageous, but perhaps Sansa's could do them more good than simply buy him passage across a bridge. He had lost the Karstarks when he'd killed their Lord--branding himself kinslayer in the process--and he needed more men to finish this war. Their Aunt had not have supported their cause, but Harrold Hardyng might.
"You've spoken often with Lord Baelish, it seems." The disapproval was clear in his tone--he did not trust the man--and yet his advice, if true, was valuable. With a sigh, Robb took a seat behind the war table. A map covered every inch of it, small figures placed throughout to represent each house's sigils and movements. "Do you want to marry Harrold Hardyng?" At the end of the day, the question should have mattered little. Marriages, he'd been told time and time again, were not about want; they were about duty, about strategy, but he had already promised one sister away, and what a reunion that would be if he ever did find Arya--the knowledge that she was to live the rest of her days at the Twins when he knew very well there was nothing she'd like less in the world. He finally had one member of his family back, and he hated the idea of trading her off like cattle.
"If I allow the Wildlings to fight for a sovereign North, I will also need to allow them into the North. My bannermen will string me up by my feet before they allow that." The freefolk had been kept beyond the wall for generations. As king, Robb already had several unpopular decisions under his belt, and the crown on his head had never felt so precarious; how much more would his bannermen allow before they took that crown and struck him down? Would it be worth the risk?
Robb glared at the map for another moment before looking up. His expression softened as he met his sister's eyes. "You've become quite the strategist."
"But I am no longer the girl who went to King's Landing, Robb. Neither are you the boy left in Winterfell." He had a title now, a crown, and by extension, she had one of her own. He grew amidst war, she grew up in a court of snakes to learn how to properly survive. She listens, and she has alternatives, neither that her brother or her mother might like but if she learned something, is that arrangements can gain you an army in turn. "The Knights of the Vale will come to your call if I marry Harrold Hardyng. Lord Baelish said as such, without Aunt Lyssa, many support your cause but our Aunt refuse them to let them help."
But Aunt Lyssa is dead now and they could have the Knights on their hands. He could gain more armies besides the rivermen and the northmen. Proper knights trained for this purpose. "He also said Jon has earned the loyalty of the freefolk. They will fight for him, with him. Send him a raven at least." She wants home, desperate for it.
Desperate for snow and wolves and the Godswood, she would kneel there and pray for gratitude for being alive with her family. "They might not seem like it, but the Lannisters are afraid, Robb. You gained much territory and they are feeling cornered. They took the Tyrells because they are one of the few between you and them."
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Robb leaned over the war table, his palms pressed against the hard wood, while his eyes scanned the map, an ever present headache pounding behind his left temple. When the war had begun, his goal had been clear: move his armies south to reach King's Landing in time to save his father and release his sisters. Now, his father was dead, Arya was missing, and their home was overrun by the Ironborn, his two youngest brothers prisoners of his closest friend, Theon Greyjoy. He did not know whether to ride North or South, whether to continue his march on the capital or return home and free Winterfell and rescue Bran and Rickon. Joffrey, the king he had set out to kill, was dead, but the Lannisters remained, now with all the power of the Tyrells at their side. Tommen was but a boy, and though Robb remembered the kind child that had once visited them in Winterfell, this new possibility was equally alarming: Cersei Lannister ruling the kingdom in all but name, using her child like a puppet.
As Sansa grabbed hold of his arm, a bit of the tension drained from Robb's expression, and he stood up straight, turning to face his sister dead on. "It's alright," he said gently. This tent had become a place of turmoil and headaches: the place where he learned of Theon's betrayal, of Arya's disappearance, of his father's beheading. It was a place where he was brought bad news and where he decided the fate of thousands of lives. It was the place where he had to be king. Bran had once told him that he imagined their father with two faces: the face of their father, telling stories around the fire, smiling openly; and the face of the Lord of Winterfell, stern and controlling. Robb now let the face of the king, which he had had to wear so often these last tumultuous years, slide away, and let the face of her eldest brother return in its place.
"We will win, of course," he said with a soft smile. "The pack survives." And Robb had yet to lose a battle. "I will never let you be hurt again. Do you understand that? I promise you. We're going home. We will get home. Soon enough."
@burnnouts sent a confession.
