lordustin - Tumblr blog

[lordustin]

omg the fact i remembered this login.........................

[lordustin]

Outlander (2014-)

[lordustin]

direreign​:

( LADY SANSA. )

It isn’t the first time he’s said something of the sort - that she’s marrying below her station. That there are other men out there that are far better suited… but that was the problem, wasn’t it? Sansa didn’t want anyone else. Even if there were others, far more likely to give her an easy and simple life. That wouldn’t shy away from her, shrink at remarks, that didn’t think twice about why she was marrying him… but Sansa wants him, despite all the years of screaming and protesting at the thought of having to be around him for even a minute in Winterfell, let alone now lining up to wait for the rest of their lives together.

“Most men couldn’t tame me,” she responds, easily, as sh watches his mouth hide behind his mug. As he sips to silence himself, even momentarily. A smile curls up the corners of her mouth as she takes a step towards him, fingers careful as they press into red hair. “I don’t know if you could even do so, Wyllas,” That wasn’t what she wanted, though. She wanted to be on equal footing with someone. To be respected, and respect her husband in return. To not stand at the side, a pointless distraction or a mere decoration to the rooms she’d spend her life in. “However, I know for certain that I do not intend to change my mind… regarless of whether people think I married below my station,” Fingers drop after a moment, something softening on her features. “That’s their mistake, not mine.”

Her comment makes him choke -- throat tightening -- as hearing her say it back to him only makes him realise how uncouth that sounded. Back of his hand swipes at his stubbled chin, before smoothing out the wrinkles of his doublet. ❝ I didn’t -- I mean -- ❞ Wyllas breathes, loudly, still clearing his throat. ❝ I would never, my lady! ❞ There was a deep flush of red now on his face, embarrassment obvious. He was a fool. Sansa was infinitely more confident than he could ever be, as he still awkwardly wound his way through the trials of being a lord, and soon, a husband. Wyllas still childishly shrinks under her gaze, back pressing into the chair, as he struggles to look her in her eyes. ❝ I would hope that you and I would be nothing if not respectful of another, like your parents. I remember Lord Stark, for all the years he had been with Lady Stark, was still so fond of her... I could only hope the same for us. ❞ The memory hits a little differently now, after Lord Stark’s passing; Wyllas was always enamoured with the man, the image of a true Northman -- the very same Wyllas always hoped to emulate.

He clears his throat, breathing somewhat easier now as he sips from his cup, before piping up, ❝ B-but please, have a seat, won’t you? You still have cakes to eat. ❞ A distraction, he thinks, from the deepening red on his face, as the young lord draws his attention back to the small platter he brought her. Where had all of his confidence gone in the hours since their courtyard meeting? Everything had felt so natural, so genuine, and now, as he flounders for his composure, he can only imagine how utterly silly he must look.

[lordustin]

direreign​:

(LADY SANSA. )

He’s interested; that much is obvious. He’s never been the type to be subtle, but this is failing miserably even by her standards. A quirk at the corner of her mouth as she admires the way he looks over her head, tries to observe the room as though she’d not notice it the second that he did. “You ate two of them?” She’s asking, an attempt to draw attention back to herself. Eyebrows raised, amusement all too clear in her gaze as she looks up at him. “The walk is hardly that long, Wyllas,” she is teasing him. Shameless in doing so as she takes the plate from him, lets him in the room as he straightens up to walk inside. She closes the door behind her ( gone are thoughts of what others will think; whether this is the proper thing to do. at least for now, anyway. ) without a second thought. Watches him, lingering by the door for a moment. “No,” she murmurs, already finding one of the four pieces left to pop between parted lips. Taking her time with it, slow and pleased. “No, I’ve been quite alone - not that I’m complaining, it’s given me time to work on my dress,” Not that she was going to show him, either. Something that they both knew. “Oh, they are? I hope not for long, I do not have intentions of going elsewhere now that I’m here.”

