It is currently WINTER in WESTEROS during the year 303 AC. The new moon cycle marks a full twenty years since the Mad King was murdered, and his son King Rhaegar ascended the Iron Throne in his place. Though the year is fresh, war in the Narrow Sea has left the Free Cities of Volantis and Tyrosh in ashes, and the Long Night continues to beckon from the Northern fringes of the Seven Kingdoms. With the Queen Lyanna presumed dead, the citizens of the realms look only to each other for survival.
[x] Site's Most Wanted has been updated! Get em while they're hot!
[x] SURPRISE! Please enjoy our new skin, and let the staff know if you find any bugs! (Shelbs accidentally overwrote the old skin and posted this too soon so it's entirely possible the dumbass she forgot some things!)
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Alias: nicole
Age: 18
Sworn To: House Stark
Born to: House Slate
Location: The North
Title: Lady of Blackpool
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Joined: 10-July 18
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Last Seen: Jul 12 2018, 09:38 PM
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Jul 10 2018, 12:31 PM
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<h1><group>lady guenivere slate</group></h1>
<h2>18 years old. the little fox. the north. katie mcgrath.</h2>
<h3>nicole. 26. gmt -6:00. pm, discord.</h3>
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<div class="genhead">I’m a princess </div>
<div class="gensmall">cut from marble, smoother than a storm</div>
you were always a lover of stories. even in your youth, trailing at your father's heels like a shadow, you listened to him speak. and he told you all sorts of fanciful tales, of the lords of the north, of the night king and his queen, of the targaryens and their dragons. and while he was more than happy to regale you with those that semed far too beautiful for the world that you lived in, above all, he made sure you knew your own story. <p>

you were a lady of house slate, your ancestors had been kings of the first men after the long night. they had built the keep in which you lived stone by stone, from dark granite, and had placed it strategically on a bluff so the winds could blow through and sing to them. you worshipped the old gods, and believed in the holy nature of everything. your ancestor had been one of the last to bend the knee to the kings of winter. those of your name had served house stark with a fierce loyalty for generations. <p>

and though in childhood, you had much preferred the stories of dragons and princesses and ghosts and giants, now, you are glad for those stories. because you know who you are, you know where you come from, and it is your connection to your past. <p>

<div class="genhead">and the scars</div>
<div class="gensmall">that line my body, they're silver and gold</div>
you were never a pretty child. your old sister, adria, it seemed had gained all of your mother's beauty. she was delicate and gentle, with her soft features, round face, and soft eyes. her hair like melted chocolate, her skin like warm cream. you had stood behind her like a bad omen, with your sharp features, your skin like ice, and your raven black hair. you were ungainly at best, all long limbs and sharp angles. but what made you the most unnerving, though no one would admit it, were your eyes. <p>
bolton eye. you had inherited those from your father, who somewhere back along the lines had a bolton mother. the color of frozen jade, they stood out from your pale face, glowing even in the daytime sun. and your natural intelligence made them far more intense, penetrating even the hardest of hearts. most avoided looking at you for longer than possible, because you were unnerving at best. <P>

and though you envied your sister, you did not realize at the time the opportunity that quality gave you. as you were often ignored, it gave you an opportunity to observe people. not to what people said to each other, or on the rare occasion to you, that was of no interest. you were more interested in what they had to hide, their subtle queues that indicated truth and lies. you learned to pick up people's weaknesses, even when they tried so hard to cover them. every human being is a puzzle of need, you figured out eventually. the trick was finding the missing pieces. <p>

<div class="genhead">my blood is </div>
<div class="gensmall">a flood of rubies precious stones</div>
you were eight when your father died. it had been freak accident, a fall while hunting, that had brought your childhood hero to dirt. and you mourned him for years, going through spurts of not eating for several days at a time despite your mother's best attempts to care for you. it left you with a gaunt appearance, hollow cheekbones and nearly transluscent skin. you had no purpose in life, and you hated your mother and your sister for continuing to live their lives now that your father was gone. and you had no qualms with telling them such, you reminded them frequently of your hatred for them. <p>
the only one you could stand for more than a few moments at a time was leander, the master at arms of highwind hall. and he tried his best to mentor you, to guide you, to be the father that you no longer had. you were a tyrant at best, with a sharp tongue and a quick temper, prone to fits of rage. but you found solitude in the stables, among the horses. you enjoyed their quiet dignity, the comfort that they offered. and leander saw an opportunity. <p>

on your twelfth birthday, he presented you with the best gift you ever could have been given. falco, your beloved beast, was barely a yearling when he was brought to you. his eyes were wide and afraid, he shied at everything, he hated everyone. at first, you were not quite sure what use you could make of an unbroken, wild, destrier stallion. and you told leander such, looking up at the stallion with the same wild eyes. and he smiled and patted you on the back. you can still remember what he told you to this day. <p>
'this horse is afraid of everything and everyone. he is unbent and unbroken by time and trial. teach him to conform, but do not break his spirit. when he is no longer afraid, you will not be either.'<p>
<div class="genhead">it keeps my veins</div>
<div class="gensmall">hot, the fire has find a home in me</div>
so you worked with falco for a year, meandering your way along with no idea of what to do or how to do it. you did not want someone else to do it for you. you wanted his respect and his love, and did not want his spirit broken by a horse trainer who thought the best way to repair was to destroy. it was a difficult process, teaching him to trust you, to love you, but as time passed, constantine came to be your closest and only companion. you had a purpose in life, something to live for again.<p>
by the time you finally offered him a saddle, he did not shy away from you, did not balk at the bit in his mouth, but joined with you as if they had been with each other their whole lives. time had brought them closer together, taught them trust. falco had turned into a beautiful animal, a war horse that many would envy. but he was not the only one who had grown so much.<p>