" we're surrounded by those who would like to see us dead. " (from Robb to Sansa)
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Sansa didn't like hearing that and once upon a time, she would have been very frightened. She had been through a lot though, had been forced to confront terror every day and she had survived it. Sadly, the same could not be said for the rest of her family. Arya missing and presumed dead, Father beheaded before her. She couldn't forget that, couldn't push it out of her mind, the resignation on his face before the stroke came and parted them permanently from each other.
In the safety of Robb's tent, she reached out to grab hold of his arm, squeezing, the only indication of the disquiet that she felt within her heart. She had always trusted him and that wasn't going to change.
"What are we going to do about it?" Her voice was calm and steady even to her own ears, even as she felt a slight trembling beneath her skin.
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@reiignonme said "❝ for you ﹖ anything. ❞ // to talisa, from robb.
Talisa looked up from her spot on the bed. She was still naked, laying on her stomach with the furs of Robb's bed--their bed now--flung carelessly over her her bare back and legs. "Don't let your men hear you say that," she teased. Alone in his tent, the world did not seem so terrible after all. Alone here with Robb, she could pretend she was just another lady with her lord husband--or, perhaps, some farm girl in a land far, far away, marrying the butcher's son or a blacksmith's apprentice. In that world, he was not a king, and she was not a queen, and the whole war camp did not hate her fiercely for the men this marriage had cost them. In truth, she did not even know who the Freys were, and yet some days, her heart ached for the girl Robb was meant to marry. She could not even picture the girl, but she knew what she had lost.
Yet, she was selfish. If she'd been a better person, perhaps she'd have never agreed to this marriage. She certainly wouldn't be laying here, warming the king's bed, wearing the title 'queen' before her name, not when it all came at so high a cost. The thought usually kept her awake at night, but right now, looking across the tent to see her husband standing by the firelight, Talisa could not help but smile. She rolled onto her back and let the furs fall off her. "Come back to bed. I would like to test that promise. There are so many things one can demand under 'anything." Her eyes twinkled mischievously.
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@tnott said “So the expert on all of this is… you?” (for Sirius from Theo)
"Yep." Sirius spread his arms out in mock celebration. "Welcome to the Headquarters of Magical Objects, and the answers to all the burning questions of your heart's content, granted that it's stored in that filing cabinet there, and relates to something no one in all the ministry actually gives a damn about." He gestured to a nearby cabinet so dusty, it was clear no one had cared to open it in years.
Two decades ago, Sirius would have considered himself the goddamn expert of the whole fucking universe. Yes, he'd been a cocky prick, but he'd had good reason for it--he'd been good, damn good. He and James hadn't just been popular in the social scene alone; they'd been top of their class. Sirius had gotten top grades in all of his OWLs and NEWTS without trying, and he'd managed to become an animagus when he was only fifteen years old, when many grown wizards couldn't pull it off. So yes, once upon a time, Sirius Orion Black had been full of promise, a rising star in the wizarding world.
And then came the war. And prison. And another god damned war. He was twenty-two when he was locked up, thirty-four before he'd managed to escape, and thirty-eight by the time the war was over and his name cleared. By that age, most people had at least some idea what they'd been put on this earth to do, but Sirius had spent the last year or so shuffling around from one job to the next in the Ministry. They had all been easy enough to get; the Ministry owed him a debt, after all. Twelve years of false imprisonment, it turned out, was worth a job or two, so Sirius tried them all, quitting after only a few short weeks.
And that was how he'd come to work in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department. It had been a good enough excuse to get paid for taking apart the things he already cared about: like his motorcycle, or Arthur's car. He'd long been interested in muggle technology--in muggle anything, really, that might have pissed off his parents. Now, however, they had him digging up old muggle artifacts that had been cursed and placed in museums across the country: old devices from the Roman era and Medieval Europe. Some of it had been cursed long ago with anti-theft charms and the like, but some had some pretty nasty curses, the sort of thing his parents might have concocted, and the sort of thing he'd unearthed in his family home, Number 12 Grimmauld Place, a hundred times over.
So maybe, in a manner of speaking, he was an expert. He slumped back into his office chair--he was still surprised he had an office in the first place--and threw his boots up onto the desk, crossing his arms behind his head. "What can I do you for?"
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⏎ This user is a MULTI-VERSE player that *welcomes* duplicates of the same canon muses, while NOT abandoning other partners; because chemistry & muns add different spices to the same duplicate!!