He’s bashful when she repeats the question back to him, an oh so subtle red spreading across his cheeks and nose. Sansa was too smart for him; he knew, and gods, he often wondered how he would stand up against her wickedly sharp wit during the years they were destined to be together. For a moment, though, he thinks that maybe in his future, in his old age, perhaps, he’ll be able to counter Sansa with wit of his own. However, now, he simply shrinks, slightly, at her comment, despite the tight grin pulling at his cheeks. ❝ Long enough to get a little peckish, ❞ He retorts, raising the tankard he’s claimed as his own. 

He slumps in the chair he sits in, tankard on his knee, free hand tapping some unknown rhythm on the wood of the table. ❝ Neither do I. Perhaps it’s the disbelief that Lady Sansa not only married below her station, but to another Northman. ❞ He blinks, blue eyes admiring her as she stands at the other side of the room; he still can’t manage to believe it himself. ❝ Would it not make more sense to marry outside of the North? Maybe to some pompous Southron lout...? ❞ Wyllas brings the tankard up to his mouth, before quickly adding, ❝ They could never hope to tame a Northman. ❞ A knowing smile pulls at his lips, but it quickly vanishes, now hidden behind the shape of the mug.

[lordustin]

direreign​:

( LADY SANSA. )

With no real indication of how long Wyllas was going to be busy, Sansa was able to take the time to work on her dress. Worked fast enough that she felt like she’d at least get some of it done even if he’d only been an hour - longer, and she felt like she’d be able to get through a decent amount of it. She was right, in the end, admiring one of the sleeves she was finishing up the smaller details on when she heard the knock on the door. She hides it where she’s been hiding it this entire time; paranoid that a chambermaid would see it when she was vacant from the room and spill secrets of what her dress was shaping up to look like. She didn’t want any word of it spreading through the grounds; had worked too hard and for too long on it to have it ruined. She wanted the surprise. She wanted the pride within herself at the knowledge that, yes, she had made this herself. Her own two hands made something so beautiful. He’s stood there when she opens the door, and she smiles, pleased, at the sight of him. Unable to stop it if she tried. “No, it’s fine,” she reassures. Can see him trying to find it behind her. An amused smile quirks at the corners of her mouth. “Oh? For me?” She widens the door for him to walk inside.

She has a beautiful smile -- one young Wyllas is all too glad to see, momentarily lost in the fluttering inside his chest before he comes back to reality. ❝ Don’t be angry with me, but there were six... ❞ He shifts, leaning somewhat against the frame of the door, eyes darting once again over Sansa’s head... curious. ❝ However, on my way here, the walk from the kitchen is so long and I may have eaten two. ❞ His lips purse into a thin line, knowing how silly he’s being, if only for Sansa’s bemusement. ❝ The rest are for you, I swear! I’ll just... enjoy my wine. ❞ A pause, before he shows his teeth in a cheeky grin, sliding in past her. The room is warm, bringing his evening treat to the nearest table and comfortably finding a seat. ( No dress. ) Wyllas would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t horribly curious and it was only through the small desire of his to be surprised the day of that kept him from inquiring about. ❝ Nobody has come to bother you I hope? I’ve heard some are still in shock that one of Lord Stark’s children is here in Barrowton. ❞ From his spot he briefly eyes her, taking the time to pour them both wine, shamelessly filling Sansa’s cup to the top.

[lordustin]

direreign​:

( LADY SANSA. )

