ofice-blog1

[ofice-blog1]

 Dany’s joke is-- terrible. 

          There is a seemingly awkward silence that pervades the conversation as the bastard mentally digests what she’s just said.  Finally turning to her, he bursts out into a laughter so hysterical that it’s likely to be heard all the way in Winterfell. 

How long has it been since he’s laughed? Months? Years? The last time he can remember having an earnest laugh is back on the King’s Road when he had just set off to take the Black, which now seems like an age ago.

��❝ did you think of that one all night or did it just come to you ? �� He teases, squeezing her small hand with just enough force for it to be noticed. 

     THE DRAGON QUEEN’s eyes drift down, her hand now beneath Jon’s. They return back upward to gaze at the coming land, a small smile on her face. WESTEROS was her home, always had been. The South and the North, opposites, yet she knew each were pregnant with their own individual beauty.

“I’ve yet to meet a perfect people.” She replies, looking over to him, “So long as I don’t freeze to death, I believe I will like it just fine. Thankfully for a SNOW, you’re rather warm, I must say.”

[ofice-blog1]

༺ @khcleesii ༻

THE BASTARD KING’s nostrils flare, sinuses inflamed by the saline in the damp, sea breeze. Dark eyes watch the horizon, the silhouette of a landmass just barely coming into view. His hand moves slowly across the railing and collapses over Daenerys’. 

❝ we aren’t a perfect people, northerners, ❞ he candidly remarks. ❝ we aren’t fanciful like the southerners and the lands don’t glisten like those in essos. we are a ‘ardy people, tempered by winters long and cold. ❞ 

Finally, Jon turns to Daenerys, his typically flat expression replaced by one of tentative excitement. ❝ --i think you’ll like it here. ❞

[ofice-blog1]

jon and dany rolling up to the lannisters like

@ofice

[ofice-blog1]

                                                    ICE & FIRE

[ofice-blog1]

daenerys is doing the thing: x

❝ i suspect there is very little you cannot ‘andle; what you cannot do is lie. ❞ Only weeks into their relationship and Jon isn’t afraid to speak his mind, regardless of Daenerys’ title. He’s come to care for her in a way that he just cannot explain, not even to himself. He doesn’t fear the dragon’s FIRE.

❝ tell me what’s going on. ❞

@khcleesii

[ofice-blog1]

Jon: I think she’s got a good heart. Davos: A good heart? I’ve noticed you staring at her ‘good heart’. *laughs* Jon: There’s no time for that. Me: 

[ofice-blog1]

❝i suppose you could say that. we’ve met. only one of the lions i could stand, even before . . . ❞

Jon figured he didn’t need to continue. Even having been so far removed from the political machinations of Westeros, he was certain that one of Daenerys’ advisors, if not Tyrion himself, had told her of the horrible fate that had befallen his family. 

But with her help, they would be avenged. 

Candidly, he remarked, ❝i’m glad you’re here, daenerys targaryen.❞

     Tyrion was the only honorable Lannister she was aware of, though likely the most intoxicated. His wisdom had served her well over the short time she’d known him, and she was still impressed he risked his life to be at her side. 

     Daenerys’ eyes took a moment to take note of Jon’s features. He was young and handsome, nothing like she expected a Warden of the North to look like. But then, perhaps he thought the same of her. There was an unmistakable look in his dark eyes. The look of someone who had seen and felt death too many times. She’d heard of the BATTLE OF THE BASTARDS, as the Westeros folk had called it, and she couldn’t imagine what he’d gone through on that bloody day.

     He’d lost another brother in that fight, if memory served her well.

“He’s been very busy.” She nodded, recalling the time Tyrion temporarily took her place in Mereen, “You know him?”

[ofice-blog1]

                   SOME SAY THE WORLD WILL END IN FIRE. 

                                             SOME SAY IN ICE.

                                                           ༺ ༻

[ofice-blog1]

{ @ofice  dont let me be sick and bored }

[ofice-blog1]

Smol hand hold.

❝your hand is freezing.❞

He would have offered to fetch a pair of gloves, weren’t her hands so bloody small. Could gloves even be made so tiny?

[ofice-blog1]

Smol kiss.

Jon touched a hand to his cheek.

Daenerys Targaryen was the very last person that Jon ever expected to be kissed by. It was such a small gesture that it could even be construed as a friendly one, but from the way that she had been looking at him of late, he couldn’t be sure. 

❝i’m–❞ Jon choked on his words.

❝sure is cold today.❞

[ofice-blog1]

Jon Snow’s dull, grey eyes glossed over the woman and a thousand questions rushed into his mind.

The Lord Commander was quick to dismiss the ranger once he’d been debriefed. Whoever--or whatever--this woman was, it was best that her presence be known by as few of the brothers as possible. The men of the Night’s Watch held a superstition that a woman’s presence at Castle Black was often the herald of misfortune.

Her announcement that she was cold was delivered harshly and met with a frown from Jon. 