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As the heir of Winterfell, Robb knew enough about the tensions in the realm to understand the purpose of this weeks' seemingly innocent festivities. War was on the horizon, and the Starks would soon have to take sides. He had heard his father and mother whisper about it, not to mention the maester and advisors when they thought he was not listening. They were worried--all of them. But that was not the purpose of tonight. Tonight was meant to unite their houses in good spirits, to celebrate with wine and dancing and good food. The night had certainly delivered on all fronts in that regard.
Robb looked behind him at the many dancing couples then back to Baela. "I was hoping, my Lady," Robb said with a polite incline of his head, "To hear more about your dragon." He had grown up hearing stories about the dragons, but he had never seen one before. He had only just adopted a dire wolf pup of his own--the sigil of his house, as the dragon was of hers--and had found the connection between man and beast invigorating. But his beast could not be mounted to fly across the realms. "If you would humor me with a story, of course."
These parties had never been Baela's favorite thing in fact she hated them. Having to ditch her riding leathers and knives for frilly dresses and ridiculous hairstyles. She had grumbled the entire time Rhaena had done her hair though it made Rhaena happy. How she was going to manage to deal with a week of these festivities was beyond her. She thinks if one more older woman comes up to her talking about how sweet she looks how womanly she looks she'll get sick.
She was trying her best to avoid everyone so she was sulking in a corner of the room watching the others dance. When Robb walks up she shoots him a glare. "If you are here to ask for a dance you can turn around now." She warns as she is in no mood to do that. She had already done enough by being here and being in the stupid dress she refused to dance.
@burnnouts // starter call
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Robb had never wanted to be king. It was not why he'd begun this war, why he had gathered his father's bannerman and marched South. All he had wanted--all he had ever wanted--was to bring his father back, home and alive, to Winterfell. He had wanted his sisters back, wanted his family reunited. He had wanted them all to go home. Now, he was months--and many lost lives--into a war, and they were far from the North. The ground beneath his boots was wet only with dew, and he could not recall how many moons it had last been since he'd seen snow.
And his father was dead.
When they had gathered earlier that night to discuss their options, he had been prepared for a harsh debate, prepared to listen to each side of the divide: to side with Renly or Stannis. He had not been prepared for his lords to declare him, Robb, thier king instead.
Now, he stood alone in the woods, staring out over the moonlit night, and turned only when he heard the fall of soft footsteps and a voice as familiar to him as the one in his own head. When his lords had first called out to him as King of the North, it had been his mother he looked to for reassurance. All his life, he'd been looking to his parents for guidance, but it was not so long ago that his duties of the North were simply putting Arya to bed when she and Sansa fought in public, or making sure Jon and Theon did not quarrel too harshly. Robb was the Heir of Winterfell, and he had been raised to understand that title and all the responsibilities that came along with it. He understood the appointments needed around the castle, and he understood the needs of the smallfolk and the surrounding farmers. He knew how to fight, and he had proven himself a skilled strategist, a natural at war. But he had not been raised a prince. He had not been raised to be king.
At her words, a lump formed in his throat. He wished his father was here now, that he could tell him what to do. But if his father was here, Robb would not be in this position in the first place. "I hope so," he said quietly. In front of his men, he needed to look confident, firm and deliberate with every word. Alone with his mother, it was harder not to admit that he was afraid. "Aye, we are at war. I know how to wield a sword. I do not know how to wear a crown." He paused, looked around to make sure they truly were alone, then continued, "Do you think I can do it? Truly?"
She found her son not long after the council ended. Allowing him to have a moment alone with his thoughts, she waited before she came to stand beside him. When did he become so tall, the lady wondered for a moment as she allowed herself to imaginethis to be a moment between mother and son and not the King and his lady mother. "I know the decision is not an easy one," Catelyn said after a while, breaking the silence between them.
❝ Leaders need to make tough decisions. We do what we must. ❞ Robb ( @burnnouts ) said.
A lump formed in her throat and she dared to look at her son. The way he was standing there, speaking like a leader, a grown man; it made Catelyn's heart ache. He was so much like Ned; if only her lord husband could see him right now, she knew he would be so proud of the man he had become. But his absence was the reason for all this in the first place, the reason their son had to become a leader. "You are your father's son. He would be proud of you, as am I," she finally added but couldn't hide the sorrow in her voice completely. "We are at war, this is merely the first of many tough decisions."
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