though you would never be as your sister was, conventionally beautiful, you were striking in your own way. time had softened your features, but you still retained some of your sharpness, some of your edge. time had given you a woman's figure, your father's growling voice, your mother's sly smile. combined with your icy skin and ebony hair, and those signature eyes of yours, you were a striking. someone that had to be looked at twice. <p>
you reestablished a relationship with your mother, and for you and adria, it would be like no time had passed. you were happy again. both of you had known that since the death of your their father that adria would be taking his place as the head of the house. there had been no other children but the two of you, after all. so the title of heir would be passed on to adria. and you tried to be a rock for her to lean on.<p>
but as time passed, things changed. adria was betrothed to a small lord from the south, and preparations for their union began. and you tried so hard to support our sister. you did not ask any questions, but you offered an ear when she needed it, an opinion when she asked for it. but for the most part you stayed out of the way, spending time with your beloved steed. <p>
<div class="genhead">i've got my </div>
<div class="gensmall">fingers laced together and i've made a prison</div>
what had gotten into your sister's mind, you did not know, but what she did had come with no warning. you awoke in the early morning hours to find your mother screaming for adria. and before you could roll out of bed and pull on a dressing gown, leander had appeared at your door. he did not knock, made no attempts to announce himself. his face was pale, his form rigid. <p>

your sister was gone. she had fled in the night with a boy from the neighboring village with nothing more than a few pieces of jewelry, no doubt to sell, and a few changes of clothes. over the next weeks, leander followed adria's trail, and lost her only when she had the boy had crossed into essos. <P>
and just like that, the dynamic would change. the spare child suddenly became the only child, and the heir to highwind hall. and you had much learning to do. <P>

so arrangements were made and you were sent south. your mother believed the education in politics would be invaluable to you. so you were packed up with your worldly belongings, and your beloved mount, and sent to the crownlands. <p>

perception had made you wise. you watched the women who had been there the longest, watched how they acted, how they behaved, what they did and what they could get away with. within a few weeks, you were not only a player at court, but you were one of the better ones. a strategist, a coquette, and you had the rareity of those northern traits that were so unusual in the south. and, as much as you hate to admit it, you rather like it here. and you're not in any hurry to leave.

<div class="genhead">I’m locking up</div>
<div class="gensmall">everyone that ever laid a finger on me</div>

<img src="" class="appimage">
[[ from a private site, i hope this works ]]

The snow. Guenivere had always loved the snow. It had a freshness, and a fragility to it that had always been so symbolic to her. Though the North was always always much colder than it's southern counterparts, a fresh snowfall was a rarity. And when it did come, it always covered up all the blood shed, all the tears, all the pain, in an almost virginal white blanket.

She was of the North, she always had been. She was descended from the First Men, and her family had ruled as Kings after the Long Night. They had been one of the last to submit to the Kings of Winter. And despite her time spent in the South, and in King's Landing, she was not one of those girls that occupied the Southern lands, ones made of glass and lace. She was a hard woman, with the same almost hard Northern features that many acquainted to the Starks. A strong jaw, a slightly elongated nose, but what she lacked were the gray eyes that often came with the Starks. Hers were a almost eerie iced jade, set beneath a thick layer of dark lashes that made them contrast from her icy skin. Those same eyes that now gazed into the distance, and into her future.

Beneath her, the big destrier she rode snorted and threw his head impatiently, the wind cold on horse and rider as it whipped through the passage. In the distance, she could see the walls of Winterfell, looming high and dark. Inside the Lords of the North were meeting, gathering an army, and she would be joining them soon enough. But she took a few moments for herself to simply look at the seat of her liege lord. At her side, the Master of Arms sat silent upon his steed, simply looking on for a moment before speaking.

"Milady, we must go. They will be waiting on us." Guenivere nodded, a small action of bowing an ebony crown in understanding before gathering her stud's reins up once more and pressing her heels into his side. With a snort, Falco plunged forward.

The snow was packed hard beneath the gray's feet as he moved, he and rider a blur against the snow. He was of Dothraki blood, quick and powerful, breathing evenly even as he raced forward on powerful legs. They made it back to the keep in record time, and the gates opened for the heiress of Blackpool. The gray came to a stop inside, and Guenivere took a moment to pet the horse, fingertips gentle over his dappled coat as she whispered a thank you before dismounting and handing him to a groom.

She nodded to the vassal who lead her and her men towards the keep. And she made quite an entrance, a woman who had spent enough time in the South to know how to present herself. Despite the fact that Guenivere had not become much taller than the last time she can been graced by the walls of Winterfell, she had definitely grown. Her petite stature was set off by womanly curves barely muted by the black furs she wore. Ebony hair was plaited away from her face, her entire ensemble flecked with the white of the snow outside.

Her boots clipped with a sort of purpose across the stone floors, in time with the Master of Arms at one side and her most trusted commander at the other. A long, lean sword bumped at one hip, a much thicker dagger at the other. She stopped only once she was inside the hall where the meeting had already began, a small almost haughty smirk on her face.
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