unbeatcn

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If you don’t let it out, the grief becomes a scream trapped inside your soul, a constant cry in the dark, a sob you can never release. So scream, shout, cry, the way the sky does with thunder and lightning and rain…for it knows it is being cleansed, it knows that it’s storm is the only way to release the pain.

Nikita Gill (via meanwhilepoetry)

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#the babe in the north (3/?)

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             he could very well tear at the fur, be  d o n e  with the cold and it's hedonistic grip upon their skin, if it meant have ALL of margaery. let the cold come, let it devour him, just as he was ready to devour her. he lifts a hand, this time gentle, brushing a loose strand of her mahogany hair aside. it staggered him, that every ounce of her, every conceivable inch, was of a season he had never known. a perfection he had never dreamed of.

           ❝ i don't want t'be THEIR king tonight. i want to be your king. king of your body,          king of ...❞ he tugs at her lips once more, finding a moment to savour every ruby          inch, every part of the flesh that warmed his bed and heart. ❝ ... your lips. though ...

                      —— i  d o u b t  i'd stop there ... ❞

                                        his eyes are grey. a grey like a slate silver, the wisp of the skies up-ahead encrusting his dilation. they are supple tendrils of sallow chalk, yet, when surmised with her gilt of halcyon, they are born anew. by some, the world fissured and fragmented around them, and not once did crowned brows suppose that its piece may fall atop them. but here, there are no kings and queens, only a spouse and dame, gaily encased in fur.

                     she salutes his lip, softly, as he speaks – a smile of large fortune and insurmountable splendour weaves its way atop her lips, her curved thread of lavaliere upturned. ‘  ah, yes, but you are their king. no doubt they shall hope to pay cajolery to their liberator of the hour.  ’

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@regalae when you're watching the bae get all these compliments and such wonderful things said about her because she so deserves it.

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whispers// is this Gus 8||||????? if not ignore this cause HA HA awkward.

sHHH DON'T TELL ANYONE. ALSO IS THAT THE GREYWINDKING BAE WHOSE NAME I TOTALLY HAVE FORGOTTEN BECAUSE IT'S BEEN YEARS SINCE I'VE WRITTEN ROBB ??

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The Starks remembering Robb as they’d last seen him.

“Arya didn’t know how much Robb would pay for her, though. He was a king now, not the boy she’d left at Winterfell with snow melting in his hair. And if he knew the things she’d done, the stableboy and the guard at Harrenhal and all … “What if my brother doesn’t want to ransom me?“” A Storm Of Swords - Arya VII

“She had last seen snow the day she’d left Winterfell. That was a lighter fall than this, she remembered. Robb had melting flakes in his hair when he hugged me, and the snowball Arya tried to make kept coming apart in her hands.” A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

“He remembered Robb as he had last seen him, standing in the yard with snow melting in his auburn hair.” A Game Of Thrones - Jon IX

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       Her voice was still a indescribable elegance. It could turn his chaos into her calm, the type that a man might only find in the last hours of old-age, before the grasp of death closed his eyes a final time. For Robb, king of Winter and lion's bane, it was a calm that brought him vigorous life and vitality. Northern blood, so cold and brittle, turned warm like Summer. What more could he allow slip than the subtle smirk upon his face? A smirk that betrayed his stoic and kingly demeanor. A smirk that was borne of pride in his Queen, and the effortless authority and wisdom she commanded.

              ❝ Stannis is well-known for being stubborn ... ❞

       If by stubborn, Your Grace, you mean he's a stiff bastard.

              Aye he's stiff alright. I hear he's stiff for a red priestess. 

     ❝ My father once said to me that Stannis was brittle like iron. 'He'll break before he bends'. ❞

       The memories of the Late Eddard Stark were no longer a sore subject for Robb; a wound now mended by fingers more delicate than his own. The reality of the situation, and of his sister's plight, however, returned once more. A visible conflict crossed his face, turning his young eyes sharp in concentration, as he returned to his seat. The change in demeanor was noted by the lords, whom exchanged glances. Humor and good-spirits perished with King Robb's shift. This was the man whom had been born when a crown was forced upon his head. A boy barely aged, playing at a game of war and kings.

