#( no tiddies this time only slopes of shoulders lol )

[wcrfcres]

war has been diminished into a far less complicated matter in whispers . grandness in violence , victory , and dominance is all that comes to mind at the mere mention of it . the finer , smaller details are left to fall off the scarlet - smeared platter where it is served upon the nobles gathered around the famed painted table . but to alaric mormont , who has made a home in details often looked over , wars will and can never be simple . it demands more than men are able to provide , takes from them everything they do not think they even possess . under the dark clouds of battle , everyone and no one is ready , worthy , or valiant . but always , always is everyone regretful . they say life flashes before a dying man's eyes , no one can really be sure . a dying man is robbed of breaths and farewells . he is simply a dead man , a widow's tale to provide comfort and boost morale . one thing is certain , if such tales proved true , all he will see before his eyes is myranda karstark and her incomparable beauty , the beauty of the north coming only after . steel is cold even against his icy skin , even with linen spread between . he flinches and winced , does not find it in himself to hide the discomfort . shame the last of his worries as he stands in her presence . his heart begins to race as one ware after another is mounted on his body , each one colder and tougher than the one before . safety feels confiding , stifling even , he never got used to it . but he figured he needed to start somewhere if their cause gets heard and acted upon . precautions are to be taken , as if they matter when men mount their horses and charge towards each other uncertain where they may strike . for naught or entertainment , peril is peril . death wears a different face , and in this tourney , it shall wear an armor — and it may as well be his . ❝ i take your word for it , though i feel like a fool no less , how am i supposed to move in it ? ❞ the wilderness of bear island remained the only witness of the rage and violence that seemed to thrive in the flesh of men , his included . the armor is a mere attempt to make nobles swallow the despicable any of them are capable of doing .

❝ how do i breathe in it ? ❞ he brings forth a jest , to lighten the mood that was bearing heavy on the severity of the outcomes . it is all games and mirth , until someone's chest bursts into a soup of flesh and blood . amusement swimming in his eyes as he looks down on the fitted armor , making some kind of hushed sound and clink or creak when he moved . ❝ it makes sounds . no wonder these southerners take too long to hunt bears and boars , they scare them away with the noise . ❞ light laugh escapes the lord mormont as he turned to his dearest . swiftly joy was taken from him , and it is replaced with an awful turn in his stomach . comfort was not something he gave nor received easily , not because of ego or pride . rather it touches something within him that brings about a river of hurt not even time can swim on , making him inefficient . ❝ i ... i will be careful , i promise . my goal will be to stay seated and to come out of it unharmed so we may hide away in the library for the rest of the festivities . ❞ to say it out loud , beyond this tent would be odd . no man going into a fight can ever assure they hold the god's favor or luck in their pocket . but alaric wanted to , demand it from the gods and steal luck if only to give myranda all that she wanted . ❝ is it meant to be hot ? i am sweating like i've never sweat before under here . do you reckon they'd allow me not to wear it ? ❞

The  air  had  been  sucked  from  the  tent,  surely,  leaving  behind  a  void.  It  is  a giddy feeling  for  a  moment,  like  standing  at  the  top  of  a  tall  tower,  a  head-spin  before  she  does  finally  take  a  singular  breath,  and  then  another,  and  then  another.  It  does  not  remove  the  distraction,  but  it  does  ground  her,  slightly,  enough  for  her  to  feel  shame  over  the  reaction.  Get  it  together,  she  scolds  herself.  He  is  baring  soul,  genuine  concerns,  and  she  is  more  concerned  with  the  slope  of  shoulder,  the  strength  in  his  arm.  But,  beyond  all  that,  when  she  can  finally  drag  eyes  away,  is  him.  The  same  eyes  she  had  looked  into  more  times  than  she  could  count,  despite  every  moment  being  precious.  It  was  still  Alaric,  and  yet  somehow  that  was  the  most  panic-inducing  part  of  it.  Heart  thundered  in  her  chest,  banging  against  ribs  like  it  wished  to  be  free,  and  while  she  spun  ring  around  her  finger,  there  was  no  denying  the  heat  that  rose  to  her  face.

It  was  one  thing  to  sigh  wistfully  while  watching  the  men  train  in  the  yards,  or  the  women  walking  past  in  the  daring  cuts  of  the  southern  dresses.  Another  entirely  to  be  so  utterly  struck  by  someone  she  knows.  It  was  Alaric,  who  made  her  laugh  no  matter  the  circumstances.  Who  had  been  there  so  long,  she  couldn't  imagine  a  life  where  she  did  not  search  him  out  in  every  crowd,  or  turning  to  him  with  any  concern.  His  name  had  taken  a  meaning  of  it's  own,  representing  safety,  and  comfort,  and  love.  A  friend,  in  the  most  meaningful  way.  Except  the  thoughts  that  had  rushed  through  her  mind  certainly  weren't  friendly,  and  while  she  would  admit  to  no  one  that  she  had  thought  them,  it  made  her  want  to  beg  forgiveness  for  gods  she  was  almost  sure  would  not  care. There  are  greater  concerns  that  surround  them,  and  yet  Myranda  can  name  none  of  them,  can  think  of  nothing  but  Alaric. 

"I...  What?"  She  heard  the  words,  but  somewhere  between  hearing  them  and  trying  to  form  a  response,  there  was  nothing.  No  candle  at  the  desk,  whole  world  shrinking  to  just  them,  just  that  tent.  How  long  had  she  been  stood,  with  what  she  assumed  was  an  embarrassing  look  on  features?  Awkwardness  almost does  make  her  laugh,  at  herself  rather  than  him,  but  it  is  easily  contained,  too  worried  of  hurting  his  feelings.  She  would  do  anything,  to  protect  his  feelings.  Even  remain  silent.  "No,  I  would  never...  Why  would  I  laugh?  You  will  look  fearsome.  And  dashing.  And...  And  every  bit  the  knight  of  stories.  You  have  my  word."  And  he  certainly  looked  strong  enough  to  bear  the  weight  of  the  armour.  No,  another  thought  to  be  banished  to  the  wintery  edges  of  her  mind.  "I  swear  it.  And  I  swear  that  if  I  do  hear  a  single  laugh,  I  will  be  borrowing  your  lance  to  smack  some  sense  into  the  offending  party."

She  swallows  hard  around  the  lump  in  her  throat,  before  turning  eyes  towards  the  tent  wall.  "You  are  going  to  be  careful,  aren't  you?  I  would  be...  Terribly  angry,  to  have  come  all  this  way,  only  for  you  to  be  injured."  She  flicks  eyes  back  to  him  for  a  moment,  locked  decidedly  on  his  face.  He  was  every  bit  the  bear  of  his  sigil,  somehow  sweetened  by  the  knowledge  of  the  truth  of  him.  It  was  an  honour,  to  be...  She  wanted  to  say  his  friend,  but  the  word  rung  hollow  in  mind.  "I  need  you  to  promise  that  you..."  Will  return  to  me,  she  wants  to  say.  But  he  is  not  hers,  not  to  command  nor  to  summon,  nor  to  even  ask  this.  But  she  does  anyway.  "That  you  will  not  be  hurt."