Sansa know that look on Wyllas’ face and does nothing to hide the one on her own. She knows that, perhaps, it is a childish approach — but if it was what she had to do in order to make sure that everything went the way she wanted it to… well, that would be how she would do it. Without any ounce of shame or care. “If Arya ever marries, I think all the Old Gods will come back to life from the shock of it all,” she muses, although she’s joking. Mostly. Her sister had always rebelled against everything that was feminine. That was expected from her. Sansa had always been the opposite; had dreamt of her wedding day. Even in the days she’d both thought of a faceless man, and the days she ignored that it was intended to be Wyllas that she married. “I think Robb knows that too,” she muses, quiet. A pause at the words, quiet and considerate. She agrees. “You can guide me. I want you to, too. Believe it or not. I want to know more about Barrowton, just as much as you know about Winterfell,” she does mean that. She’s going to live here now. It’s going to be her home. She has to make it one. She watches as he stands, as he draws her hands towards his face. A smile blooming anew as he kisses the tips of her fingers. “I will see you then,” As much as curiosity spikes, she doesn’t ask what he’s going to do. Imagines she’ll find out later if he wants to tell her. Sansa watches him leave, and it’s only when she finishes her drink that she leaves for her own chambers. A small time to get more of her dress stitched before Wyllas made his arrival. She needed all the time she could get, it felt like.

There were many small things Wyllas needed to do -- rightfully, without Sansa -- if only to maintain some measure of surprise. Wyllas had kept a majority of his plans and ideas to himself, as well as other gifts he had insisted on getting for Sansa. He spent a good two hours chatting with the castle blacksmith, watching him work on his bride’s gift, carefully ensuring he got every detail right, and then returning to the great hall. He wandered into the kitchen, startling the cooks who probably thought he had misunderstood when tastings for the feast were. He had asked for lemon cakes, and gods bless the cooks, who readily complied with his request. Another hour, and this time with a tray of cake, mugs and a pitcher, Wyllas carefully carries it all back to where Sansa was staying. Balancing a tray in one hand and knocking with another, he waits, smiling almost breathlessly as soon as she opens the door. ❝ I’m not bothering you am I? ❞ His eyes dart over her head, curious what she might have been doing, but he can only guess. Sansa wasn’t foolish enough to leave her dress lying out for him to potentially see... regardless of how terribly bad he wanted to see it. ❝ I brought you something. ❞

[lordustin]

direreign​:

( LADY SANSA. )

“i need to write to jon, too,” she confesses. can’t remember if she’d done so in the last few weeks. too busy. too distracted with making her dress in the evening to the point that she hadn’t really written to anyone when she had the opportunity to. she doesn’t dwell on that as fingers sweep across the other’s wrist slowly. fondly. “i doubt robb would be able to say no to both of us. if i lay it on thick enough, that should be enough within itself,” she’s teasing. mostly. although wyllas knows it is a tactic she uses. always had when they were children; wide eyes, a wobbly bottom lip. she will be able to replicate that in words. she’s sure of it. there’s a pause at the words, sansa watching him as he explains. an interest i. her eyes. “oh?” she asks. all of her traditions before marriage, passed down to her from her mother and her stories, involved the godswood. but she was going to be a dustin as much as she would be a stark soon. she had to honour both sides of that, didn’t she? she wanted to, too. wanted to try. “i don’t recall your mother telling me —“ a pause. it’s not an excuse, as much as it suddenly sounds like one. “we… we’ll make a day of it then.” if it means a lot to him, then it means something to her too. she wants him to know that without any underlying questions of whether she means it. “we have time. we can go to the godswood in the eve, if that’s better.”

