#queue ⚔ 𝐈 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄

[scndor]

HOW IS YOUR SOUL PERCEIVED?                                  

the strong-willed

your soul has touched darkness and so you learned to wrap yourself within it. you felt fear and decided you would never let it control you again. you're not always all sharp edges and cool stares, but you refuse to be prey again. you turned your teeth into fangs so you would be the one to bite. you learned to growl louder than all the predators who stole your innocence. it may seem like you don't care, sometimes you try to pretend you don't, but i see the way you sharpen your knives when the ones you care about are hurting.

TAGGED: @blossomhcir (ty <3)

TAGGING: @winterreigned @imaginarianisms @call-2-arms @velcryons @stormbcrn @cleganesurvivor + anyone who wants to do it say i tagged u

[scndor]

@call-2-arms liked this post for a starter

𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆 he seeks the golden haired man out. sorry and with a longing he would never get used to on his own. it's the feral part of him that rears its ugly head and he finds himself doing little to hold it back. grey are the walls of winterfell and grey are the walls of the red keep in which their paths, so long ago, would cross regularly. grey and gold and such a lack of color should be unsettling but sandor finds it home. grey stone, gold of the westerlands. ( he knows the west like i do — knows the sun there and the tall wheat and how dry the air could be and how, in spite of that, the sweat would roll down his forehead. )

his arm, all thick with muscle and promise, moves to pin jaime along those familiar stones. doesn't speak at first, his actions run hotter than his blood. faster than his words can form. eyes dart from his eyes to his lips and back up to his eyes — depths he can't handle. and gods, he wished they were coming at each other with swords and not flesh. at least then sandor would know what move to make.

" what do you want from me, lannister, " he starts, voice a stark difference from the last they connected. he leans in slightly, in spite of himself. ferocity grabbing the reigns — a pattern he sorely finds himself falling into lately. " decide quick, " he almost spits. " won't stick around for one night alone. "

[scndor]

@cleganesurvivor liked this post for a starter

𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐅 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐃, he stares at his sister, in all of her drunken glory. of course she could throw back her cups like a clegane, he should not have been surprised. at some point, sooner or later, he would have to stop thinking of his sister as soft. and fragile. maybe not tonight.

he grabs the mug out from the grasp of her palms and finishes its contents, slowly realizing he hasn't had enough himself. he braces both hands against the table, preparing to stand up but pauses instead. something new and warm and light passes over him. maybe this time he doesn't shrug it off. " won't always be here to save your drunken ass, " sandor starts, almost sounding like his father in tone. empty words, he knows. he would be there if it meant cutting through a hundred men.

and he knows, gods sandor knows, that he cannot save either of their childhoods. his innocence is gone and likely hers too, but he would fight for it all the same. the both of them ache of betrayal and the sun of the westerlands and the wrath of a father. of a brother. and life can't possibly be normal, but it could be something. he sees it. won't let it go this time.

sandor pushes off the table, stepping over the wooden bench. " alright, time for bed. " both hands hood under her armpits to lift her up and over his left shoulder. " better not think about throwing your guts up, " a pause. he attempts to think of some threat as a joke and comes up sorely blank. he finds it hard to, even in jest, paint himself like their other sibling.

[scndor]

@blossomhcir liked this post for a starter

𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐔𝐓𝐘 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐌 away from the capitol city. for why and what reason, he only half listens to. not much to his job except for to kill and then, some day, to die. not much use asking why. not much use asking any questions, really. duty is duty and the slim piece of his life that remains at the end of the day is his alone. and he would not waste either part with questions.

perhaps, were they to visit a different region of the continent, his guards would be further up. perhaps he would be flipping through his mental roster, sizing up mentally. where they are now comes up blank. sandor takes this to be a sign he can relax — but not wholly. silence often garners suspicion. and so he treads without fear, but caution. a healthy balance, he thinks.

sandor finds the main hall easy enough. no sign of his protectee. he finds his way to a garden, heavy shin plates clanging against one another — a stark contrast to the scenery. no sharp, straight edges. no grating sounds. the gardens of kinds landing couldn't spare half the expense of being as calm and unfiltered as they are here. eyes half deep in the thorns of some flowering greenery, he bumps into a small figure. immediately, he recognizes her as the lady of the house. a part of him stiffens, so used to the sour royalty of the capitol. another part of him relaxes. sees something in her eyes he can't quite read.

