re: words are wind

Things Theon Greyjoy is called in book canon

Aside from the obvious (Theon Greyjoy, Reek 2.0, my lord…).


Ser Rodrik never gave him the chance to finish. “Viper,” the knight declared, his face red with rage beneath those white whiskers. “I gave you the chance to save your men and die with some small shred of honor, Turncloak”

-Greyjoy and ‘you piece of sheep dung’

Theon wiped the spittle off his cheek with the back of his hand. “Robb will gut you, Greyjoy,” Benfred Tallheart screamed. “He’ll feed your turncloak’s heart to his wolf, you piece of sheep dung.” 

-m’lord prince

“M'lord prince?” Reek dismounted, and beckoned Theon to do the same. When they were both afoot, he pulled open the cloth sack he’d fetched from Winterfell.

-a well-trained raven

Lord Balon turned away to warm his bony hands over the brazier. “Yet the Stark pup sends you to me like a well-trained raven, clutching his little message.”

- my sweet prince 

 [Ramsay] rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. “And now, my sweet prince, there was a woman promised me, if I brought two hundred men. 

- the prince of fools

Why, ‘tis the Prince of Winterfell.” [Asha] tossed a bone to one of the dogs sniffing about the hall. Under that hawk’s beak of a nose, her wide mouth twisted in a mocking grin. “Or is it Prince of Fools?” 

-my sour old friend

At the sight of Reek, he smiled a wet-lipped smile. “There he is. My sour old friend.” To the men beside him he said, “Reek has been with me since I was a boy. My lord father gave him to me as a token of his love.”

- my little brother

My little brother was kind enough to let me ride with him from Lordsport.” She kissed one of the dogs on the nose and grinned at Theon. 

- a whore

“My daughter has taken an axe for a lover,” Lord Balon said. “I will not have my son bedeck himself like a whore.” 


“Help me.” She clutched at him. “Please. I used to watch you in the yard, playing with your swords. You were so handsome.”

-a raindrop

Theon smiled. “I could not agree more.”
“A man agrees with god as a raindrop with the storm.”
This raindrop will one day be a king, old man. Theon had suffered quite enough of his uncle’s gloom

-a magpie

And you are a great fool if you believe your lord father will ever hand these holy islands over to a Stark. Now be silent. The ride is long enough without your magpie chatterings.

-the sea

“I dreamed that the sea was lapping all around Winterfell. I saw black waves crashing against the gates and towers, and then the salt water came flowing over the walls and filled the castle (…)”

-Greyjoy (by Robb, that one time)

“(…) What would have happened to my brother then? Did you ever think of that, Greyjoy?”
Theon’s smile was gone. He gave a sullen shrug and began to pull his arrows from the ground, one by one.

-Theon (that other time)

“I’m sending Theon. Good day, Mother. Grey Wind, come.” Robb walked off briskly, the direwolf padding beside him.


it’s cliche for a story to start with

violation – the demolition of an

innocence, a dissonance with justice,

but sometimes beginning with a cliche is a must.

sometimes girl is crushed, dirty

handed, hair mussed, a heart topped

full of fear and mistrust, sometimes

girl was never girl in the first place.

so here is my advice – soul to soul,

the world may bowl you over, but

that doesn’t mean you have to let it win,

no one can stop you from crafting new skin.

become a myth; caeneus emerged from his

unbowed, unbroken, unsubmerged in agony,

the shame of his cliche washed away with the sea

girl made man, a whole new harmony.

through a cacophony of violence, visceral

and vile – caeneus found his own autonomy,

his freedom was fierce, fast-tracked by the gods,

his skin forged from iron and ichor, impenetrable.

become a myth, and so shall yours be.

one of the things i love most about asoiaf is that you can talk about spoilers around people who haven’t read the books and it’s okay because they’re so ridiculous that no one will take you seriously

  • “he’s slowly turning into an evil tree”
  • “she’s infiltrating the castle dressed as a nun”
  • “he died, but it’s okay because his soul lives on in his dog”
  • “she was pushed off a mountain by an accountant”
  • “he’s really bummed because his friend switched his girlfriend’s baby with a different baby and she’s sad about it”
  • “he spends three chapters slowly burning to death”
  • “she destroys the wizard palace by stabbing it”
  • “at first he’s mad at his girlfriend for using his sperm to murder his brother without his consent but now he’s decided that’s a useful power”
  • “she helps murder the king by wearing poison in her hair to a feast”
  • “he died trying to play a magic trumpet”
We search for time in each passing day,
we crave a certain moment to spend with
those we love, to laugh and to smile, to
enjoy our lives to their fullest contentment.
But the times that we hurt, the seconds we
spend with regret, the pains we feel simply
from life’s winding paths, we yearn for these
times to pass swiftly without touching us,
but they always touch us in some way,
and beyond the jagged rocks we must
climb over lays a setting sun, a soft spot
in the sand to rest our bodies and our minds,
the beauty of the Earth’s day as it closes.
The truth is, time is all we ever really have
in this world, it is this exact moment you’re
spending reading these words, it is the wind
softly passing through the trees, it is the air
you’re breathing into your lungs because
those trees exist. Make the most of your
time, and it will make the most of you.
—  M.R. // Time