❝we’re all cold, woman. winter’s coming. but i suspect, ‘aving been found north of the wall, you already know that.❞

Getting up from behind his desk, Jon began to pace, his arms folded behind his back. He tapped his forefingers to his thumbs, a nervous mannerism. 

❝who are you?❞

@ofice​ 

     A ranger returned at dawn. 

     But he wasn’t alone. With him was a young woman, yet she was no wildling girl. Neigh, her clothing was fine, though weathered, with accents of gold. In hands that appeared to be showing the first signs of frostbite was an ornate box of wood and gold, gems encrusted in the intricate designs.

“Found ‘er wanderin’ a mile from the wall talkin’ some nonsense ‘bout that box.” The ranger said to Jon, “No weapons or anythin’, ain’t a wildlin’ bitch neither. Didn’t think I should put a blade through her, but couldn’t jus’ leave’r there…”

     The shivering young woman smiled at Jon, that of a cheshire. Was he a curious spirit?

     When the man was dismissed, the blonde walked passed Jon and headed up the stairs toward the first door she saw.

“I’m cold, Crow.”

[ofice-blog1]

The boy wasn’t wrong, though he was an arrogant little shit.

No amount of stories, training, or prayers could prepare someone to go beyond The Wall.

❝you want to go BELOW, do you?❞

Looking at Isao now was like looking into a mirror; in the young recruit, Jon saw himself just a few, short years ago. He was headstrong, prideful, and foolhardy. A combination that often saw to the end of many would-be rangers. But above all, he was brave. 

And so, too, was Isao. 

❝fine. we’ll go. go and saddle us a couple of ‘orses and get yourself armored. we leave tonight.❞

Jon sat back down at his desk and removed his quill from its home in the font beside the missive he’d been writing. 

❝now, i gave you an order, recruit. sweep this fuckin’ floor.❞

     Her almost black eyes were like a snakes; and she had been ready for a great while to strike. Who wasn’t a killer in this world? Even those most innocent were supporters of something. And each something had enemies. Peasants depended on Lords to keep bandits and other Lords at bay.

“And you were?” She asked, “No one here was.”

     Ishiyo’s hand now rested on the hilt of her sword, and she stood straight. Did she, as a woman, truly need to honor the BLACK?

     She would not sweep another floor in this place.

“Take me there.”

[ofice-blog1]

Winter heaved a weighty sigh and the silence was punctuated by a sudden gust of snowy wind. Jon approached the woman slowly as she saddled her horse, snow crunching beneath his boots.

❝i’ve come to ask you some questions.❞

Between his hands, he held the half-burnt bauble that Ser Davos had carved for the princess Shireen. It was such a small thing, made for tiny, innocent hands. It was carved in the shape of a stag, the standard of the house Baratheon. To think that the little girl had been holding it when she’d died made the bastard’s blood freeze in his veins.

On his way out to the stables, Jon had kept asking himself, ❛why?❜ Over and over. Sometimes aloud. What did the red woman see in the fire that had pushed her to sanction the murder of a child?

He had to know.

❝--questions that need answerin’.❞

Jon placed a hand on the haft of Longclaw; a pithy display of force. He wasn’t entirely sure that would even be able to kill Melisandre if he tried. ❝and you’re not leavin’ until i’m satisfied.❞

                                     Whispered Farewells II Jon & Melisandre II @ofice​

     Blind loyalty, if it is not properly contained can lead the follower astray - such was the case with Melisandre. Lack of perceptiveness had made her lose everything; her King, friends and now a potential home. She had done all of this to herself by reading the flames wrong, or had her Lord of Light sent her the wrong signals all along to lead her to this point in her life? Is he testing me or have I truly failed him? It is a question she asks herself the minute her eyelids flutter open in the morning and the moment they close before she sleeps. Such doubts have lead her to believe that she is not near as useful as she once thought, but that didn’t stop her from trying to convince Jon Snow that he was in need of her. She had tried to assure him that she was not disposable, that the war of the dead would be something he needed her aid in, but she was not certain her words were truly getting through to him. Alas, he did not see a great need for her either, banishing her from the North forever. Such an action had not only surprised her, but had hurt her despite her efforts to bury her feelings deep within herself. He had become her new King, a new man to follow, but he did not wish to have her as a follower. Cast out once more, she is alone in her sorrows, her eyes threatening to spill tears - yet they do not. It will not do to look weak as she is leaving the North. Thus, she stands tall and makes her way to the stables, her icy stare greeting anyone who dares challenge her. These onlookers will remember her as an evil sorceress, but they will never say she did not have dignity. 

