A Song Of Fashion | House Stark

a song of fashion | house stark

Here in the south, they say you are all made of ice, and melt when you ride below the Neck.

Please read this!

+

Caged Bird: Part 6

“The power of getting to know one another is so immense, eclipsed only by first getting to know ourselves.” -Bryant McGill

---

“I want a mission report.” Alexander Pierce addressed Doctor Müeller with a look of derision. The man who commanded Hydra while hiding in SHIELD was hardly impressed by the doctors ‘experiment’, but if it yielded results, than he would he proven wrong.

“You promised me results, doctor.” Doctor Müeller was standing in front of Pierce, Agent Rumlow and the rest of the STRIKE team with a sweaty brow and shaking hands.

“The woman, songbird or little dove as the soldat calls her, has been in our care for 2 weeks.” He cleared his throat.

“In those 2 weeks, the little dove had been avoiding the soldat as best as possible and he the same.” The doctor was staring to grow nervous as the eyes that were boring down on him had started narrowing.

“That doesn't sound like good news to me, doctor.” Pierce watching the doctor, just as the doctor was watching him.

“There was an interaction between the soldat and the little dove that had changed the atmosphere and feel of their relationship.” The doctor cleared his throat as his assistant displayed a clip on the screen behind the doctor.

“This footage shows the soldier returning with wounds that were superficial and only needed cleaning.The little dove was otherwise oblivious until the soldier had collapsed due to a drug we had injected earlier.” The doctor licked his lips, the taste of sweat bedding down his face had made him wince.

“You forced the hand?” Pierce sounded yet again, unimpressed.

“Yes but the results don't lie. The soldier and the songbird are getting closer. There is no denying the connection between them!” The doctor felt like he was begging for his life, rather than begging for his experiment to continue.

“Test them. I want their connection tested today.”

---

The memory, the scent, the feel of his blood on your hands was too real. You couldn't get the image of James stumbling into the prison cell battered and bruised, cuts all over himself.

You couldn't get the image of his weary body as he staggered forward, his black tactical armour soaked with blood.

“Oh my God!” you were frozen in place, watching almost helplessly as he stumbled forward, body swaying.

“Dove…” he reached for support, black hand gripping the ugly brown couch, squeezing with all his might.

“Are you okay?” You still couldn't move toward James, still scared of his strength, scared of the metal arm that seemed to know no limits to its strength and power.

“Y/N…” It wasn't until he fell forward, collapsed beside the ugly, brown flower patterned couch. He landed head first, either passed out on his own whim or fainted from blood loss.

“James!” you scurried toward him, falling to your knees as you rolled him over, ear pressed to his chest as you listened for a heart beat.

“Hello?!” You looked around the room, staring at any of the positions you thought the cameras would be in.

“I need your help!” You screamed at them, your hands becoming coated with his red blood, still warm.

“Please! Please you need to help him!” when you received no answer, you started ripping and pulling at the buckles and velcro that had kept his tactical armour on.

“I swear to God James, if you die and leave me in this hell hole alone…” You grit your teeth, wincing at both the feeling and the sound, as you ripped his armour away from him.

“If you die you bastard…” Your vision was blurry, your breathing erratic. “please James…”

You took in every inch of his bloody, and very toned chest. If it weren't for all the blood, all the cuts and bruises and marring, you would’ve taken the time to examine every inch of his toned frame.

“You need help!” You were crying now, your only friend, your soulmate was possibly dying in front of you, and you were desperate. “I’m begging you! Help him! Please help him!”

You ripped off the sweater you were given and started wiping the blood sway, putting pressure on the wounds you thought were deeper, trying to keep calm despite your worried sobbing.

“Please-" you whipped your head to the clunky metal door separating you and the cage from the rest of the world, or the rest of the building you were in.

“Stand back.” The door was swung open and a team of doctors came in, shoving you aside and they lifted the soldier onto a cot, his limp body bringing about another set of tears.

You hated them for what they had done to him. You hated them all. But they wasn't what you wanted to focus on.