His fingers twitch at her stroking his wrist -- the odd feeling of her warmth passing into him, how sensitive he was to her touch... Wyllas fights back a smile, eyebrow quirked knowing full well that Sansa had a knack for bending her brothers’ steel will in her favour. She was cunning, cleverly so, and he knew had he failed to compel Robb and Jon, she surely would. ❝ Play on his heartstrings, he’ll surely agree. Missing the opportunity to see his sister wed is not something he’ll get back -- well, there’s always Arya. ❞ The corner of his mouth pulls into a tight smile, thinking of wild Arya ever settling down. His eyes drop to the table, that same fluttering returning to his chest at Sansa’s interest in the Great Barrow. Oh, he could ramble about the pride that his house still carried with them despite being so small, and the tomb buried deep inside the hill that housed a king! He reveled in those stories as a boy, knowing that he descended from greatness. ❝ You know mother... she’s not very hands on and I think she wants you to find your own way through this. Which I’m glad of -- her not being involved allows us to undertake the important tasks, and it’s my responsibility, I suppose, to guide you. ❞ Wyllas’ smile grows a little bit wider, his gaze hesitant as he fights to keep her eye contact. He nods, slowly, ❝ I would really enjoy that. It’s not every northman you meet that prays to a mound of dirt and grass and snow followed by a big tree; this will be delightful for you. And Maester Owen makes quick work of it. ❞ The relief he feels is evident on his face, shifting in his seat, maybe excitedly at the day the both of them had planned out. Still, though, the young lord knew nothing would truly be over until they were wed, ❝ Sansa, dear, I need to go to the blacksmith. He owes me something; you don’t need to trouble yourself in joining me, but once I’m done... I could meet you at your chambers? ❞ He pulls her hands into his head, leaning over the table as he cups her hands, kissing the tops of her fingers that leave him blushing.

[lordustin]

she  is  a  knight  polishing  her  own  armour.  carrying  her  own  sword. fighting  her  own  battles.  MAKING HER OWN GLORY. 

[lordustin]

seascalled​:

( LORENAH. )

IT    WAS    INCREDIBLE    how    the    mighty    fleet    destined    to    calm    the    seas    fell    in    only    a    matter    of    minutes   .     as   the    plumes    of    smoke    rose    high    in    the    sky    it    served    as    a    reminder    to    anyone    who    survived    the    one    sided    battle    that    the    north    was   easily    claimable    by    forces    outside    the    pride   of    lions    that    stalked    it   .    his    words    bring    her    out    of    the    void    and    back    into    the    light    as    she    turns    her    head    away    from    the    flooded    river    back    to    her    cousin   .    ‘   THERE ’ S    NO    WAY    you ’ ll    be    able    to    make    it    back    —    riding    towards    that    is   just    asking    for    death    to    greet    you   .    ’    she ’ s    quick    to    rise    back    to    her    feet   ,    her    determination    to    hold    him    back    from    charging   in    blindly    clouds       her    wounds    and    her    brains    capacity    to    process    pain   .    ‘    THEY    TOOK    US    DOWN       in   seconds    Wyllas    think    about    what    they    will    do    to    you   ,    your    men    wont    be    able    to    get    out    of    the    range    of    those    canons    —-    we ’ ve    lost    the    moat   .    ’   

❝ We haven’t lost the moat. ❞ Wyllas repeats, something sharp and hard pushing his words from behind clenched teeth. ❝ We are northmen; we -- we have to protect our home. ❞ He stands there, jaw tight, letting his words reach her before he turns, looking at the men of House Dustin and Ryswell. Lorenah was undoubtedly right -- he would be riding to his death, but it would be an honourable death, and he would die protecting the North. He unsheathes his sword, invigorated by the strength that comes in wielding a blade, and he ushers the command: ❝ We ride for the moat! ❞ They echo back in shouts and cheers before a stampede of mounted soldiers heads east, towards the moat. Wyllas turns again, to Lorenah, approaching her. His grip is firm as he yanks on her arm, towards his horse. ❝ You’re coming with me. ❞ It’s a demand -- nothing less. ❝ Our king fights in the south for us. We owe him to have lands to return to when we win our independence. ❞

[lordustin]

direreign​:

( LADY SANSA. )

“That would be a correct assumption,” she reassures him with an easy smile. That was most of what she focused on doing now; refusing to let anyone else see, refusing to let them help. She wanted it to be something that she made with her own two hands. She wanted it to mean something, to prove just how much she wanted this wedding despite her insistence of the contrary for as long as she can remember. The past few months have changed a lot. Sansa would be a liar to claim otherwise. “I’m sure you will,” she placates him, but she does know that he means it. It has something fond blooming in her chest at the realisation. He’s the closest thing to a knight that she’s ever had, and she’ll remind him of it when she needs to. Now isn’t one of those times, as tempting as it is. “We’ll both write to him, I’m sure he’ll know better than to say no,” She would hope so, anyway. Sansa grazes fingertips across the palms of Wyllas’ hands when he lays them down on the table again for her to take, not wasting any time in doing so. Her eyes follow the movements of her own actions rather than seeing his response to it. “We can make time. I think I spent most of my time in the Godswood when I first came here, they’ll know where we are if they truly need us.”

