[ bloodiedwolf ]

       the almost smug edge to his mien threatens something worse in her again,
       half mad, half feral, though she betrays none of it, says nothing – he’s missed
       the point, she can tell from the fleeting break of self-satisfaction. ( it’s not for him
       that she covers herself ; if he finds her anger so distasteful, good, let him look, let
       him see – better to be the feral wolf than to be anyone’s nobody, any man’s slave
       or whore or caged starved weakened bitch at heel – but rather for herself, for her
       own composure, and for the interest of the north, for the fresh, changed mantle of
       the king’s hand, of valar dohaeris, she has taken on more willingly by far, and him
       thinking for one moment that she does any of this to please him almost makes her
       want to laugh for its complete erroneous bent, though she doesn’t do that either. )

       nonetheless, she remains tangibly impassive when the moment passes ;
       he of all men – of all ghosts – has no right to cast stones at her when he
       himself dwells within a glass house, of which the walls are already threatening
       to crack and splinter the more he speaks, even without her help.

image

                     ‘ i followed my friend into hell, ’ she points out, crisp, clean,
                         unwavering as the snow around them, laden into the ground
                         beneath their feet, and the branches above their heads ; she
                         wonders if he knows already, or if this, too, will be news to him.
                         if the day comes when you would find me again … ‘ and he wasn’t
                         there to meet me, though he said he would be. if you ask me, a
                         man who can’t keep his word is no friend of mine to begin with,
                         nor does he have any right to my secrets. as far as i’m concerned,
                         he was quite happy to leave me to die as it was, so i don’t think i
                         owe him – or anyone else he might be – a thing. ’

                       ◤ Ꮴalar  Ꮇorghulis. ◢

        Into Hell.

        Disapproval of VOID opinion simmers beneath chilled skin ( whilom the
    North’s gelid weather having no effect upon false flesh ), this ‘Lord Stark’
    possessing enough audacity to asperse the place of which a man’s guise,
    of which a man, calls home. Dare the woman think resistance to the Many-
    Faced God worthwhile? ‘Tis futile. If one cannot keep his or her word and
    remove inherent identity ( ironic, calling her old friend a man not of his word ),
    why should he or she be bestowed an erasure of memory? An erasure of
    the most toilsome fragments? ( He recalls, many a year ago, animatedly
    speaking to a child with unyielding determination: to be a dancing master
    is a special thing. But to be a faceless man, that is something else entirely. )
    The then-child did not obey, wherefore she did not flourish. Does her
    insolence constitute a kind farewell? A dismissal of her former behavior?
    For this man, and for this guise, without question; but not for the Guild.

        “ A man, this false friend of yours, should not have
                      promised anything, I think,” he intones.

image

        ‘Tis a reflection of former self, but thoughtfulness behind words
    is not evident upon ever stoic lineaments; thoughtfulness should not
    be an emotion felt. Although a man looks to a Lord, a man sees a child.
    The memory cannot seem to shake; to finally see a boy turned girl in
    yore-longed environment ( because winter is coming. And I don’t mean
    to be here when it does ) rings something curious inside of him, betwixt
    fixed ribs, a feeling that he refutes before the bud can form into a nasty,
    TRUE sensation of reminiscence, of weeds linking themselves within
    the bed oh his flesh, into the forgotten foreign feeling of fondness.

        “ And with respect, it’s not possible to owe anything
    to dead men, Lord Stark.” Again, stolidity. “I have no quarrels with you,
    I barely know you. A man deceased is a man invalid; as are his opinions
    and actions.” Or lack thereof.

        Please don’t go, Jaqen.      RULE YOUR FACE.

 

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.