James. And letting James know about your life. That was your focus.

“I was born in 1994. During one of the worst snowstorms the city had ever seen at that point.” You cleared your throat, your arms wrapped around your knees, which were pulled up to your chest. “my father was almost trapped in the snow. He almost missed my birth.”

The memory of James bleeding, the memory of your salty tears, your cries, had stirred something deep inside you, telling you to open up to him.

“I was working at a cocktail bar when you found me. I was attending school for something I don't even like.” You could feel his blue eyes watching you. He was hanging onto every word you spoke.

“Well took me. I don't blame you.” Without moving from your curled up position, you turned your head.

James was standing in the kitchen, hands gripping the cheap countertops with enough force to break them clean in two. He was staring you down with his intense blue orbs, the ones that pulled you in and made you feel terrified all at once.

“I don’t blame you for any of this, James. I want you to remember that.” You licked your lip and dried tears you didn't know you shed. “I don’t blame you for doing what you did. It was out of your control.”

Your turned your head away, shedding more tears. What were your parents doing, you wondered? What were your friends doing?

What did the news outposts say about you? About your disappearance? Did they say anything at all? Were you simply erased form history.

“You were born in 1917. You would’ve been 77 by the time I was born and 97 today. You should be an old man, frail and weak.” You sniffled. “Yet you are stuck at the age of 27, and you looked not a day older.”

You heard his footsteps, but only because he wanted you to. He let you hear him because it brought you comfort. “You are 20.”

You felt the couch dip, your head still turned away. You could feel the weight of his gaze, the surprising warmth radiating from him.

“What they did to you-" You couldn't continue speaking without your voice shaking, wavering. You had to take a moment, had to let yourself breathe, let the sting of the tears streaming down your cheeks fade before you continued.

“I can't imagine the pain you had went through.” You felt metal under your chin, and then you were no longer looking at the wall, but at James.

“Ne plach' po mne, malen'kiy golub'.” He reached out with his real hand and wiped away your tears. (Don't cry over me, little dove.)

“James, I can't…I am sorry.” It was your turn to comfort him. It was your turn to reach out and touch him.

You placed your hands on his cheeks, thumbs brushing against the stubble, brushing against his cheekbones. This had been the first time since the blood incident, that you had touched him. It was also the first time when you really, and truly, let your guard down.

“Y/N.” He leaned into your touch, the man behind the madness, the man behind the soldier was appearing with just a slip, but it was enough.

Even if it wasn't enough, even if you only every dealt with the ‘soldier’ and not James in his entirety, he would still be yours.

“I’m sorry for what they’ve done to you. I truly am.” The metal collar around your neck vibrated. You flew back to the other side of the couch, hands grabbing at the ring, trying to yank it off.

“Stop it!” You screeched as a shock went through you, your vision blurring and hot, angry tears streaming down your cheeks. “Stop it!”

A hand, his hand has rest against your stomach, holding you down. You saw his metal hand grab the ring, the finger he shoved in between the ring and your neck had nearly made you choke, but the moment after it brought relief.

He had ripped it off in one pull, but that wasn't enough. He crushed it beneath his hand, discarding the dust on the table.

“Are you-" the pair of you were cut off by the door flying open and a series of agents storming in with guns raised.

“Get the girl!” James reacted without hesitation. He grabbed your arm and flipped you around, planting you firmly behind him as he reached for a gun that was stashed underneath the couch cushions.

“Soldat let us take the girl.” Agent Rumlow, a man you had only met once, but remembered his scathing voice, had spoken first.

“Day nam devushku!” They began screaming in Russian, taking careful steps forward. (Let the girl go)

“Ona moya. YA ne pozvolyu yey uyti.” He planted himself firmly in front of you, blocking you entirely from their view.

And from your position, they would have to go through James to get to you. Something, you doubt, he would let happen.

“Soldat…” Agent Rumlow warned as he took another step forward.

“Ona moya!” He grunt and kicked the coffee table, somehow managing to kick it up and grab it, slamming it in front of the pair of you. (She's mine!)