Wyllas concedes with a nod, fingers curling at her touch as a ghost of a smile crosses his face. ❝ We’ll both write him; that should get his attention. ❞ His smiles grows a bit, imagining Robb receiving not only one, but two letters urging him to come to their wedding. ❝ If not Robb, then Jon, definitely. He wouldn’t miss his sister’s wedding. ❞ He speaks fondly of them, unaware of quite how long it had been since he saw them; they would be his true brothers after he was wed. The thought was exciting, yet not nearly so as being wed to Sansa. A sigh drags from his chest, head tilting, as his gaze is cast to the slats of the table. ❝ I’ll need to pray in the Great Barrow tomorrow...  and see the smith -- I should have done that earlier, ❞ He mutters, namely to himself, before continuing, ❝ It’s a tradition: before your wedding, the birth of your first child, on the eve of a battle, we offer a piece of ourselves to the Great Barrow, to call our ancestors back so that they can hear our prayers. Hopefully. ❞ Wyllas looks to her, gauging her expression, wondering what she perhaps thought of it -- no doubt it sounded silly to any other northman. ❝ It’s customary to go to the Godswood after. I can meet you there after or... you could come with me...? It won’t take long, I promise you. ❞ A part of him hoped Sansa would agree, if only to bring her just a bit further into his -- their -- house. 

[lordustin]

[lordustin]

direreign​:

( LADY SANSA. )

“Good,” is the only answer Sansa initially gives, although there’s still a clear grin on the corners of her mouth. Unable, unwilling, to hide it if she tried. She does enjoy this; the teasing between them. The fact that they get along, that there isn’t any more overwhelming silences and moments in which Sansa wants nothing more than to be able to flee as if she wasn’t sitting with her betrothed. Oh, how times had changed since they were children. When Sansa could barely sit in the same hall as him without complaining that he was too near her. Too irritating. Always touching, teasing, pulling her hair. She hated him… and then, she didn’t. A man instead of a child. Time had changed them both. “Oh? That’ll be nice,” and she means it too, even if Wyllas calls it boring. “I won’t be wearing black, no. That’s not very bride-like of me,” she muses, lips turning up at the corners again. She hums, considers the question for a moment. “I am making it. On my own. I will have it finished, don’t worry. It’s progressing a lot more than I think you’d expect,” Not anywhere near a place she’d be comfortable showing anyone, but progress what progress no matter how small. He means back, and the expression on his face changes. She wishes to lean in, to smooth the frown lines off his face. She doesn’t. “Oh – that’s too much, you do not have to do that. I fear Winter would prevent you coming back, and I’d have no one to marry,” She’s changing the subject as Wyllas finishes his drink. “Come with the Godswood with me, tomorrow. I think it’ll make us both feel better.”

❝ You say that as if I should know. ❞ Wyllas replies, hands lacing in front of him on the table as he leans back in. He’d never been to a wedding -- didn’t really know what a wedding dress looked like or what colour it should be. Would it mimic his house colours, or hers? And while he wanted to know, he knew better than to ask for details. ❝ I’ve no doubt you’ll have it finished. You have to be doing something when we part for the evenings... I can only assume you’re stitching your dress. ❞ He enjoys the thought; while Wyllas fussed with his mother, Sansa would sit in the quiet of her room, making her dress... The hardness of his face softens with her teasing, a slight embarrassment creeping into his chest at his readiness to brave the world for her. Wyllas shows his teeth behind a sheepish smile, hand coming to his hair to absentmindedly twirl his wild curls. ❝ Hm, well I suppose we’ll have to go together. ❞ He jests, but a part of him genuinely means it. ❝ If I don’t hear from him after my letter is sent, I’m going, winter or no. I won’t allow him to miss this, no matter how busy he is. ❞ He pinches the end of his hair, pulling it out at length before letting it spring back into place; he sighs. ❝ We have so much to do in these coming days, but for you, dearest Sansa, I will do anything. ❞ Hands come to rest back on the table, palms held upwards for her to take.