       ❝ Not long after my father's death, Stannis sent ravens demanding the fealty of each High Lord.         I doubt littl' has changed. I may well be a usurper in his eyes. My sisters 'ave exchanged         one captor for anothe'. ❞

       —— and, like so often had he done so, he turned to seek wisdom from the Queen in the North. He met her eyes, the very same eyes that gazed upon him when their pale skin had become one, adorned with the sweet aroma of their primal love.

       ❝ We have no use for the Kingslayer any longer. Aye, as much as I would enjoy   executing 'im, it would make me no better than them. We'll send ‘im to Stannis as   a gesture of goodwill. ❞

                                                                    the name lannister incited an cornucopia of lyricisms within northern encampment; wrought about their wrists lived the chains of gold and beneath proud and lordly chins resided a sonorous red smile, cut like a tailor’s fabric of silk and embedded into flesh like the wound of a wolf – and yet, these lesions were not of the wolf’s incisions, but of the iron king and his stag born of salt, smoke and flames. the baratheon name had clasped his long attaining hunger about the confines of king’s landing, and thus had proclaimed himself he who held dominion over the realm: stannis baratheon, the westerosi ruler – he who had fought a wolven battle and won, vanquishing, conquering and eliminating those who placed faux gold upon their crowns and called themselves kings.

                                and yet, at foot of asinine whistles and belated enlivens resided dread: a cold and callous fear, terrible, terrible and terrible again. the wolf manifested from his pack and swore in attesting acclaim to she which he called his euphonious rose (the saccharine lyricisms of mellow, dulcet silver and honey gold), but wolven men had been dubious – skeptical cynicism stalking thorned roots like a slab of meat, southron splendour much too ingenue of mutiny and incited insurgency, the revolt of uprising fissuring in fragility of bones. yet within sojourned a breathing command, beneath her feet inhabiting the benevolence of open ears and a king, worldly in his respect for a wife of winter.

this, she convulsed of her own volition, composing herself into the poise of the red rose; cerise, the hue of blood and guts and whistled barbarism, and the chaste white, the symbol of a childlike purity and irreproachability, the membered new life and springtime’s spry. truly, paws and thorns emerged from bitter dust and longing amidst victory, banners emblazoned with gold and silver grey, yet beneath this illusion rested a grisly and imbued, crimson guts of those deemed unworthy. alas, now was a time of jubilations – as was readily expected of her, of a queen – wine in hand and spirit in psyche, and so the thorned plant rose from her seat, adjacent to cheval glass, and proceeded onwards. lords bowed like loyal wolves, craned like the mother and the knowledge of the crone, and winter’s queen took ice’s spouse at hand.

                     winter had yielded to spring, swords placed like thorns beneath her feet.

                                           ‘  at an impasse, hm?  ’ truth pulsed through melodies sung of the king and his summer queen, how she wielded lords and ladies and primacy at any given time, but beneath this exterior existed an oscillating and pulsating hesitancy. howbeit, when conjoined with her wolven-born king, palm in palm and ice in spring, she is whole: she is an entire being, sovereignty pulsing beneath her fingers – the rose that blooms beneath impregnable ice and controls. the corners of her lips coiled upwards, irises absorbing robb’s frame, and a lyricism of words cascades from lips like a waterfall.

               ‘  slaughter is certainly no unfamiliar thing to the kingslayer, but the sentiment shows naught but treachery and lannister slander amongst our ranks. to kill the kingslayer deems us no better than our once rival, my lords.  ’ this whimsical conviction gives sermon to a whole room at once, prescribing to glacial lords’ courtesy, gallantry and succour just as winter’s regality had her king, a palatial and rosen eloquence permeating her air. one such sentiment it had been, perchance, that the northern lords found themselves overwrought in commissioning – though a queen cared not whether they shared it or nay, but held a yen for them only to accept the zestful conviction as the factual illusion that it was. ‘  however, a lannister’s head would most certainly earn favour with westeros’ new king. the judgement may perhaps loosen the new king’s grasp on the stark girls, even.  ’ a coil of lips writhed once more, emerging upwards into a fabled southron smile, the panache of such reflected unto her king and lords. neck is craned, focal on robb stark, and within her eyes resided such fervour, such torrid love that august connection transcended all coherence. one glance spoke a thousand words, and she had compressed them into a fluent lyric.