“Don't say I didn't warn you.” A high pitched screeching echoed through the area, the sound making you fall to your knees, clamping you hands over your ears.

You kept your eyes shut until you felt someone’s hands on you, yanking you up. When you felt their nails digging into your skin, your eyes snapped open. You struggled and fought with all your might, eyes finally landing on the spot where James once was.

“James?” You looked around the room, eyes wide and heart beating like a drum. “James? James!?”

---

A/N: Quick authors note so I don't get '@', the doctor said the wounds were artificial but in the memory reader said they were bad, the wounds were only made to look that way to judge the connection between them. (In a totally messed up way)

A/N 2: Yes, they are getting very close in a friends, we only have each other to rely on way. Is it too soon to have that kind of connection? I don't know..?

Tags List: @soradragon @lowkey-love-loki @shygirl-00 @rayleethequeen @miss2001babe @peakyparlour @thecraziestcrayon @cherryaberlin @frenchzodiacgirl @paige1722 @alisible @lefoutoir @ibookishqueen @lyrxbz @caringparker @harryngtonewithyourshit @champagnejoker @supreme-bisexual-sandwhich @dorkybryan @annielovebug22 @hadesnewpersephone @jjlizz @sapphic-omens @kiki5183 @200angellove @shesalatesh @twinzzzie @multicookiebox @wangmangagvroche @jacelynenursalim @mr-robot-x

Just copying pasting an ask warsofasoiaf got because I would looooove so much to hear your thoughts about it. World building question: you've talked about regional cuisine, but how about regional clothing styles and so on? We got a pretty good idea of how it is for the Dornish, but how about the rest, if you don't mind putting your world building hat again? I love your blog so much and all your insightful metas.

Oh thank you so much! What a fun question! @becauseforoncethisisme was also asking me about this, so I’m just gonna answer you both here, if that’s ok!

For the Targaryens in their prime, I imagine prominent collars for the men, and the open-fronted 1590s Elizabethan-style ruffs, with a large supportasse for more formal occasions, because when I think about dragons, I think about the prominent spikes around Smaug’s head or the spitting dinosaur or the bony frill on a triceratops. (GRRM himself can’t take this headcanon away from me.) 

For the North, I imagine clothing like medieval Russia, layered styles, lots of fur and wool, colorful, elaborate, lots of embroidery, much heavier looking than the tv show, hats are a must. Appearance is important but warmth is the primary concern. (Wanna see the Kingsroad through the Neck? Check out Russian swamps. Also.)

For the Riverlands, which are the heartland of Westeros, something like medieval German clothing. For the Vale, which is more isolated, something like the clothing in medieval Denmark, Norway, Finland. 

For the Westerlands, I have two words: Wearable Wealth. If you got it, bb, flaunt it. I picture this a lot like medieval England but lots of cloth of gold, lots of gemstones sewn onto the clothing, such as the rubies Cersei has sewn into the bodice of her mourning gown. Elaborate styles of both clothing and hair (updos) that require the assistance of lots of servants to help you get ready everyday. Innovative ways to waste fabric, including pleated sashes on men and pleated gowns on women. Completely useless articles of clothing like half-capes. Lots of imported textiles, like Myrish lace, silk. Velvet. Elaborately tooled and/or dyed leather. (The westerlands cattle industry is actually canon. tywin’s tooled-leather, bright golden yellow boots may not be canon, but they’re canon to me.)

For the Reach, I picture styles resembling medieval France.  Similar to the Westerlands, but adjusted for warmer and sunnier climes. (No immodest midriff cutouts like Marg on tv.) 

For the Stormlands, I think there would be some influence from Dorne, the way Eastern styles influenced the Byzantine Empire, so I would kind of go with something Byzantine for Stormlander fashion, maybe think about the styles worn by crusading knights in Jerusalem to take into account the martial / spartan culture of the Stormlands. 

What regional clothing styles do other people imagine? Feel free to reblog and add your own headcanons / worldbuilding!

House Lannister

THE WITCHER | 1.08 “Much More”