[lordustin]

direreign​:

( LADY SANSA. )

He yells, and people look in their direction. Sansa can feel the warmth on her cheeks, although there’s a grin widening her features which contradicts her blush. She doesn’t pay it any attention as she laughs, her free hand covering her mouth in an attempt to hide it. To quiet it, at least somewhat. Her eyes bright as she looks at him, teeth against her lower lip when she finally calms down. “You would look like a lemon, Wyllas. I’m telling you that with only good intentions, I promise,” she’s teasing him, another laugh threatening to bubble up within her. “As much as a handsome lemon cake sounds incredible, I don’t think either of us should be fully dressed in yellow. I will make sure everyone else knows that too,” she muses, head shaking. Her gaze falls down towards their hands. Lips puse for a moment. She contemplates what to say, what she’s meant to say. She’s meant to be a lady. These things shouldn’t phase her, and yet… “I know Robb has things to do. He’s… he’s King in the North. That’s important,” she sighs, though. Can’t stop herself if she tried. “I do want him to come, though. I think he knows that, I just… don’t want him to feel guilty if he can’t.” Sansa doesn’t know what would prevent it, but she also doesn’t want to. .Fear of jinxing it. “Thank you. I… You don’t have to, Wyllas.” But she also wouldn’t say no if he decided to write either.

By no means does he believe that, and willingly clings to the idea that a lemon cake is far more appealing than a lemon. The young lord takes her teasing in stride, his mouth pulled tightly into a grin at the corner. ❝ Fine, fine. No yellow! I completely understand... ❞ Wyllas says, hanging on every word with a look that says he’s being anything but truthful. He knew better, though, and firmly believed Sansa would absolutely walk out of the Godswood if he dare dress like a lemon. He snorts, thumbing over her fingers with great interest, ❝ From what I saw mother making, my jacket will be black. ❞ Eye dart to here, gauging her expression, wondering what she’ll say about him telling her about his attire. Maybe she didn’t want to know...? ❝ A boring black... I’m sure you won’t look nearly as drab as myself, did you say you were making your dress? No one is helping you? ❞ Her dress occupied most of his thoughts, shameless to admit it to himself. He couldn’t wait to see it, and if his wild imagination did it any justice -- his thoughts flick back to Robb -- the elder Stark boy would be missing out. Wyllas tuts, equally as disappointed at the idea of him not showing up as Sansa is. ❝ He is the King, and your brother. Therefore, he should be obligated to give you away. I’ll never let him live it down if he doesn’t come. ❞ He leans back on the bench, jaw tight with his hands spread on the table. ❝ You don’t have to thank me, this is... important. And if I have to, I’ll ride up to Winterfell myself. ❞ His gaze lingers on Sansa, if only briefly, before he takes interest in his mug again, swirling what little was left in it before drinking the rest down in a matter of gulps.

[lordustin]

direreign​:

