[ bloodiedwolf ]

      initial words serve no purpose but to narrow lyanna’s eyes, and then,
      just as promptly, to banish all trace of sentiment from the sharp set
      of her features altogether ; warping of the kindly man’s words filling
      her mouth with acid, bones aching with the remembrance of poisons’
      searing and the near-constant littering of cuts and scars and sores,
      chest scraped out hollow and yet heavy all the same with the weight
      of the DEAD GIRLS she carries everywhere she goes, she turns to
      stone and yet wants to snarl, to scream, to HOWL.

HE WILL TAKE YOUR SAD GREY EYES THAT HAVE SEEN SO MUCH YOU WILL BE NO ONE’S DAUGHTER NO ONE’S WIFE NO ONE’S MOTHER WOMEN BRING THE GIFT OF LIFE WE BRING THE GIFT OF DEATH NO ONE CAN DO BOTH WHO ARE YOU WHO ARE YOU WHO ARE YOU YOUR HEART IS TOO SOFT TO BE ONE OF US

      no, she thinks, stopping the flood of sound in its tracks, seizing it ( seizing
       the ghost ) by the THROAT until it quiets ; my heart’s harder than yours,
       than ANY of yours, i said NO.

       a soft heart is malleable ; a harder one can resist, and does she not have
       the scars to show for it? EVERY HURT IS A LESSON, she thinks, bitterly,
       AND EVERY LESSON MAKES YOU BETTER. ( and yet, something small
       in her whispers, you’re not better, are you? sick, rotten, twisted, warped,
       hateful undeserving – the same small voice that picks away at her skin in
       the dark, nailsclaws scratching into the flesh, sometimes until she bleeds,
       but even that doesn’t feel better, she still feels poisoned, still feels … )

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                    ‘ you know nothing of my ire, ’ she utters, sharp but calm, and
                        unafraid. ‘ i met one of you. before. he helped me, or i thought
                        he did. and when i – ’ when i needed him, she thinks, almost
                        says, bites her tongue. when i needed him he was gone, but
                        why did i expect any different? that’s what people DO. ‘ ten
                        years. ten years i gave you, you took everything from me, and
                        for nothing. we’re finished. so if you’ve come to punish me for
                        leaving, if that’s why you’re really here, i suggest you turn around
                        and tell your master you failed, that you couldn’t find me. because
                        i owe you NOTHING. and if you’ve come to give the gift ’ – it’s spat,
                        almost, sharding and sparking off her teeth – ‘ to my sister, you can
                        do the same. she dies, you die. i don’t care who sent you, or why, if
                        they gave you her name they can forget it. ’

                       ◤ Ꮴalar  Ꮇorghulis. ◢

         Ability to remain impassive amidst the woman’s spewing of
    unknowable ire begets her to look the same: as if a child. As if
    Arry, with courage and no sense. She is transparent. He sees
    through her. He doesn’t move a muscle. He waits for her to
    finish. He stays quiet. He gathers his emotions. ( The emotions
    that threaten to break placidity but DO NOT; the emotions that
    are forbidden; stupid, as she would say; ridiculous. And friends
    may talk in secret. Yes? No. Lyanna was not a man’s friend.
    Friends follow each other. Friends trust each other. She did
    neither. Being admired [ be it a fleeting moment in time ] does
    not amount to being a friend. Rules were broken in the name
    of Arry, in the name of all men are equal in the eyes of the
    Many-Faced God, in the name of Valar Morghulis, in the name
    of Valar Dohaeris. For what? As the woman said: for NOTHING. )

        “ If I was here to bestow the gift unto your sister, my Lady,”
    he speaks with a lack of intonation, “it would have already been done.”

         Empty threats fall upon a man like raindrops atop a candle;
    they do no damage, they glide off of surface without a second
    thought. These emotions, this ire he knows nothing of serves
    to show that Lyanna Stark of Winterfell could have never
    forsaken her identity, her temper. This is better, he thinks, bitterly.
    ( hedoesn’tneedfriends. friendsareunnecessary. facelessmendon’t
    needCOMPANIONS.notheydon’t.notheydon’tNOTHEY DON’T. )
    They are better. Alone. 

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        “ Nor am I here to punish you. I am here for
    reasons of which you are not to know. Rest assured—”
    though she sees him a liar, “they do not concern you.”

 

R U L E

INDEPENDENT
JAQEN H'GHAR
OF GRRM'S
A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE.

Y O U R

LOW ACTIVITY.
MULTI-EVERYTHING.
#INFERUXS

F A C E.

PLEASE READ
LINKS 02., 04., AND 06.
BEFORE INTERATCION.