In Need Of Thyme

— Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

"How did you get through the Wall?" Jojen demanded as Sam struggled to his feet. "Does the well lead to an underground river, is that where you came from?

You're not even wet ..."

"There's a gate," said fat Sam. "A hidden gate, as old as the Wall itself. The Black Gate, he called it."

The Reeds exchanged a look. "We'll find this gate at the bottom of the well?" asked Jojen.

Sam shook his head. "You won't. I have

to take you."

"Why?" Meera demanded. "If there's a gate ...

"You won't find it. If you did it wouldn't open. Not for you. It's the Black Gate." Sam plucked at the faded black wool of his sleeve. "Only a man of the Night's Watch can open it, he said. A Sworn Brother who has said his words."

"He said." Jojen frowned. "This ….. Cold-hands?"-ASOS -Bran IV

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t.”

Tomix didn’t respond, his profile cast in the eerie glow of the Void. The dim light caught on his snowy lashes, each one outlined like a fragile thread of frost. Anger radiated off him in smoldering waves. How had it come to this? She couldn’t bear to look at him any longer. So she, too, turned her eyes to the swirling purple expanse. The abyss stretched endlessly before them, shifting and mocking, its whispers crawling beneath her skin. Coward, it taunted.

What a pair of fools they made, standing shoulder to shoulder yet miles apart, clinging to the empty embrace of the Void as if it could shield them from each other. From themselves. They were two shadows suspended within the same violet light, a fractured mirror of festering wounds. 

On his way back, Jon swung wide of the column's line of march and took a shorter path through the thick of the wood. The sounds of man and horse diminished, swallowed up by the wet green wild, and soon enough he could hear only the steady wash of rain against leaf and tree and rock. It was midafternoon, yet the forest seemed as dark as dusk. Jon wove a path between rocks and puddles, past great oaks, grey-green sentinels, and black-barked ironwoods. In places the branches wove a canopy overhead and he was given a moment's respite from the drumming of the rain against his head. As he rode past a lightning-blasted chestnut tree overgrown with wild white roses, he heard something rustling in the underbrush. "Ghost," he called out. "Ghost, to me."

But it was Dywen who emerged from the greenery, forking a shaggy grey garron with Grenn ahorse beside him. The Old Bear had deployed outriders to either side of the main column, to screen their march and warn of the approach of any enemies, and even there he took no chances, sending the men out in pairs.

More book Dany but this time with her children🙏

a few asoiaf faceclaims

Lyanna Stark, Arthur Dayne, Rhaegar Targaryen

Rhaegar faceclaim stolen from @jacaeryspilled x

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Lyanna had seen them both at the opening feast—wept, even, to the prince’s sad song—but up close they were almost otherworldly. Ser Arthur’s enameled steel armor was the color of milk, chased with gold, and from his shoulders trailed the snowfield cloak of the Kingsguard. The only spot of color on him was a lavender jade clasp inlaid with a white sword crossing over a falling star. Above his back rose the pale hilt of Dawn. The knight was tall, just as tall as the prince, but he was thicker about the chest and broader at the shoulders. His short-cropped hair was black as a raven’s coat, his strong jaw darkened by the shadow of a new beard. A slight crook to his nose was his sole scar; the quiet mark of a man who had bled and risen still.

The Warrior come to life, her mind whispered. Benjen will be green with envy to learn that I have seen the knight he so worships, and from so near.

At his side, the crown prince was almost Ser Arthur’s inverted twin. Where his knight donned white, the prince wore black. He was in the colors of his royal house: a black velvet doublet with a scarlet half cape draped across one shoulder, clasped with a silver three-headed dragon brooch with little rubies for eyes. The Targaryen dragon also adorned his crown, rearing fiercely along the slender gold circlet above his brow. Beneath it spilled a long wave of silver-pale hair. The face it framed was exceedingly handsome: beautiful, almost, with his straight nose and fine cheekbones that told a tale of golden blood. But it was his eyes that spoke the loudest. They were cousins to Ser Arthur's, a solemn pool of indigo just a shade deeper than his knight's spirited violet. And so... melancholy. 

I wonder why he is so sad, thought Lyanna. He is the crown prince, yet he looks as if he has scarcely known a scrap of joy...

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Descriptions from A Crown of False Spring.

And here’s Arya and her little lip chew

"The things I do for love" - AGOT - Bran II

Daenerys Targaryen

Commission art for redoorlemontree on x(twt)

Some banter between Valencia and Symone, perhaps, if you are still doing prompts x

“What are YOU doing here?”

Valencia narrowed her eyes at the familiar annoying voice, and rose from where she was crouched at the hidden entrance to the cave. “I have a reliable source that tells me this cave has remnants of the hoard of the rock drake Callan. Now I could ask YOU the same question!”

Symone glowered slightly, adjusting the rope on her hip. “I have my own reliable source that says a pack of night creatures have taken up residence in this cave, biding their time before they attack the nearest village. Stand aside, treasure hunter, they must be slain!”

“Not so fast, monster hunter!” Valencia drew herself up to her full height and rested her hand on the pommel of her blade. “If there is treasure in there, it’s highly fragile and I will NOT have you DESTROY it with your clumsy stomping around!”

“Clumsy?! I’ll have you know that the ways of the Shadowhunter have been passed down through generations of the DuBellmount line! Besides, are you REALLY willing to risk the lives of innocents for some mere trinkets?!”

“Trinkets?! I don’t have time to tell you how wrong you are, but at least I preserve! You destroy!”

“And how many items that you’ve ‘preserved’ have ended up being cursed?!”

“That’s neither here nor there! Besides, I’ve found far more hidden tombs than you!”

“Finding tombs is not my priority, Valtrith aside! And I can do more press-ups than you!”

“Can not!”

“Can too!”

The battle lines declared, both women dropped to the floor, determined to prove her press-up superiority, and thus neither of them noticed the Hero exiting the cave’s front entrance, having clearly come from a fight as they sheathed their weapons, Draco happily curled round their shoulders sporting a shiny new crown.

Spotting Valencia and Symone in their heated competition, the Hero promptly turned around and walked off very quickly in the opposite direction.