( LADY SANSA. )

yet. the word hangs in the air, almost like a threat, and if sansa hadn’t already taken initiative with getting an understand of the basics, she’d be worried. catelyn had taught her alongside stark history – told her that, yes, she would need it one day. sansa hadn’t understood why. why would she want to be married to this fool? the boy that pulled her hair and laughed loudly with robb sniggering beside him as she went red faced in anger. “there is,” she murmurs, quiet. distracted momentarily as she traces fingers across his palms now. lacing them together because she can, because she wants to. its still… strange. being allowed to be affectionate with a man when people could see. it’s barely anything, she knows, but she’d always thought it wrong. something private. wyllas makes something in her chest sing. he’s not a knight, but she adores him all the same. it’s only when she hears the question that she blinks, focuses her gaze on him with something close to bemusement. “do not even joke about that. if i walk dow the aisle and you look like a lemon –” admittedly, she did love those, too. “i will go back home.” although anything negative on her features fades into the start of a grin. unable to hide it if she tried. “you did? thank you,” she squeezes his hand again. lips open and then close. smile falls into the start of a frown. she considers it for a moment. “robb said he would try to – he’s… you know how robb is. he’s busy, but… he said he would, so i trust that he will.”

His smile only grows as her fingers lock with his -- a move he wouldn’t have been so bold as to do himself, but he enjoys it when it comes from Sansa. She was subdued in her affections, sweet and charming, but attentive. The world fell away when she looked at him, held his hand or smiled at him -- only him; she had a gift for making him feel appreciated and loved in ways he never quite knew. Sansa made him want to be a good husband, for her. He knew that she deserved nothing less. ❝ A lemon! ❞ Wyllas shouts, absolutely aghast at the comparison, ❝ You wouldn’t dare leave me because of my choice of wardrobe! I was thinking something akin to... poppies? I’ve heard they’re yellow. Or -- better yet -- a lemon cake. Think of me as a handsome lemon cake. ❞ He beams, a laugh bubbling in his throat, cheeks pulled high into a grin as he bellows at his own humour. His smile lingers on his lips long after his laughing subsides, eyes training on the minute changes in Sansa’s expression. His voice grows soft, ❝ You really want him to come, don’t you? ❞ Wyllas sounds a fool to even ask, but he knows. ❝ He will, he has to. You are his sister... I’ll write him, explain that this is important not only for you, but for me as well. He’s like a brother to me, he and Jon both. We’re going to be a family now. ❞ His heart somewhat ached at thought, less so for him, and more for his bride. One wish of Wyllas’ was for her to be happy in every regard the day of their wedding; he would ensure that.

[lordustin]

[lordustin]

[lordustin]

seascalled​:

( LORENAH. )

      WITH    A    PAINED    SIGH    she    stumbles    back   ,    her    hand    reaches    down    to    support    herself    against    one    of    the    rocks    nearby    before    shes    able    to    lower    herself    to    sit   .    her    eyes    close    and    she    steadies    the    rise    and    fall    of    her    chest    before    shes    able    to    turn    her    gaze    towards    the    large    figure    next    to    her   ,    she    couldn ’ t    even    be    bothered    by    the    horse    and    how    it    moved    unpredictably    around    the    area   .  ‘    I    DON ’ T    KNOW    —    I    didn ’ t    see    anyone    else    emerge    on    this    side    of    the    river   ,    only    a    few    of    my    men    made    it    and    went    ahead    to    the    keep    to    warn    them   .  ’    with    a    sharp    cough    she    shifts    her    position    against    the    rock    to    try    and    find    something     comfortable    enough    to    ease    her    charred    muscles   .    ‘    WE    WENT    DOWN    first   ,    the    twins    were    further    down    the    river    I - I    don ’ t    know    —    I    don ’ t    know    what    happened    to    them   .    ’

Wyllas watches her, carefully, anxiously, picking up on every uncomfortable movement she makes. He grimaces. ❝ I have men, I can help. ❞ He pleads, unsure of what to entirely make of the situation, still shaken by the destruction that floated in the dark water of the Saltspear. Wyllas can see Barrow Hall from where he stands -- a dark little dot some miles off, wondering what they saw as the battle unfolded. ❝ What are we supposed to do? ❞ Is his next question, eyes looking further up the river and spotting what he thinks is even more smoke as a procession of frigates cruise up the river. His throat his tight, and burns, and his eyes itch. ❝ I’m going to the moat. Robb is still in the south and... and if they take the moat, there will be no way for him to come back. ❞