there is a tornado in my mind
it returns in the dark
rips through me
i am collapsed ruins
and a rotting corpse
torn up by the wind.
beauty in chaos, right?
that’s what they always say
but there is no beauty left
in the chaotic swirl
that suffocates my thoughts.
it is restless
unable to stay calm for too long
before it is tearing through me again
before i am left gasping for air
in a home that it has ruined.
words replace wind
they’re both made of whispers, in any case
they rush around me
pouring into me
breaking me down slowly
throwing me into the air.
harsh winds
harsh words
that do not catch me when i fall.

there is a tornado in my mind
and i am never safe.

                    ❛  ————— hold   on , let   me   get   this   straight . ❜ there’s   a   pause   to   re-wind   spoken   words   in   his   head   once   more , digits tapping against lap . &   he   speaks   again   quietly . ❛ breaking   into   the   house   at   the   end   of   the   street ? … i’m   game . only   because   they   never   did   &   never   will   give   back   my   record .  ❜   /    @cluefound

Here and there a torch burned hungrily, casting its ruddy glow over the faces of the wedding guests.
The way the mists threw back the shifting light made their features seem bestial, half-human, twisted. Lord Stout became a mastiff, old Lord Locke a vulture, Whoresbane Umber a gargoyle, Big Walder Frey a fox, Little Walder a red bull, lacking only a ring for his nose. Roose Bolton’s own face was a pale grey mask, with two chips of dirty ice where his eyes should be.
Above their heads the trees were full of ravens, their feathers fluffed as they hunched on bare brown branches, staring down at the pageantry below. Maester Luwin’s birds. Luwin was dead, and his maester’s tower had been put to the torch, yet the ravens lingered. This is their home. Theon wondered what that would be like, to have a home.
—  The Prince of Winterfell, A Dance with Dragons.

I think about Theon and Winterfell: how this home of Stark was a cage at first, a cold and foreign place that did not want him. He had to wear gold and black inside her walls, not Stark grey.
I think of the uncanny attraction Winterfell has. How it lingers in Theon’s heart. A warm home for the Winters to come. Which city could hope to resist the freezing winds and all the invasions?
Speaking of which….what a feat for the unwanted son of Winterfell, for the stranger they aspired to tame, to conquer the unbreakable Winterfell. Oh, how short lived was that childish, selfish joy as the very walls of Winterfell rejected him.
They too seemed to hate him, just like the statues of Old Stark ancestors he dared not look in the eyes. I think about Winterfell, collapsing with Theon. I think about Winterfell, the place where he is named again - a lost boy of the Islands, finding courage in the Godswood of Stark. I think of Winterfell… Almost welcoming. Almost home.


“Words are Wind:  A Game of Thrones Parody”

Submitted by jdonkey.

Words are wind

But a sweep of wind can be storm-like swirling in your soul, getting feelings and thoughts upside-down and twisting them to make you confused.

The wind can be chilly like the icy, dead fingers of the Others gripping your heart and spouting dispair into your veins. It blows so powerfully that tears come to your eyes and despite the frost you can feel the bitter warmth the drops leave behind.

And the wind can be smooth and gentle, comforting as if a tender hand would stroke your face. You are filled with energy and the wind brings the charming scent of hope and strenght and trust.

The wind may come and go, but still, the words it brings can be carved into your heart and mind and memory like a strong wind carves the surface of water.

Words are wind. A special sort of wind that you may not forget, that leaks into your head and wouldn’t leave, a wind you treasure or curse depending on the feelings it sweeps with.

fic: fearless (3/?)

clarke needs someone to help with gas money. lexa needs a ride home. they both need a way to escape. clearly, a road trip across the country is the only solution.

number of parts is still in question but i do know it’ll be less than 15!

rated e because some people really… themselves. ~10.3k. clarke/lexa. read on ao3.

part one. part two.

part three - i’m tryin so hard not to get caught up.

The first thing she notices when her eyes finally open is that the light streaming in through the wide open window is nearly blinding and holy fuck, it hurts.

The second is that she’s fairly certain she’s about to vomit.

The nauseous feeling her stomach isn’t altogether too unfamiliar but it’s still unpleasant and she sits up straight in bed, her back tense, as she tries to regulate her breathing and get her stomach to stop turning. Her mouth is dry, as if she’d spent the night chewing on cotton. She’s not sure what she wants to do more: chug a cup of water or hug the toilet bowl

Her stomach decides for her as it clenches and she runs into the bathroom, falling to her knees and collapsing onto the floor, vomiting what’s left of her mostly acidic stomach contents into the bowl.

She never lets herself drink as much as she drank last night. It takes her out of control. It makes her do things she wouldn’t otherwise do.

Like kiss Clarke Griffin.

(Multiple times).

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