‘  i, myself, believe the release of ladies sansa and arya to be of imperative importance. there are many things that demand our king’s attention, but none more so than the safe return of winterfell’s daughters. this, i am sure, is something you may find yourselves inclined to agree with, my lords and king.  ’ 

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@regalae

                                 ❝ —— let them drink WITHOUT us.                         There's no urgency to join them. ❞

      Much akin to his namesake, he claws at the bearskin cloak that covered their bed. Impatient fingers that once held a blade of war now clenched the thick coat, insulating the rose and wolf together, and pulled it over the top of them.

           ❝ I'm sure th'lords will understand ... ❞

                   —— a HUNGERING smile creeps as he bites softly into her bottom lip in a teasing kiss.

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If you had to fall into a woman’s arms, my son, why couldn’t they have been Margaery Tyrell’s? The wealth and power of Highgarden could have made all the difference in the fighting yet to come. And perhaps Grey Wind would have liked the smell of her as well. –Catelyn II, ASoS Asoiaf AU: Robb Stark marries Margaery Tyrell (requested by anonymous)

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You think I’m fighting this war so that they’ll sing songs about me?

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       Winter had yielded to the grasp of SPRING. A winter of discontent, yearning for a spring of serenity. The battles, waged with swords of vengeance and paved with blood of kin, had neared an end. Now, only the breadth of FATE remained. Were they, the wolves of the North, to be forever exiled to their plains? Or would the ROSE of the highest gardens bloom upon all the land, no longer under the domain of Stag or Lion? 

                                                                  ‘—— piss on that! Stannis won’t lie down with our folk! ’

        'Aye, he won’t. But He did just GUT every last Lannister in King’s Landing!                           Propped Joffrey’s 'ead right up where Lord Eddard’s was last I 'eard it!’

                       'We still got ourselves’ a pretty Lannister here, eh?                                  ——wonder what the Kingslayer thinks of his kin being killed?

       The bickering, or banter rather, continued happily. Wine had become steady, the Lords and Leaders no longer cosigned to the maturity and necessity of sobriety, now that the war was all but WON. Amid the jubilee, brittle and cold as were all Northerfolk, the KING sat, near disinterested in their barking. Much like the night 'pon which they forced this MANTLE upon his head, a crown of thorns, did he sit silent, contemplating, mulling and assessing his elder council’s opinions. 

       Beard of CRIMSON, befitting his Tully lineage, had grow wildly, surpassing his years of only SIXTEEN. Young Wolf he was, all but in spirit. He had lived these months of war, scathed, but yet UNBEATEN. The tales were already being told, of a soldier of fourteen conquering the mighty Tywin Lannister. His armor was rugged, soiled with the toxic concoction of blood and dirt. It was the paint of WAR. At his feet, loyal, vigilant, was his SECOND soul. Grey Wind. The direwolf, too, aged far beyond his years. Their bond had only strengthened, for now when Robb’s eyes fell shut, he could see through the WOLF’S.

                  'Let’s not forget the girls, m'Lords. Lady Sansa and Arya.                                    They deserve a warm welcome home, eh?’

                                                                          'If the new King releases them, you mean.’

               'Does Stannis really have the army to contend with these two pissed off houses?’

       The banter soon quieted as the men rose to their feet, acknowledging the presence of a new arrival. The QUEEN. Awkward, stumbling and tipsy were their movements as they formed an honorary tunnel, allowing the wife of WINTER through, to be seated next to Robb. The Young Wolf could not deny the smirk upon his face at the manner in which she effortlessly commanded authority. They followed her as much as they followed him. The King, too, rose to his feet, weary but nonetheless galvanized by her presence. Piously, he discards his right glove, revealing cold, pale skin, to which he takes her hand. Formal, but necessary in these public places.

             ❝ I believe the Lords were just speaking of our next move. With King's             Landing now under Stannis’ rule, and all Lannisters but the Kingslayer dead …

                          … we are at an IMPASSE as to what should come next. ❞

@enthorned

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There can be no failure to a man who has not lost his courage, his character, his self respect, or his self-confidence. He is still a King.

Orison Swett Marden. (via unbeatxn)