" pardon, " he starts, gruff and unforgiving, stepping aside with little regard to any sort of manners. a pause. something foreign comes over him like a mask. " might keep an eye on your guests. flowers don't bloom like this everywhere. "

[scndor]

@amarvelousmencgerie liked this post for a starter ( for sansa )

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐂𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 rings in both of his ears. it's as if all of the ash of who he is was blown away in the evening breeze. and he mostly feels new.

the north is as much of a stronghold as he imagined, and just as foreign and unending. easy to be alone here. easy to fade into the background. somehow that leaves sandor feeling without cause. the freedom covers him like an itch. unnatural. a reflex to get rid of it.

he has to take two stairwells to find her. he knows he could pretend that his feet led him there on some random whim, but the winter air, sharp and with all its meaning, all but exposes him. and in a way it makes sense — to seek her out. to seek something familiar. and he knows he only knew her for such a small part of hers and an even smaller part of his life, but the ghosts of his past are haunting him always. she survived kings' landing. and so did he.

his ungraceful footfalls ring out among the wood beams. all covered in snow. melted where boots had been. he stops a few feet from her. looks out over the courtyard. " a far cry from the red keep, " he observes, shoulders tense. " and fucking cold. "

[scndor]

@dreamtfyres liked this post for a starter

𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐃 fills his ears and catches in his throat. a stolen childhood. a brother that cuts like a blade. a father who only sees his eldest. the morning is over far too soon. and it leaves a sorry taste on his tongue. and sometimes he wishes he could go back.

doesn't see himself in her :: she has not stood where he stood and nor could sandor fit her shoes. but he does, in spite of everything, feel some sort of sympathy. the sorry kind — the way he would also look upon a suffering animal. an ill-fitted respect to it, but he stands and watches all the same. it's all he can do. ( life has not marked me a hero and nor is that something i desire. )

during this afternoon in particular, sandor has been tasked with finding the princess and escorting her to her mother. he stalks the corridors of the keep, shoulder span large enough to scare off men and women alike. he walks slowly in some act of solidarity in which he would never own up to. he knows what it's like to not want to be found. and yet an inevitability — he spots the girl. long strides has him catching up to her in the halls; he steps in front of her to cut her off.

" your mother's been looking for you, girl, " he starts, gruff and unforgiving. there shouldn't be more to say and yet sandor has never quite been good at the intricacies of speech. " dream all you want, you can't escape. best learn that now. "

[scndor]

@stormbcrn liked this post for a starter

𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐑 as he could see. the scent of burning flesh is only too familiar and even after as many years, still fosters a well of darkness inside of him.

sandor has had enough violence over the night to sate him for the time being. violence, but the anger never reached a maximum. and so angry he feels — washing out the exhaustion. the core of him would ache for the hilt of his blade under the right circumstances.

the crowd begins to dissipate : some to say their personal respects and others to fill their noses with some other smell. nothing specific on his mind and a new image on his horizon, he finds his feet carrying him to the silvery waterfall of hair that somehow manages to stand out among all the gods-forsaken snow.

" big ugly eyesore of a city, " he starts, eyes on the flames. " king's landing," he clarifies, hoping her eyes were set on a similar horizon now that the northern threat had been dealt with. " lived there most of my life. hated every minute. "

" burn it to the ground for all i care, " he starts, a stranger to his wish of fire. " won't tell you to wait for me. but my brother will die by my hand. " ( when they find my body among the ashes, just know that it was me. )