     Once at the stables, her dainty hands grip a saddle before slinging it over the back of a horse. For a moment, she halts her actions, her eyes roaming the scenery before her, taking in the look of Winterfell for the last time. Snow is lightly falling, dusting the ground in its pale innocence, removing the sin that had once resided there. Snowflakes land on her lashes, causing her to blink more rapidly to clear her vision. It is beautiful, even if it is the opposite of the fire that burns within her veins. She catches herself thinking this before her hands move to saddle her horse once more. The smell of winter becomes more powerful as she hears footsteps approaching, her attention immediately turning to its source. Her gaze is met with one that catches her off guard, his brown hues meeting her own bluer ones - Jon Snow. A moment passes and her lips part to let words escape, but they catch in her throat, her mouth pressing into a thin line as she looks downwards to avoid his eyes. Shame etches across her features, a soft sigh escaping her ruby lips as she holds onto her horse, making no move to go around the animal. Why he has come to speak to her is beyond her comprehension, as he had made it quite clear where he stood in regards to her. 

     “I suppose you have come to say goodbye,” Her words trail off as she thinks of what else she might wish to say to him, but nothing comes to mind. What is there to say to someone who threatens to hang you if they ever see your face again? There are no words in her vocabulary that could properly express her feelings in that moment, thus she remains silent. 

     The silence lingers between them like an unwelcome guest, both unwilling to acknowledge it, but both are obligated to greet it. She will not be the one to break it once more though, her eyes trained on the saddle her nimble fingers are coiled around. At one time, she might have had something to say, as she had been bolder before, but now she was just another woman at the whims of a man. With such a thought, a sigh passes her lips and her head raises so that she might look at him one last time. She wants to remember the curves of his face, the tinge of sadness in his eyes, the curl of his hair; because she knows that he will be the true savior, the true chosen one, someone who will go down in history over all others. Jon Snow will rise, he will endure, he will reign: such things she saw in the flames. 

[ofice-blog1]

Jon Snow hadn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep in as far back as he could remember. When he closed his eyes, he sometimes found himself back over The Wall, watching helplessly as the Night King’s army of revenants slaughtered the Free Folk at Hardhome. Their screams of terror still ringing in his ears as if they were only just outside the door of his chambers. 

But more recently, it was the Battle of the Bastards that haunted his dreams. He saw the mountains of bodies that spired across the grey field. Ramsay Bolton, armed with a triumphant grin, sat atop his horse as he commanded his cavalry to charge. And his brother, Rickon, asphyxiating on his own blood. 

If only he had got to him a second earlier.

A scream in the night had stirred Jon from his bed and led him to the chambers of Talia Forrester, who had been quartered a few paces down the hall. As he understood, she’d been a prisoner of the Bolton bastard; beaten and tortured at Ramsay’s pleasure. He remembered Talia from feasts at Winterfell, a curious young girl with a talent for music, if he recalled correctly, but the two had never spoken very much. 

Now that she was the scion of her house, he suspected they would get to know one another much better in the days to come, as he would need all of the help he could muster if the North was going to survive the coming of winter. 

❝Bad dreams?❞ Jon asked, settling his shoulder against the open doorway to her room.

He didn’t give her time to answer. ❝Me, too.❞

@ofice // idk i mean we were joking about them bickering after her having a nightmare but she really wouldn’t yell at him 

He was touching her everywhere, his rough hands roaming where she wished not to be touched. She remembered his touch from when he grasped her arm in the Great Hall. She remembered his hand grasping her’s as he dragged her along through the woods to look upon Arthur Whitehill in his final moments. But this was different. This was violating. If only her mind could scream at her to wake up. If only her mind could cut through her unconsciousness to let her know he was dead and gone: ripped apart by his own hounds. 

“Tell me that it’s lovely,” he purred in her ear. She could see it so clearly, his menacing smile that could tear a person in half from the inside out. She lurched out of her slumber, a high pitched scream ringing through the air and echoing throughout her room. She wanted to cry, wanted to scream until her throat went raw. But she had to remind herself it was only a nightmare. Ramsay was dead. Ryon was safe wherever he was. She heaved for breath, brushing the strands of sweaty hair that clung to her forehead. Hopefully the scream did not awake anyone. Silently, she tried to compose herself. It would be some time until she was comfortable enough to fall back asleep. 

[ofice-blog1]

jon snow + hair (requested)

[ofice-blog1]

Tyrion Lannister. Now there was a name that Jon had not heard in some time. They had traveled together on the Kingsroad during his journey to The Wall. It was something that he remembered fondly. Coincidentally, it was the only thing he remembered fondly where the Lannisters were concerned.

The dwarf had been instrumental in Jon’s decision to take up the Black, a decision which, in hindsight, could have very well have saved his life. Had he stayed in Winterfell, he would have been compelled to fight at Robb’s side and a Frey’s knife would have long made his neck its home. 

❝the imp’s been busy.❞ said Jon, thinking aloud.

     She could tell her dragons were curious of the stranger speaking to their mother, and she knew it was only a matter of time before one came down to investigate. While they wouldn’t harm him, she was weary of people around them. Even those she trusted.

“TYRION LANNISTER is Hand of the Queen.” Daenerys answered with pride. She thought fondly of her Hand, and the wise words he’d given her. And the laughs, of course. “He hates his family as much as we do. Killed his own father. So long as he has WINE he’s one of the most wise advisors the realm has seen.”